I know that some of my three or so readers come here for my sometimes humorous takes on my family's foray into more environmentally conscious living. Others come for the varied content of the blog. And still others come in hopes of one day finding content relevant to... something... which will be inevitably disappointing for members of that last group.
To the first group of people, I must apologize in advance for this post; there is nothing in here related to environmentalism, just our mental environment. Since the Crazy Chaos That Is My Household has been careening precariously on the precipice of madness lately, I haven't even had time to water the houseplants, much less with grey water collected from the shower. To those who come for varied content: HOORAY! This post's for you.
As Child #3 edges closer to his teens (now just a few months away), and as his medications start bringing him closer to social behavior more befitting his age, in addition to the Bipolar issues we face, we now have a child that is more like a pre-teen. Meaning, he is now manipulative, testing boundaries, and lazy. Because all these traits, combined with his limits on rational thinking and his physical attributes, lead me to think of my first husband (his biological, ummm, contributor), I thought I'd share a story with you today. Like V over at Violent Acres, I'm sure there will be some who don't believe it, and if it hadn't happened to me, I might not either. But after the story, I think you can figure out from whence some of these personality traits and crazy genes of his came.
C and I had been married for a few months, my whole family had feelings for him ranging from distrust to distaste to disgust, and I was desperately trying to stand by my man in good times and bad like a good Christian woman should because the Bible tells me so. We lived in a trailer that my sister helped us finance set up on part of the family acreage right next door to my parents, and C had blown through 4 jobs in 3 months.
Anyway, one day my father mentions to me that a gallon-sized pickle jar full of change was missing from his closet. And, by the way, would you keep an eye out for a mysterious monetary windfall that my C might or might not valiantly bring my way. I was livid. My parents thought that my husband would walk into their house and steal something? I was not quite ready to believe this, although I had seen some delusional behavior on his part so far.
A few days later, my mother mentions that, in addition to the big-ass jar of change missing from my father's closet, a .45 was missing from his dresser. It was one that my uncle had fitted with a hand-carved bone handle, not worth a lot of money, but the sentimental value was high. Now I was starting to feel a particularly nasty constant nausea. Something just was not right. My parents did not like C, but this was a little too much for them to suddenly invent.
It just so happened one day that same week, that I went to the car to look for something in the diaper bag in the trunk. Lo and behold, there was a gallon-sized pickle jar full of money. God must have been listening after all when I was talking about how we needed some money or for C to get a fucking job. Never being one for planning and seething at the same time, I confronted C. And this is what he told me.
First, he told me that some unknown thief must have broken into my parents house, been startled by something and stashed it in our trunk (which happened to be sitting open for some inexplicable reason). When that excuse didn't fly, he tried a second. My parents hated him; they must have planted that jar in there, conspired to blame him, and convince me he had actually done it. Could my parents be any more pathetic, he wanted to know? Was he fucking kidding me?!?!?! I might have been going to church on a regular basis, but I didn't believe all fictional bullshit thrown my way.
I'd like to tell you that this was: (a) the end of our marriage because I now knew he was a liar, (b) the last time anything this surreal and ridiculous ever happened in our marriage, or (c) that I had hired the Mafia to conveniently dispose of him for me. But, like I said, I was going to church again, and the Bible did tell me that when I got married I was supposed to "leave my own family and cleave to my new one" or some such bullshit. So, like Tammy Wynette before me, I stood by my man. With often ridiculous results that might have been funny if they weren't so fucking weird. And with final results that will haunt me the rest of my days.
C never did claim responsibility for that jar of money that had found its way mysteriously into HIS car trunk. I returned it, and then went about the business of trying to patch together a crazy quilt of a marriage. I never did find that .45, but a friend of C's mentioned he saw one show up at a pawn shop one day while he was there, and that shortly after, C was bragging about adding an Uncanny X-Men #3 comic to his collection, despite his mysterious lack of gainful employment.