Badminton.

I recalled this morning a defining moment not long after I’d met CEF. Unfortunately, it was not defining enough for me to run like the clappers.

My younger son and I were playing badminton at our old house, something we’d often do from the time he was big enough to swing a racquet.

CEF drove in. He stood there. I looked up and asked if he’d like to join in. He said nah. We continued to finish the game and I glanced at CEF. He had the absolute look of hatred on his face. I didn’t recognise it as such back then, my thought was, gee, he looks angry…he might be a bit jealous or something. ???? Weird. Surely not.

But, I quickly finished the game with my son and went inside.

From what I now know of CEF, he would have been absolutely seething, and I’d say the only thing that stopped him from getting back in his ute and taking off was that it was early days, and he didn’t want me to see that side of him…yet.

That’s 12 years ago, and my son and I have never played badminton again. And if things were different, even though he’s a man now with a family, I know that at any time if those racquets were in sight, we’d find a clear area on the grass and have a bash and a laugh.

Little did I know that day, that the path I’d chosen would mean that other than maybe once a year, if I’m lucky, my son would not visit me again, let alone grab a badminton racquet and have some fun.

Hindsight.

If only…

 

Crazy continues…

For us both.

Hot on the heels of me letting fly with a mouthful of hatred on him the other night, another strange thing occurred.

The next night it was bitterly cold. We hadn’t spoken since the argument.

I had been given some pyjamas for Mother’s Day. And they are long legged with button up jacket, soft fuzzy fabric with pink and purple hearts. I love that I was given them…but a short stocky woman such as myself is not going to look too good in them. No, I don’t swan around in a negligee… (I’m more of a t shirt nightie type with pyjama jacket) but nor do I want CEF to laugh at me either, but…these lovely, thoughtfully bought, warm pjs were calling me.

I put them on. Mate..

Anyway, I kind of sidled out in them, trying to look inconspicuous.

CEF, the fuckwit, took one look and said, “Look at you! Ya look good!”

I looked at myself in the reflection of the glass doors – I looked like an unattractive walking couch.

“Yeah…I don’t think so…”

“Let me feel em” he said and jumped up and headed for me. I couldn’t help laughing and said “NO!”

What then ensued was an undignified scuttle up the hallway, me running in pyjamas and slippers, him in hot pursuit, me laughing – couldn’t help it – and him lavisciously trying to run his hands over my jammies.

Friggin idiot!

But once again I’m reminded of what a good life we could have had.  There’s still about 2 % left of the person I met 12 years ago. (Really, there was probably only about the same percentage that was ok back then anyway – he just hid the rest of the crazy and cruel really well.)

Tues.

Pork.

I’ve often said its the small things that get to you, and the pork the other night is a fine example, although it manifested last night.

I was buying something for tea on Sunday, and I also get cold meat for him to take to work, when I saw an absolute bargain – a piece of pork for $11. Well, I thought, even though there’s some in the freezer, this was too good to miss – and cold meat for him next day. I got to the car and realised the few groceries were nearly $30. I checked, I hadn’t had my glasses on – the pork was $11 a kilo not $11 for the piece – a rookie mistake that I sure shouldn’t be making at this stage in the game!

I couldn’t be bothered taking it back, so I told him, just conversationally, when I walked in with it, and added “Oh well, it’s going to be nice.”

I think he just grunted something.

I cooked it. It was as good a $25 piece of pork as you’d expect. Tender, crackly, with roast potatoes, pumpkin, sweet potato, beans, gravy and apple sauce.

We sat down to eat it at the same time – a rarity.

He said not one word. Nothing.

Yes, I know, he never does…but you’d think, just once, knowing I’d paid 25 bux for it, and having cooked it beautifully…you’d think that maybe, just maybe, he’d say “Ta, that was nice.”

It shouldn’t get to me…not after all this time…but there are just times when it does. This was one of those times…and tonight when he asked if I’d put wood on the fire…it was the pork and the birthday and the non existent weekend to Bega, and the loved ones who can’t come here to see me….and on and on.

I feel that I am becoming unhinged. But there’s not much I can do. Even that counsellor said she had nothing…nothing at all to offer me.

3 am Wed.

A Close Call.

Yes, a close call to smashing the prick.

Its funny how you can put up with so much…then you lose it. Not when you’d expect…always when you least expect.

I came home, looking forward to a quiet ten minutes with my book. It’s what I need most days after work. It’s what I get about twice a week.

I decided to make homemade rissoles. So, there I was 2 hours later finishing the cleaning up from the rissoles. They were cooked. The vegies done, onion gravy made…and no, no time for a break. It doesn’t matter…really…but then CEF walked in. He’d been down at the shed leaning in the doorway, drinking beer and talking shit on the phone with whatever scumbag it might have been.

He said “Dint ya put wood on the fire?”

Now, it was only a question, albeit, one with a loaded accusation.

I said no, I hadn’t because I’d been busy cooking and cleaning up. He made a snorting sound…and in that moment in time as I looked at the bastard I could have smashed him into the ground.

I let fly verbally and he did the whole shaking his head thing…like there’s something wrong with ME! And there really would be by now…for sure. But this is what he does…he’s good, I have to give him that. I would not be the first woman who looks like a crazed witch because of the treatment he’s given us. No way.

He was saying with a nasty smirk “I didn’t fuckin say nothin! I  don’t mind gettin the fuckin wood!”

And that’s what he tells people.

He’s good.

Another Saturday Night.

He knows very well that there’s one small thing in life that we do, that I like, very much. Going out to the Italian restaurant. When it was his birthday I suggested it and of course, paid. (Don’t care…got to go out for a nice dinner.)

He knows very well this is what I’d want to do. We haven’t been there for some time, too. And because he knows it, he will not suggest it. And because I’ve been caught too many times dressed up ready to go, and he says ‘nah’ at the last moment, I won’t suggest it either. And also it’s the tiny little bit of pride that I have left – just a scrape of it, but I just can’t ask if he wants to go out for dinner, when he treats me like a …well…like a nothing mostly.

I can’t front up to a busy restaurant on a Saturday night on my own. Nope. Just can’t do that one.

I just looked at him in there in the airily light main bedroom, in my bed, the expensive all cotton coverlet I happily bought when the house was finished pulled up to his ears. The fire crackling in the nearby family room. I am in the small spare room, in the cold because I have to close the door because of him having the races going till late…or the drunken snoring…and it still hits me like a ton of bricks…even now – how on God’s great earth did this happen to me? As much as I go through life resiliently putting one foot in front of the other, and counting my many other blessings, another year, another birthday with this man, a man I feel nothing but disgust for has come and gone.

I went to the shops yesterday and I stood in a change room cubicle in front of a mirror – a humbling effect at the best of times. I picked up the clothes without trying them on and returned them to the racks.

Yes, I’m older.

But I couldn’t help wondering how I’d look today, if it weren’t for Mark, yes let’s call him by his name today, Mark.

• I remembered  last night too, when he was blabbing on about going to Bega. I said “This won’t be like Scotland Island, will it? You said we’d go there 12 years ago…I got ready and was waiting…but we never went.” His answer. “Nah! That’s fuckin nothin …I always wanted to go to Bega…so I promise ya. We’ll go this long week-end. Right?”  I actually smiled at the idiot and said that I’d really like that.  What a joke.

Ah, The Bliss.

The bliss of a Friday night.

The relaxation of a work-week finished.

Then comes the ‘feel good’ moments…so uplifting :- As I cleaned up after cooking dinner, he watched the news and commented, as he does, on the headlines. Tonight’s one was of a bloke who climbed the Harbour Bridge.

“They shoulda just shot the fuckwit! Yep, just fuckin shoot the dumb c..t! Well?  They should, eh!”

“What…shoot the man?” I said with a look of disbelief.

“Yep! They should have a fucken line..and if ya go over it they should shoot ya!”

I kept washing up. I wanted to say – Well, how about when you do stuff…like go up to security guards when you’re tanked and hassle them?  Maybe they should just shoot you.

But for peace, I just gave my reflection in the kitchen window a grimace.

Bingo.

CEF, the other night at the meat raffles, asked the old lady what was on the next day, holiday Monday (this was my birthday) She said it was Bingo. Ever the gambler, CEF said, “Yeah? We might come down.”

I said as soon as she left. “You can come down and play Bingo. I will never play Bingo, tomorrow or any day.”

He was in the good mood after his win, so he just grinned his narky grin. He knows I’d never go to a club and play bingo…especially not on my birthday.

I then said to him, “We actually should be in Bega now anyway, remember? The weekend in Bega?”

He was absolutely none the wiser. And he wasn’t trying to be. You could tell he had truly no memory of the whole Bega conversation. And it was lengthy and detailed, only a few weeks ago -“We’ll go to Bega. Blah blah. Yep, on the long weekend. Blah blah. I got 4 days off! Yep. We might even go down to..blah blah…and on it went. And no, he wasn’t tanked – half tanked, but he’s always half tanked.

I said it again. “Bega, remember? You said this weekend?  You honestly don’t remember?”

I could see those cogs turning – slowly, but still turning. “Nah.”

And he really didn’t have a clue. Nothing, zilch. And not putting it on, either.

The little grey cells…dwindling.

June 13th.

Well, yet another birthday.

I picked up my big boy and went and had lunch overlooking the ocean with my little family. ☺️

For a short time, my life is normal. We laugh, we talk, we share food. Home made cupcakes with candles follow.  My birthday is mentioned many times throughout the day. Because my birthday is special to them, and to me.

I won’t dwell on CEF tonight. But suffice to say that he actually remembered it was my birthday – “It’s ya birthdy tomorra innit?” He asked while we were at the club.

I said yes.

Because he’d just won $390 on a pokie he was in good spirits. “What are we gonna do tomorra?”

“I’m going down the coast – you don’t do anything for my birthday – so, yeah. I’m going about 9:00”

The thought passed through my mind that maybe, just maybe, because he’d remembered it, he may have bought me something. Just that wild silly random thought.

This morning he mumbled a happy birthday from under his covers, not bothering to raise his head.

That was it.

As I’ve said ad nauseum over the years. Even on the couple of occasions he’s remembered my birthday – and he goes to the newsagent EVERY day for the paper…not to mention the thousands of dollars he bets on horses and pokies – and for all that I do for him – not so much as even a card.

Monday night 13/6/16

*The ‘What are we doin tomorrow.’ Was only said to try and stress me out. He’d know that I’d be seeing my kids. He used to do it years ago. I’d see my kids before or after my birthday, so as to spend it with him. (I know…how could I have been so dumb) He’d then set out to ruin, or ignore it EVERY time. The power game he plays – make her think I’m doin somethin..and don’t..ha ha.

Pschycopath.

The Long Week-end Cont.

I was talking to my cousin last night, mentioned the week-end plans that never eventuated, and he said, as you would if you’re quite normal, why would you even want to go anywhere with him? The club would be as far as you’d ever want to go, surely.

I sighed. Yeah, I get that. But only if you watch yourself, year in year out, doing the same thing, could you ever contemplate a drive somewhere with a psychopath. I’m here every day with a psychopath – I might as well see something of the country with one – a break from the kitchen sink and the stove. To go back to work and actually contribute to the conversation for once -“Oh, yes, I quite liked Bega…” and so on. (My cousin has also travelled the World)

Anyway, I think CEF’s winning streak came to an end. His mood is plummeting. I was hoping he’d say we’d go out for dinner last night. I could do with a nice meal in the Italian restaurant. But he didn’t, and I don’t. Too many times, I’ve got dressed, walked out, and he’s said “Nah, don’t feel like it now.” So it’s got to come from him.

Yeah, I know, it’s f..ed.

Same old f…ed it has been for years though.

*When we go out for dinner he raves on about his work, his past, his mates, his horses. I sit there doing the, “OK, yeah? Mm.. Really? Uh huh.?”

But I do it over beautifully cooked, lightly crumbed calamari pieces and  freshly made spinach and ricotta cannaloni.

A small price.

Prick.

I went off to the shops today, to get groceries and have a look around.

I overheard him slagging off to a mate about me being out. “She’s fuckin gone out to the shops. She’s been fuckin ages! There’s no fuckin milk. No fuckin bread! Farrk!” And so on.

Now the man went down to the shops to get beer, to the garage to get petrol, to the newsagent to put his lotto on and get the paper. One could imagine that he’d be able to buy some bread and milk, eh?

Nope. Not ever.

And it’s not like I’m buying groceries with housekeeping money HE helps me with – ooh, noo. Not a cent comes from him for anything.

And, there WAS milk and there WAS bread – not much, but certainly enough for him to have the ONE cup of tea he has per day. The bread was the same – and I was home by 1:30!

He’s such a lousy bastard.

• As I sat here writing this I noticed a plastic burning smell. He didn’t want his chops earlier on when I was going to cook them, so he put them on late – which I hate because the smell of chops is throughout the house all night…Anyway, today I bought a new spatter guard for the frypan. Brand new. No it didn’t cost a lot, but it was a nice brand new one. He’s just melted the plastic handle over the side of the frypan.
• *^#+^*#!

This is why it’s worse for him to cook his own. He’s not paid for a thing in this house…ergo, he couldn’t give a shit.