Angry Again

November 9, 2010

I should have been asleep three hours ago. I know I'm going to wake up so exhausted in the morning to deal with my 9-month-old son, and I'm going to be miserable most of the day. That's how it always happens when I stay up late.

But I'm sooo freaking angry right now, too angry to sleep. You see, I've torn my house apart looking for the year's supply of contact lenses I just purchased a month ago, and I can't find them ANYWHERE. I can't find them because my husband packed them when we were moving from the apartment. He doesn't remember seeing them, or what box or bag (if any) he put them in. The same goes for the really nice Oakley sunglasses I also just purchased. And the brackets that attach some of the shelves to our set of bookcases. And I'm not sure he cares.

I'm also not sure he listens. For his occasional requests to "Talk to me; talk to me," I don't think he remembers a word I say. The last time we moved (from SC to VA), I complained about his packing methods--which are, shove everything into a box or Rubbermaid container and move it. No labeling or organization involved. Then he spends the next two weeks asking ME where everything is since I'm the one who has to put most of it away. This time, he moved some of our stuff in trash bags. I warned him that doing so could cause confusion about what was actually our possessions and what was trash. So I'm now convinced that my contact lenses and sunglasses are taking up space in a local landfill, because there's no trace of them anywhere in this house.

I'm so sick of always trying to be the better person. I try to work on my personal flaws, but the effort doesn't appear to be reciprocated, and I'm tired. He sees that I'm unhappy and asks what he can do to make it better. I've got an answer: listen when I say shit and act accordingly. And while you're at it, act like you give a damn.

Old World Suburbia

November 1, 2010

At last, after three weeks of moving and settling in, my life has reached a state near enough normalcy to write. For a moment there, I didn't think I would survive. Here's how the move went down:

Since we were moving only six miles, my husband decided to save a few hundred bucks and borrow a friend's pickup truck for the move instead of renting a moving truck. This translated into three days of many small trips between the house and the apartment. Not bad, except I'm slow at packing and the apartment had collected lots of piddling items that didn't seem to go together in any box. Not that it mattered to my husband, who threw them together into boxes anyway...and didn't label them. Then, he spent the next two weeks asking me where everything was. We still haven't found my $100 sunglasses that I bought a month ago. Yep, he packed them. Somewhere.

Three days before we had to relinquish the apartment, my husband informs me that he has duty the day before we have to be out, which means he won't be able to help with the last two days of moving and cleaning. It's all up to me. And I'm in therapy for my back. The nerve pain in my leg has flared up so bad at this point I can hardly stand. I have William to take care of, too, and his response to the move is to cry and whine constantly. During the whole ordeal, I had thoughts of "I'm not going to make it." And then I did. I pulled it out somehow, and turned over a spotlessly clean apartment with hours to spare. Some nights I fell into bed so stiff that I could hardly move, but I managed to get the last of our stuff over to the new house. And now, we're never moving again.

Last night, we handed out candy for Halloween in our new neighborhood, and some of the neighbors came over and introduced themselves. They're all a few years older than me and my husband, but nice. At the same time, I got a vibe that this neighborhood might be secretly hosting its own version of Desperate Housewives. Two of the women were drinking wine while escorting their children around the neighborhood, and one of them looked like she was on her third glass. Not to judge, but most of the people I know don't get hammered while outside with their kids.

The elderly gentleman to our right has a lawn that hasn't been seen since the Garden of Eden. It's greener than most golf courses. I wonder if he shoots people who walk on it.

The family to our left appears to own five cars, at least one with huge chrome rims on the tires.

Things could get interesting around here.