I’m thinking I might be a closet optimist.
I wasn’t going to write about what has been going on around here but then I realized that that meant that I wasn’t posting at all. I’ve tried to think of a way to write this so it is G rated but it loses so much in translation. So, behind the cut is the full unedited version. Beware of adult language and situations. (Ok, I wrote it and it isn’t as filthy as it is in my head. I’m never going to be one of those bloggers who can swear well in print.)
The husband has decided on advice from a psychologist that he should move out until such time that he can get his mental breakdown/mid-life crisis/emotional angst/or whatever the fuck it is under control. Actually, I know what it is and it sort of makes sense when he explains it but I’m totally unable to repeat it without adding layers of sarcasm and editorial comments that he doesn’t like. He has been thinking about this for several months but hasn’t done anything about it. He finally left on Monday.
I feel pretty good about it because he’s been such a jerk for most of the summer that it is a relief not to have to deal with him. Where does that leave the adoption? Well, if he is able to get over his messed up mental status he will be back. At the glacial pace of this adoption, he may have plenty of time to do that before everything is cleared. That was one of the reasons that I had been saying that if he was going to do this he had to do it now. If he is unable to get his head back on straight then I don’t want him back anyway. At that point the adoption will also be off. I guess the idea is that he needs to realize what he is about to lose if he doesn’t get his head out of his ass. He thinks this will be effective for him. I think it is stupid. If you have to go to these extremes then you are pretty far gone.
So where does optimism come in? When he finally said that he was going to leave one of the first things I did was weigh myself. I’ve always thought of myself as a stress eater but for some reason I just knew I was going to lose weight. I’m not stressed at all but he is making me mad.
I now unveil the “My Husband is a Fuckhead Diet!” The idea is that you get a guy to say or do something around mealtimes that is so unbelievably stupid that you lose your appetite. Bonus points if it also gives you so much excess energy that you need to disperse it by cleaning. Yes, my house is on its way to spotless and I’ve lost 5 lbs already. That breaks the plateau weight that I absolutely have not been able to get under.
Example one – He calls at lunchtime and says that instead of the furniture that you discussed him taking, he emptied out a room. He admits that he made a mess but he’ll be back in 5 days to clean it up. Oh, you have people inspecting the house in 2 days? Gee, sorry. Now, force yourself to eat half the sandwich you have. Safe the rest for after work.
Example two – Eat the other 1/2 of the sandwich. Come home and go see how much of a mess he made. You are imagining that it may need swept. In fact, he said, “It needs swept.” Come face to face with a room that looks like a tornado hit. He just pushed everything off the coffee tables onto the floor and took the tables. Find the rotten food that must have been under the couch. Curse him soundly while cleaning that room and then use the excess energy to clean the kitchen. By the time you burn the energy off it is too late to eat anything else. Get mad all over again every time you realize that this wasn’t a malicious act — he is just truly so clueless that he didn’t see this as a bad thing.
The only problem with this diet is that I’m so happy about it. Being happy may cancel out the effects of anger. But I’m so excited about finally seeing this weight come off that I’m motivated to eat sparingly on my own now. Besides, he’s done so many dumbass things lately that I don’t have to reach far back to remember some great examples.