There are times when I have to stop myself from reacting to certain situations with a little more emotion than polite society accepts.
It is not acceptable to hug a plumber.
It is not acceptable to hug a painter.
It is not acceptable to talk about home repair and interior design and burst into tears because you have been living in a horrible pit for years and the home repair was the last line in the sand that you drew for your husband to do.
There was so much that could have been done with effort, elbow grease, and a team approach.
Instead, it was me talking to myself about what needed to be done while my STBX played for hours and hours online. When he would come up with an idea, it was a matter of time before he would come up with a different, contradictory idea and present it as if he had never spoken on the subject before. I got to the point of just staring at him, wondering if he was crazy, stupid, or just trying to fuck with my head. To this day, I don't know.
The only thing that is for certain is that he never did anything. Oh wait! He did, after my daughter's ceiling fell in on her head, put up wooden planks to cover the ceiling. After I brought someone home that could look at the ceiling and suggest it as an idea, that is. Of course, he never finished the project. The wood is unfinished, the pencil marks are still there, the shelf that he took down to do the project is still lying in the corner where he left it, and this was what, a year ago?
When you're surrounded by an ugly room with Jabba The Hut sitting in the corner for hours, stalking twenty-something year-old-girlfriends on the internet, occasionally saying something snarky or rude, it has a tendency to make you feel hopeless. Everything that is wrong with the interior of this house represents everything that I despised about my marriage. We were never a team. I was the caretaker to a grown man with an nine year old boys attitude. Complete, that is, with lusting after nine year old girls.
So, when I get my taxes back, some shit is going to be changing. This will not be my dining room anymore. It will, you know, be patched and PAINTED.
The hot water heater, which recently began to disintegrate and spread its parts throughout our plumbing, thus blocking off our pipes, will be replaced. It's 40 years old and half the size it needs to be for our house. When it get's replaced next month, I will do something so incredibly crazy that mental health professionals may need to be called in.
I will fill our tub up with more than 3/4 of an inch of water before I run out of hot water.
And I will soak.
And I will ponder.
Hmmmm, I wonder if that plumber is married???