Another Blow Up

In my imaginary life, I am rich enough to comfortably afford my own palace – just for me and no one else, especially not the boys I gave birth to (a two or three-bedroom something) – while, at the same time, paying rent on my current apartment and supporting the boys financially till the timer runs out. Oh God please hurry! Is this why rich people have nannies and send their children off to boarding schools? I’m so fuckin’ over being a parent!

I do but I’d like to get to my destination already and start a new journey!

Remember when I rearranged the living room a few weeks ago? Since then, I’ve been writing my morning pages at the dining table and also, when I do sit to write, I will do it there and if the boys happen to be in the living room I’ll put my headphones on and listen to music.

Before I left and ended up spending a week with Dee, Matt developed a new habit. In the evenings he’d bring out his laptop, mouse, mousepad, spectacles, etc and set up exactly where I write. Ok! I said to myself. Once he cleans up when he’s done, I can use the space in the morning no problem. It’s ok. I come out in the morning and it looks worse than the night before. I tell him, “Listen! I don’t mind if you use the space, but you gotta clean up after yourself before bed. This area is not an extension of your bedroom.”

Time passes and the same thing keeps happening, I can’t tell the difference between the dining room and his bedroom – multiple pairs of socks under the table, his hoodie thrown over the chair or on the couch, dirty dishes and crumbs and garbage like bubble tea cups, empty cans of whatever and food wrappers litter the table. I tell him to clean up and he does, kinda. He throws out his garbage. I remind him again that this is not his bedroom and I also use the space so he needs to tidy before going to bed. Jesus fuckin’ Christ! All I’m asking you to do is clean up after yourself.

So I go away to Dee’s and first morning back, I’m cleaning up the dining table – throwing his socks in his room and putting his laptop and mouse and mousepad and other shit in his room. AND the dirty dishes in the kitchen. This evening I tell him to go and move his stuff – socks and shoes under the table, laptop and other shit on the table and his school bag on the floor. And I remind him again that this is not his bedroom, “You don’t have to keep telling me that, I’m not stupid.”

“Well! Yuh keep doing the same thing!”

There were a few more exchanges – order of which I cannot remember. He said // she said (internally) the following:

“Why don’t you go back to sis’!” // If only! For the record, I wasn’t looking forward to coming home
“Oh, but you get to do whatever you want!” // Yeah! I’m a mostly responsible adult you shitbag! That’s what we do
“Leave me alone.” // With pleasure but you gotta move your shit first

And maybe he mumbled a bunch of other things under his breath or in his head. I know I was. I ended up putting his shit in his room and told him he’s not allowed to use the space anymore.

ART AND GOOD NOTES

Dad’s stopping by for the weekend and I am supposed to go to a friend’s party this Saturday but I feel shitty – more mentally than physically maybe. My ex contacted me earlier today and it got me thinking … I cannot enter into another relationship until I am better at making up my mind. When I feel I want something, I might not actually want that thing in a few years or weeks or minutes, which isn’t fair to the other person.

I am selfish (the good and bad kind) and I like to have things done “properly” or “right” or “my way.” Call it what you want but …

Just take a few extra minutes to do whatever you have to do properly –
and take some God damn fuckin’ initiative and think about who’s coming after you
and leave the place better than you found it and do good shit
without people having to point that shit out to you all the time!

Are you awake?
Pay Attention Fuckhead!

Dee’s space is too small for the drum set so she brought it back to my place – I used to want to play the drums when I was younger and my mom actually enrolled me in drum lessons when I was about twelve/thirteen. My instructor’s name was Lance and he’d call the house at odd hours asking for me; my mom felt that wasn’t right so I stopped going.

I remember her questioning me about him but I can’t remember if anything inappropriate happened between us – of course, I was upset then but I understand why she did it now. Lance was probably in his twenties and it was just a room in a building, at the corner of Eglinton and Bayview. He’d give 1:1 lessons. I think it was after I stopped going to the school where I played the clarinet because we’d moved out to Laird and Eglinton area.

AGO ART