No this is not a post about sex.
As I have stated in a previous post, my once happy marriage is in trouble, we are currently considering divorce as a viable resolution to our union. At the same time, we are also trying to fix our problems with ourselves and resolve our problems with each other, so our marriage may be repaired. Obviously the latter is preferable to the former… cause we have a kid. (Were it just us, we’d have bailed by this point.)
One of my main frustrations with British Husband is that he lacks accountability. He seems to be unable to see how he has participated in or made decisions or neglected responsibilities that have helped lead us to the precarious point we are currently in. He is unorganized and forgetful. It is annoying and it affects *every aspect* of our daily life… and, because I am the one with a good memory, who makes lists, and stays on top of stuff… I end up feeling like I have to either nag him or parent him (possibly both.)
He is my husband, not my child. I shouldn’t have to either nag or parent him… except when I stop, that’s when stuff falls to shit. Let me tell you a story to illustrate this:
It starts with a car. A 2012 Hyundai Accent. Which has been driven into the ground and is a piece of shit. This is British Husband’s car. It was once “our” car (and, when it was it was in much better condition and regularly maintained.) It is dilapidated and sad, at some point in LA someone sideswiped it and knocked the driver side mirror off, which is now held on with spit, a prayer, and a lot of duct tape. It is a white car, but looks gray, as British Husband probably hasn’t washed it since 2017, god only knows when the last time the oil was changed or the tires were checked. It’s a death trap. I won’t even let Penelope ride in it, it is such a junker of a car.
When we made the decision to move back to Chicago from LA, British Husband and I agreed that we would sell this trash heap and put the money towards paying down some of our debt. Because Chicago is a city where you really don’t need a car that much, and we had my new Subaru for hauling around Peej and her associated stuff, so we didn’t need Frank Underwood (yes, that’s the Hyundai’s name) anymore.
This, aside from driving the moving truck across country with the dog, is the SINGLE task I place onto British Husband’s plate in association with moving: Sell Frank Underwood.
He postpones this until the week before we are to move, saying he can’t consider selling the car when he still needs it to get back and forth to work, despite me saying that he could drive my car -or if I needed my car I could take him to and from work. Just get Frank gone, I say… no, no, no- that will not do.
So a week before we are to move, when my Mom and I are up to our fannies in alligators trying to pack up my house, while my Dad sits and watches TV and Peej – British Husband says to me “Where’s the title for Frank Underwood?”
Um. You’re a grownup, I’ve explained to you multiple times where we keep important documents. Go fucking look, you dumb head.
But, being politic, and not wanting to fight in front of the baby (my Dad is very sensitive, haha) I go to where I keep the important documents and hand him the folder and say “It’s in here, look for it.”
Only he cannot find the title. I tell him to look in his car (’cause he is the kind of person who would put the title to his car IN HIS CAR.) It’s not in there. So I look… through our papers, his papers, my papers, through boxes and cupboards which don’t even have papers in them. No title. It’s lost. Fuckballs.