Weekend

When I got to work Thursday night (my Friday), I had no idea whether or not I would be working the weekend. My lovely boss, who constantly rants about how important communication is, hadn’t gotten around to sharing the weekend schedule with us slaves.  I asked the team lead for the temps who load and unload the parts for my machine, and he said that we weren’t scheduled to run either day.  Yay!

Not so fast!  BossMan called me into his office at 0330 and finally officially told me that my machine wasn’t scheduled to run.  And could I please come in Saturday on dayshift to cover so that operator could get a day off to reset his twenty-one day clock.

Yeah, sure.  I’d love to work a completely different schedule that will ruin both my weekend days and fuck up my sleep schedule.  Not really.

I agreed to work (like I had a choice) but whined, bitched and begged him to find another option. H said he’d try.  At approximately 0900, without further conversation with me, he posted a weekend schedule that didn’t have me on it. That worked.

Early Friday afternoon, just after I’d went to bed, my lawyer called.  They had the divorce paperwork ready for my signature, and could I please come in, pay, and sign.  Sure, no problem.  Let me find my pants.  A couple hours after I got home, they called back.  They told me that if I could get Wifey to come in to the office on Monday morning, accept service from them, and sign paperwork waiving her right to answer the complaint, they could get me on the court schedule for this coming Wednesday. I told them that I’d have her there at 0900.  If things go smoothly, and I foresee no reason why they won’t, I will be officially divorced in a little over seventy-two hours.

After all that was done, Wifey, her sister, and I discussed plans regarding Wifey and TheBoy. Their flight leaves next Monday morning, and we had to hash out who would be taking them to the airport, and if they wanted to spend some time together before the flight.  It was decided that, after we finish up with the lawyer Monday morning, I will deliver them to her sister’s house where they will stay until they fly out.  I may or may not meet them at the airport for a final goodbye.  Probably not.

So, my big, new-to-me house will be very empty in less than twenty-four hours.  And I’ll have to start cooking for myself buying frozen dinners again, and doing my own housework hiring a maid.  They’ve helped out a lot while here, and even absent getting laid, I’ll miss the company and the help.

I finally got some sleep Friday evening/night, and had a productive day on Saturday.  After fucking around on the internet for a while, I decided to assemble some of my new furniture, starting with the end tables, and then moving on to the nightstands and the rest of the bedroom furniture.  Yes, it’s cheap Sauder shit that I bought from the mart of walls, but it’s functional, doesn’t look terrible, and was cheap.  With no kids to tear it up, it should last a while.  As I was finishing up the second nightstand, TheBoy finally dragged his ass out of bed.  I offered to treat them to one final trip to the local Chinese buffet before they went back home.  There was some grumbling about me spending money on them, which I quickly squelched, and we had a nice meal.  Well, as nice as it gets at a Chinese buffet.

The rest of the afternoon and evening was spent on the chest and dresser/mirror.  There were a lot of parts, and it was quite time consuming to put together, even with three people working on them.  Especially when to of the three people don’t understand English, and therefore don’t know what important notes like “finished side” and “rounded edge” mean.  But all in all, it went well.  By bedtime, all the pieces were done, wiped down, and in place.  And along the way, I even found time to replace the ceiling fan that shook worse than a car running ninety miles an hour with red clay stuck in all four wheels. Mostly because I needed the light, which also didn’t work on the old fan.

I still have one more ceiling fan to install, and am waiting for the sofa, the second box for the spare bedroom dresser, and the headboard to arrive.  All that, and a TV that I haven’t picked out yet will pretty much finish furnishing the place.  Pics soon-ish.

Well, I’m off to bed in preparation for back to work in a few hours.  Y’all have a good week.

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Rant About Fish

Alternate title: Bitter Much?

I’ve spent a little bit of time on Plenty Of Fish during the last few weeks. Some observations:

It goes without saying that one’s children are very important to any good parent. And if you’re a shitty parent, you’ll probably be a shitty partner, and I don’t want anything to do with you. But to forcefully declare that your kids/grandkids are your world (or some equally powerful metaphor) and always will be, leaves potential suitors wondering how they can fit into your life.

Specifically, we have to decide if the most we can ever hope to be to you is worth the effort and emotional risk to get to know you. Sure, it takes time to earn that place of honor. But personally, if I can’t hope to eventually be damn near as important to you as your offspring, you’re not worth my time. Find someone else to be your bitch, or enjoy your life as a single parent. You will value me, or you won’t have me.

I may not have much to offer, but everything I have, I give. I’m tired of giving my all and getting nothing but leftovers. You know, whatever she has left to give after everyone else has already gotten their piece of her.

Does everyone own a damn dog? If allowed inside, they will stink up the fucking house, get hair everywhere, and generally fuck shit up. And too many doggie “parents” pay more attention to their canine “children” than to their partners or biological kids. Dogs are great. In their place. But if I have a problem playing second fiddle to your crotch fruit, you can rest assured that I will NOT accept a place below your fucking dog, I don’t give a shit how much you love it. Marry your damn mutt if it’s that fucking special to you.

It’s poor form to complain about a very low ratio of messages to profile views when you can’t be bothered to answer the messages that you do get.

Women don’t initiate communication on online dating sites. I knew this was the case, but I recently learned that it’s like, a rule, or something. One bitch seems to think that it is a badge of honor, bragging about how she’s never started a conversation. Gee, I wonder why you’re still alone and looking waiting.

Supposedly, nobody reads profiles. At least not the “about me” part. That confuses me. It’s the best part. I mean, pictures and the answers to some basic questions are a start, but reading her own words is the best insight available into a person’s personality and character that you can get online. One lady complained that some people write way too much, and others write nothing, and therefore she doesn’t usually bother to read any of them. Really?

To the proud Tea Party/Rand Paul supporter from a town so well known for its liberal leanings that locals call it the Containment Area for Relocated Yankees: You’re tall, athletic, and beautiful. As much as I wish otherwise, I’m not your match. I freely acknowledged this in my brief message to you. However, we have very similar political beliefs, especially when compared to liberals and self-proclaimed conservatives who wouldn’t know a real conservative idea if one bit them on the ass. Given the rarity of such beliefs, I figured you’d at least take a couple seconds to write back. I mean, you clicked on my profile. What’s another ten seconds to acknowledge the greeting from a kindred spirit, even if you’re not interested in him romantically?

Сука!

Who the fuck came up with the bright idea to include sapiophile as a choice under personality type? Maybe one person out of a thousand knows what the word means without looking it up. And if people are too fucking lazy to read a profile, they damn sure won’t bother looking up an unfamiliar word. And to those who choose it, if you had to look it up, it doesn’t fit you. Quit wasting your time trying to sound smart.

Don’t try to bullshit me into believing that you’re educated when, in the sentence immediately preceding said declaration, you used “quite” when you meant to use “quiet” and you couldn’t be bothered to proofread. Grammar, spelling, and proper word usage is important. Your profile is your first impression. Failure to take the time to make sure it’s right is a clear indication of how serious you are.

What the hell do people mean by “free thinker”? I generally equate it with hippie or liberal and keep moving.

It’s kind of pointless to tell me that you like my profile, then chastise me for waiting until the last line to mention that I’m not usually attracted to non-Caucasian women. Especially if you then ignore me when I explain that such isn’t always the case and express an interest in you.

Am I really so old that a significant percentage of those within a few years of my age are grandmothers? Gah!

I guess deleting your profile if you are no longer active is asking too much.

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Random Whining

I saw her again on Monday. I had actually conspired to, but it didn’t work out the way I had hoped. After being relatively certain that she did a drive by on Friday, I planned to be out cutting the weeds and grass in the ditch along the front of my property at about that same time. But, before I got home, I saw her on the highway.

When I caught up with her, she was turning off onto the same side road that leads to my house, but in the opposite direction. It was just her and the girls. I tapped the horn trying to get her attention, but she was as oblivious to those around her as she was the other weekend at Lowe’s.

I resisted the urge to turn and follow her. Instead, I went home and executed my grass trimming plan. She never drove by.

I don’t want to give up and let her go. Sure, the relationship sucked. But relationships are hard work. Sacrifices must be made. Hardships endured. Pride swallowed. The price with her was particularly high – kids, constant drama, arguments and frustration, actual dollars, baby daddy… But in those rare moments when I had her to myself, absent all those things, I was really and truly happy. Life was good.

And I’m scared to death that I will never have anything like that again. Maybe I deserve better. Maybe “she” is out there waiting for me to find her. But what if I never do? I’m OK with living in hell as long as I get the occasional slice of heaven.

Wifey and I have talked a lot lately. She told me several times that I’m an ideal man, to the extent that any human can be. I’m kind, loving, attentive, generous and loyal. Among other nice things.

I’m not sure that I agree with her assessment, but let’s disregard that for the moment. She’s broken down into tears quite a few times, not understanding why her heart refuses to feel anything for me. She won’t fake it and use me. She wants to feel something for me, but can’t.

So, if someone who has known me for almost fifteen years, and who is completely convinced that I am a decent guy, can’t feel anything for me, how can I expect anyone else to?

B’s a bitch. If she loves/loved me, she always loved him more. Otherwise, she never would have dumped me for him, even if she tries to blame it on “self sabotage mode”. She prefers how I treated her, but I still came in second. Well, more like seventeenth, behind pretty much everyone else.

But she damn sure made me feel like I was loved, at least every once in a while. Maybe that’s the best I can hope for. If I let her go, I lose the chance at even that.

After writing all that, something told me to check out her page on the book of faces. I almost didn’t, because last I knew she didn’t have internet access, and since we’re no longer friends, what I can see is very limited anyway. But I looked. And I saw enough.

It would appear that she once again has internet access (probably never lost it, despite what she told me), and she is back on good terms with hubby dearest. Just a few hours ago, she changed her cover photo to one of him kissing her, and added the caption “My Husband ♡”.

The little heart confirms that she did it and not someone else with access to her account. That’s one of her trademarks. At about the same time, she responded to a “I love my wife” meme posted by her husband with “I love you too, Babe”.

As much as I don’t want to believe it, I really think that the last bit of contact from her was designed solely for the purpose of extracting money from me.

First the comment about going to the shelter, because she knows that I care about those kids. No matter how vehemently I may claim otherwise.

Then her phone’s imminent expiration, which meant the loss of our ability to communicate. For good measure, she said that she was worried that one or more of the thirty (yeah, right!) places where she applied for a job and gave that number might try to call and be unable to get through.

When it comes to her, I’ve already lost to him. She’s just trying the teat, making sure she’s sucked it completely dry. I’m still very weak, but every time she lets the truth show through, I become that much less vulnerable to her manipulation.

Why is happiness so elusive? Hell, even contentment seems rare. So many people are alone, and not by choice. And seldom a day goes by that I don’t overhear someone complaining about how shitty their relationship is.

One of my coworkers seems to have made it his mission to fuck all the unhappily married women at FaucetCompany. Even with his youth, he has way more pussy than he can handle.

All I want is one. One that I don’t have to share with anyone else, and is not so badly broken that she can’t bond with me. One who will stand by me through whatever life throws our way, and will lay with me every so often. In return, I will give everything I have and everything that I am.

In other words, I want too much.

I just found out that a girl at work, about whom I’ve been having very lustful thoughts since I first laid eyes on her over a year ago, is a smoker. Not that she’d have ever given me the time of day. I’ve only been able to catch her eye twice, and not for lack of trying.

There are only three things that are absolute and automatic disqualifiers. Everything else is at least open to discussion. Currently having or having ever had male genitalia, whether original equipment or aftermarket. Being a recreational user of pharmaceuticals or illegal substances. Being a smoker.

And Miss Oh-God-She’s-Beautiful hit on number three. “FML” as the kids would say.

Speaking of Wifey, she has decided to abandon her legal permanent resident status and return to Ukraine by the end of the month. Her sister is being less helpful than expected, and she can’t in good conscience stay with me indefinitely without providing the full range of wifely services.

I have offered her the option of performing domestic duties in exchange for room and board, but she’s not interested in that, either. I’ll be filing for divorce before she leaves so I won’t have the problem of how to serve papers on her while she is living outside the US.

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Prayers

A friend is in hell right now, and could really use your prayers, positive thoughts and anything else you can come up with. My little heartbreak, as painful as it is to me, is insignificant compared to what he’s going through.

May God give you the strength that you so desperately need, sir.

It’s good that I chose to remain childless. If I hadn’t, given my luck with women, I’d probably already have experienced what he now endures. And I don’t have his self control. I’d have killed the bitch long ago.

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Annoying

Social media users are really starting to bug the shit out of me. Well, not really. It’s been going on for quite some time, but recently it seems to have gotten worse.

Words have meanings. Some are somewhat subjective. But labeling every story that you post as epic, legendary, unbelievable or something similar in order to attract views, when it is actually meh or marginally interesting at best just plain annoys the hell out of me. Especially when it is a joke or obviously false.

And my “friends” who link or share this dreck are even worse, because it just encourages them. Please just stop.

I know, nobody is forcing me to click on their shit, but I’m getting really tired of wading through tons of muck to get to the occasional interesting morsel.

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Good Deed

A couple weeks ago, I was bored and curious about what is currently on the market. I knew it was too soon to even think about reentry into the dating scene, and I wasn’t really seriously considering anything.

Match dot come left a really sour taste in my mouth a couple years ago, so I went to the fish site to do my research. Problem was, you have to sign up to search. And signing up requires the creation of a profile. Instead of filling it with gibberish, I copied my old match profile.

Everybody knows that men greatly outnumber women on dating sites. And almost without fail, women are too busy combing through massive numbers of received emails (mostly crap) to actively search, much less initiate a conversation. So, I figured I was safe.

Just to be that much more certain that nobody would write to me, I prefaced my profile with the following, which I figured would scare off even the most determined:

First of all, some honesty. I’m freshly (two months) out of a short but very intense relationship, and the pain is still very real. She got married less than three weeks after she dumped me, so that door is completely closed.

Ultimately, I want a long term relationship, but I am not ready for that sort of commitment right now. I’m hoping to spend some time with someone, get to know them, and maybe when my wounds have healed and the scars have started to fade, I can let the walls down. But to be clear, I’m not looking for a casual sex partner. As much as I enjoy sex, that requires an emotional connection that I am incapable of making right now.

Then, I ran a search. It was immediately obvious to me why a vast majority of those women are alone. People are really fucked up. A few profiles seemed normal, though. There were a couple that I almost sent messages to, but I resisted the temptation.

The site tells you who has viewed your profile. This feature seemed inconsequential initially. But the very next morning, I got a, “Hi, there” message from the most genuine sounding profile that I’d read the night before.

She’s age appropriate at two years younger than me. She seems honest and sincere. She’s kind, sweet, strong, determined, and positive. She has two kids, 12 and 19, both of whom live with their father. She lives about forty minutes away.

She’s also disabled. A few years ago she discovered that she has a chromosomal abnormality that has caused some spinal cord atrophy.  It  manifest with symptoms similar to MS. But unlike MS, it’s not really treatable beyond symptom management. Her worst issues are balance and equilibrium problems and lower body weakness.

To make a long story slightly less long, I participated in the online conversation, and we seemed to hit it off. We met in person for breakfast on 02 April. Afterwards, since we were already out, I took her shopping so she wouldn’t have to bother one of her friends.

After seeing it up close, I realized that her disability is more than I feel like I could deal with long term.  In addition, although her mind is supposedly unaffected by the SCA, she was oblivious to others while shopping, almost running over three people with the motorized shopping cart.  I found it very embarrassing.

We continued to talk during the days following our “date”.  I kept wondering how to tell her that I wasn’t interested in the gentlest way possible. That was the weekend that I saw B at Lowe’s. I shared the experience and my reaction with her in the hopes that she would call it off, not wanting to be a rebound relationship.

It worked.  She’d missed the freshness of my breakup in my profile when she initially read it, but it came up in conversation following my sighting of B. We mutually agreed that I’m not ready to see anyone new yet, even casually.

Even so, I went out to her house yesterday and installed some leftover lattice from an old project of mine on the very basic ramp that a local church had built for her.  Now her dog can’t get tangled up around the handrail support posts.  I’d volunteered to do it the day we met, and although she insisted that I didn’t need to do it, I chose to anyway. I need all the good karma I can get.

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Please Stop

I’m 90% sure I saw her drive by the house this morning. Part of me wanted her to stop. Another part of me wanted to chase after her. Who knows? It might not have even been her. There are lots of gray 5th generation Maximas around.

She left some lip balm in my car when she brought it back. I use it often, knowing that it’s as close as I’ll ever get to kissing her again.

Fireball betrayed me. It made me cough so much today that I couldn’t get but three shots down. Not enough for any effect.

Could someone please stop the planet? I’d like to get off.

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