La Bene Vita

I Feel a Rant Coming On...

Yesterday's Weight Watcher points were somewhere around 35, but I can't be sure, because the restaurant where I ate lunch does not publish the nutritional facts about its menu options. I won't be eating there again until they get with the times and publish the information that their credit-card-wielding public wants. My weight this morning: 166.4.

The boy is tired of his job. Also, my parents are visiting next weekend, and he is stressed about the cleanliness of the house. Meanwhile, an ex-boyfriend of mine from high school (we're talking 1993) is in town next Monday on business and wants to meet to catch up (note: he's married with three children, and we were part of a huge group of friends at a military high school in Germany who now live all over the world, so the conversation will be much "What ever happened to..." and "Did you hear about...") yet somehow, the boy, who I thought was solidly secure in our relationship, is weirded out by my meeting the ex for an hour or two. All this after I had a brilliant idea last week about a potential tenant for my house - you know the house I mean - the one that's been on the market for nearly two years? The one whose price I've dropped six times and a total of thirty thousand dollars (the price of a very, very nice car)? That house. Could have a tenant. With rent. Enough rent to pay the mortgage, tax, and insurance, lifting the burden from our bank account. But that whole leasing thing might be risky, so we would be better off dropping the price again and paying someone else thousands of dollars out of our pocket to take the house off of our hands. And this morning, I tried to set up a corrective counseling scenario for the stepkid, who didn't clean up after herself yesterday. The boy cleaned it up for her while I slept, and then when I confronted said stepkid later this morning, she insisted that she had not left the mess in question and that she specifically remembered cleaning it up. When I complained to the boy about the interference and the ten-year-old's belligerence, he (the cleanliness nazi) asked why I was making such a fuss over that one little mess and reminded me that she is ten, I am not (WTF does that mean? Act your age?) I understand that he just wanted to make coffee, and that the mess was in his way, but he should have made her move it. I told him last night that I'd left it deliberately to make her move it this morning. He gets upset about my relationship with his daughter, and he constantly reminds me that I'm the adult, but he doesn't support me when I act as caregiver. It's not like I even want the damn job. I'm home in the mornings because my business is an afternoon and evening business, so I'm free to get the child on the bus. Fine, but support me, don't accuse me of freaking immaturity.

He's grumpy, so I'm grumpy. I try to live by the mantra of never saying (or writing) what you would not want someone to hear (or see.) Chris (the MTMS office manager) and I talk all the time about "she-who-shall-not-be-named" or "that-other-place," referring to our previous employer and now current business competitor. But I frankly don't give a shit if my words ever get back to that woman, because she's the one paranoid about me, not the other way around. I know who she is, what she does, what her capabilities are, and I'm not worried that she could harm my business. I don't care what she hears.

But the boy? He would probably have his feelings hurt to read this rant. Or maybe he would just be angry. I don't honestly know. But for crying out loud, through me a rope, here.

C'mon, June...