The Shoe Is Falling! The Shoe is Falling!

Maybe ya'll have heard the old saying, "Waiting for the other shoe to drop"...

(Please ignore any political connotations of this picture...I just feel like the squished people lol.)

I think I live my life that way: just waiting for that other shoe to drop. If we're out on the lake, I'm looking for the rain clouds. If I make fifty bucks, I'm immediately thinking about gas and groceries, and oh, my gosh, we're gonna go broke and whatever will we do?

And, when Steven and I are googly-eyed and happy and lovey-dovey and everything's going swell--I'm fully expecting him to turn to me and say he gives up, sorry, we were a good try...have a good life. (Reminds me of that song '"At A Red Light" by David Nail). And, I'd be left with the biggest ever hole, right where my heart and happiness used to be. I think, sometimes, it's almost worse when we're especially happy, because that's when I'd be the most miserable if he left.That means, after we've had a great little run, I usually start doing some pushing.

If he asks about my day, I give little more than a grunt or a, "It's fine."

If he spanks me, I fight tooth and nail. (Not that that ever helps or anything...just hurts...but, for some reason, I feel compelled to try it.)

When he helps out around the house, I just tell him I would have gotten around to it.


And, I wind up very sore, and with a very confused boyfriend. This past week has definitely been one of those weeks. I think I've been spanked at least once a day for the majority of it.

But, then, the other day, I was at work, musing over my barrage of sharp comments and snappy tones and my very sore bottom, when it struck me.

I was coping.

Ew.

Prepping myself for something that hadn't happened, and wasn't going to happen.

Sabotaging the good that we were having.

Ew.

So, I went home and told him about my little epiphany.

"So, that's why I do that!...I think."

"Mm. I'd noticed it was after a good streak."

"Yep." I'm sure I looked supremely smug with myself. Wonderful deducing skills in action, right here. :)

"Well, now we know, we can work on it." Cue face-fall here. I mean, I discovered the reason...shouldn't that make it fixed??

Nevertheless...

Steven's dictated a fix.

And, I don't want to hurt us, so I'm more than willing to go along.

"Dangerous" Doings Don't Pay

I think I've mentioned before that we live in a rather old house. It has an upstairs, a ground floor, and then an unfinished basement.

Now, as a general rule, we don't really go upstairs. Truthfully(embarrassingly), it kind of freaks me out, so I just leave it to itself. However, there's a large living room/dining room that we want to start utilizing. It has gorgeous woodwork and a stunning fireplace. Buuuutttt....

We've been using it for storage, and the carpet is currently puke-green. (I love my great-grandmother, but she did NOT have good taste). So the job becomes carrying allllll the stuff we've stuffed there upstairs and pulling up the carpet to reveal the hardwood beneath.

This morning, Steven was working on some things on the computer, but I was working on the room. I wanted him to hurry. I went and tried to tell him to hurry. He remained. (Granted, what he was doing was important but still! Patience is not my thing.)

So, I went back and started carrying things up the steps. A box. A box of books. A heater. A fake Christmas tree. (You can see the escalation here?)

Finally, a chair that had been bothering me---well, I tripped over it. In frustration, I hauled it up and started rolling.

I made it to the foot of the stairs and looked up. It was a lonnnnngggg way up. But, I'm a stubborn chick, so I rolled it up the first little bit. Paused to pant. Rolled it up the second little segment. Paused. Panted. Finally, made it to the top.

Unfortunately for me, Steven heard the repetitive thumping, and, when I turned to go back down the stairs, there he was, scowling up at me.

"You do know you're in trouble?"

"For working?" I plastered a quite appalled look on my face.

"For letting your impatience get the better of you, and causing you to do dangerous things." I begged and wheeled, and got off with a lecture. But, I guess he'd been stewing, because my next semi-heavy thing hauled up the steps....

And, I was right back to square one.

He spun me around, and, what can I say? Instinct is to cover and protect. So I did. Fighting any kind of discipline is kind of a no-no, so a few stand-up swats quickly became,

"Didn't we just have this fighting conversation? You can go wait for me in our bedroom."

And, I did.

And, ouch.

And, now, he's gone out to get breakfast. And he's left me some very strict instructions on what I can and cannot do in his absence. Since, apparently, I can't judge what's safe for me to finagle upstairs, rule number one:

Don't take anything upstairs.

I can pick up the trash.

I can do laundry.

Dishes.

Whatever.

Just not what I want to be accomplishing.

The Gas Rule Strikes Again

In my last post, I discussed a new rule that Steven had put into place: the "I can't go below a quarter tank" rule.

Three days ago, I broke it.

In horror, I watched as the little needle slipped further and further down, and finally, dipped below the quarter tank line. Since there is a stricter punishment for dropping below and not mentioning it, I drug myself inside to face the music.

"Babe...."

"Mm?"

"I...wellllll...."

"Gas? Already?"

And, I got spanked. I swore up and down, whilst facing the hardwood, that I'd get gas the next morning, the very first thing, if only he'd stop spanking me.

It took forever, and wasn't based at all on my pleadings, but he stopped.

We went on about our night. And, the next day--

I drove straight to work.

It wasn't until I pulled into our driveway that I noticed--not only had I forgotten to put the gas above a quarter tank, the gas light was actually on!

"Babe......."

"You forgot."

And, the spoon danced again on my backside. (This is getting a bit repetitive, I know...welcome to my butt's world.)

And, then, yesterday--

 I drove straight to work.

We ended up going to my ex-step-dad's, so we left my car at work.

There are no guarantees that when I turn the key, it'll even come on.

And, yep--

I met the spoon again.

Sigh.

SOOO not my favorite rule.

:(

Dah Dah Duuuuuuummm

We have a new rule.

It's a toughie.

And, ya'll may make fun of me for struggling with it.

But, the truth is--the rule was made two days ago, (the night Steven returned from Bristol), and I've already broken it once.

Now, I'm not malicious with the breaking of this rule. I don't MEAN to break it. I just...am not very good with it.

It's the GAS rule.

I can't go below a quarter tank. I know, I know, that sounds stupid.  But, I run out of gas(his definition of running out, not mine) ALL the time.

My definition: My car is stopped dead in the road and will not turn back on or move forward.

His definition: My car hiccups whilst the gauge points to E.

My car will die three times and continue--it's not til the fourth time that the engine cuts out for good.

You can see where we might have a butting of the heads at this.

But, I'm beginning to think he might be serious about it. My reasoning?

I'm serious about this, Grace! It's time you start listening to me about this! If your gas gauge drops below a quarter tank, you may as well stop the car, turn it off, and sit there, because you're in trouble. To you, that quarter marker is as good as dead stop empty. 

Ew.

What else is there to say about that?

Except maybe "ouch".

 

Off To The Races!

And just like that, Steven's off to the races!

He's in Bristol today. And last night. And for a good portion of tonight.

Ya know, I've often read Stormy's posts about missing the Ogre, and thought to myself, "Man. That's really sad. I mean, really, that sucks. I'm sure glad Steven never leaves overnight, I think I'd just hate that."

Well, the votes are in: I do really hate that. It does really suck.

I tossed and turned for a very good portion of the night; which, coincidentally, I stayed with my Mom last night. I was in my old bed, with the dog I was raised with. Tucker must have thought I'd completely lost my mind. Periodically, I'd wake up, grab for my phone, shoot off a text to Steven, and roll back over to try and sleep.

Let's just say--I'm glad he'll be home tonight. I miss him dreadfully; our boys miss him, too. Diesel keeps going to the door and the window and looking out into the driveway. He's traipsed around the house several times since I got home; when he finishes a circuit, he comes back over to me and looks up at me like, "Uhm...isn't someone missing here?"

Blegh.

I think that's all I've got for today, since my mind is preoccupied with his absence. Maybe next post will be cheerier.

An Apple A Day...

Just for the record, and in case you didn't know--

I hate doctors. I absolutely, positively loathe them. They never seem to have good news, you know. And, every time you go, you sit in the waiting room for hours and hours that you COULD have used for something else.

It's been almost two years since I've seen a dentist.(Hey, my mom's a dental assistant--she checks up on me! That's enough...right?)

Longer than that since I've seen my eye doctor(With eyes that went off the 20/800 scale when I was 11...uhm, yah, prolly not my best plan...but, geeeeezzzz....he ALWAYS has something to say!).

And, then...then there's the allergist.

Almost two and a half years ago, I started having a reaction. You'd think two years was enough time to figure out what caused it, right?

'Fraid not. So, as it stands, every time that I get mad, overly excited, hot, stressed, too cold, hot then cold, vice versa, go swimming, go hiking, take the dogs for a walk, go to work, etc....I break out in hives. Back when it first started, it wasn't that big a deal. The breakouts were quite severe, but relatively rare. Now, they're milder, but they happen with alarming frequency.(Read into that: every other day...if I'm super lucky).

Last year, I tried going to the allergist. They refused to do any testing, and, despite the proof of two pee tests and a blood test, remained convinced that I was pregnant(have any of you ever seen me write about a kid? Yeah, that's cuz we don't have one.) So, since then, I've rather thrown "allergist" into the little box in my mind labeled "worthless and inept."

.....Except, Steven wanted me to go back.

For almost a month, he reminded me to make an appointment every couple of days. I always assured him I would--tomorrow.

The funny thing about tomorrow? It never actually gets here.

Until a deadline appears on the horizon.

My deadline was yesterday. Last night, we were laying in bed, when he asked me, "Did you make your appointment today?"

A sinking feeling in the tummy...the kind that wiggles its way all they way down to your toes.

"Mmmhmmmmmhhhmmm..." I hoped it sounded affirmative, without being a lie.

"Uh, huh. For when?"

"The Thursday after the ninth." Bald-faced lie.

"Really. With who." Nope, that wasn't an accident--I didn't put a question mark, because it wasn't actually a question.

Long story short, I didn't get spanked for it. It was a miracle. Instead, he gave me till four today to do it.

I finished it by two. :) And I ate an apple.

Cuz an apple a day may not keep the doctor away...but....

A doctor keeps a spanking away.