Holding a Chainsaw Don’t Make You a Lumberjack Anymore Than Putting On a Dress Makes Me a Lady, Pal!

I have officially become a complete Bitch. Not a bit-a-Bitch, or a some-what Bitch; no… a complete Bitch. Well, perhaps I should rate myself only a 9 on a scale of 10, due to the fact that I’m still capable of operating with a conscience when absolutely necessary, and I also feel empathy for the underdog, but that’s it! I am even embarrassing myself now with how hardened and bitter I’ve become, and as you well know I don’t embarrass easily.

Yesterday I came unhinged over the slightest thing. I ponder over it now and think perhaps I could’ve handled it differently. No…I could’ve definitely handled it differently! My husband’s buddy, the one that was here Saturday evening with his girlfriend (remember how I got talked into having people over for cocktails and a late dinner by this certain friend after my husband basically sicced him on me, and then ended up entertaining his girlfriend all evening that I had just met while the guys hung out in the garage?), just showed up unannounced yesterday again, as he always does. This infuriates me, I might add. Here I am lounging around early afternoon still in my jammies, and the moment he pulls up the drive my husband groans, heads for the bathroom, and tells me to inform him that he’s in the shower. What? I’m in my jammies! Now my husband did this because he knows said friend is already drunk–the guy wakes up and starts drinking beer and whiskey–and is aware of the fact that he’s not going to get anything accomplished but hanging out with this guy if he’s available. Just great!

I greeted him at the door and stepped outside, because he’d brought his female German Shepherd and my very-male Pitbull was going ballistic wanting to come through the door. Within a few minutes I could tell that he was not to be dissuaded by my husband in the shower, I wasn’t going to hang outside the whole time, and just invited him in. My husband could deal with this mess himself. We start chatting, my husband steps out of the bathroom, I shoot him my sweetest look of “Guess who’s here to see you?”–serves him right!–and proceed to go back to checking emails as the two of them exchange a few words while my husband is running a comb through his hair. Then the unhinging occurred.

Now none of this would’ve happened if it were not for the fact that I’m normally too nice. People, never-ever go out of your way to accommodate others in your home or on your property just for their benefit if it’s something that makes you feel uncomfortable, because if you do you set yourself up for them assuming they can say or do anything they please, and expect you to just ‘suck-it-up’. This has happened to me more often than I care to admit in the past, and I have little tolerance for it anymore, as the hubby’s friend quickly found out yesterday. He made the mistake of thinking I’m his friend too and I would just ‘suck-it-up’ so to speak. Wrong again, pal!

They’re sitting there chatting and the buddy tells my hubby that he’s just been over at the vet’s they are both friends with, and had cut up some wood for him. I’m sitting at the desk at my pc in the corner of our large living room, and shoot a look over my shoulder at my husband who’s across the room like… Is he kidding? He’s using a chainsaw and he can barely stand up he’s so intoxicated. I said nothing though. Then the buddy asks my husband if he’d like him to cut up the limbs from the storm that had occurred. Before my husband had a chance to say anything I spoke up and told him “No thanks. I don’t think you should be handling power tools right now, babe.” Without missing a beat he tells me he’s fine. I then informed him that he might think he is fine, but that there would be no chainsaws being used on my property by someone who’s been drinking. Then he said the magic words “Don’t you worry about it.”

‘Don’t you worry about it’? OH HELL NO…I DIDN’T HEAR HIM RIGHT! Oh yeah, that’s right, those are magic words for Pissy…among others. That poor, pathetic, little man had no idea what he’d unleashed with that slight bit of cockiness in his voice. My husband knew, and cringed when I raised my voice and said “Oh hell no…he didn’t just say that. You’d better get your damn friend in check before I have to or it’s going to get ugly in here.” Before the hubby could respond–not that I think he was brave enough nor intended to–his dumb-ass friend had to open his mouth again. He told me to calm down, that he’s experienced with a chainsaw and had been using one forever, and that I shouldn’t worry about it…insinuating, you know…it was like a ‘male’ thing.

Now my chair is swung around, I’ve pushed myself away from the pc, and am giving him the look. My husband shrivels up a bit in his chair, and the drunk buddy looks at me as naive and innocent as a lamb about to be slaughtered.

Me:  “Yeah, well…you’re a good ten years younger than I am and I’ve been chewing out men’s asses longer than you’ve been alive. There will be no chainsaws used on my property today.”

Drunk Buddy:  “No Lou, I just meant….”

Me:  Yep, I interrupted. He was done talking as far as I was concerned. “Oh, I know what you just meant, and apparently you don’ t understand how things work around here, pal! This is MY house…understand? There ain’t shit that happens on this property that isn’t okay’d through me first.” He starts to glance in the direction of my husband. “Don’t bother looking to him for support. He can’t help you, and he knows it or he would’ve spoke up already.” I then shoot my husband a crusty look to enforce what I’m saying. “Now I don’t give a fuck how much you drink or what you do at your house, but I’ll be damned if you’re going to be wielding a live chainsaw around my husband with us being thirty damn miles from the nearest hospital, take a chance of your drunken ass lopping off one of his limbs, and him dying and leaving me to take care of this shit-hole and his dog by myself. NOT GOING TO HAPPEN! This is my house. In my house I’m right. You wanna be right, you go home and you can be right there. Now I don’t wanna have a problem with this again. When I say something I mean it the first time. You got me? And don’t you dare EVER tell me not to worry about something where my home and family are concerned. Are we clear on this?”

I guess I don’t have to tell you that the room got eerily quiet. My husband, who probably should’ve been angry, rubbed his hands across his mouth and turned his head. His way of covering up that he’s starting to laugh. The drunk buddy hasn’t taken his eyes off me, other than to look at the floor and his beer a couple of times. I informed them both it was a good time to go out to the garage, and returned to my emails. My husband did, but the buddy stood there for about five minutes apologizing, and telling me that my husband was one of his best friends, and that he really liked me too and hoped I wasn’t going to throw a wrench in their friendship. I kept assuring him it was fine, but that he needed to know his place where I was concerned in my home. My husband stepped back inside–I can only assume to save him–and the two finally headed out the door. Damn men!

Okay, I know I probably overreacted, but my patience and tolerance is at an all time low. I’m basically fed-up with being made to feel that I just have to put up with shit from everyone. And the saying is true: “Give em an inch and they want to take a mile.” Basically, let them think they can say or do whatever they want, and they’ll take it for granted. I’m finding this applies to nearly everyone, and am tired of being a damn doormat. And this isn’t something that happened overnight. It’s been brewing for some time. I know where this came from though. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out when the change began. This shit began stirring around in my belly like a bad piece of meat this past February when I had to go through some shit dealt me by two people who supposedly loved me. Yeah right! With love like that I’d be better to take my chances blow drying my hair, while making toast, and watching tv in a bathtub full of water. Get Pissy’s drift? And though I’d like to think for the most part I was able to move past that, though I have no intention of ever forgiving them or wishing them well, have now finally accepted that the two of them make the perfect couple. Second only to Charles Starkweather and Caril Fugate in the damage they are capable of doing to others. May they feed off one anothers insecurity and weakness for the rest of eternity with my blessings, and the consideration and respect they extend to one another be as generous as what they’ve shown me.

I fear whatever sensitivity, understanding, or discretion I had is leaking out quickly through the hole they created from the jagged knife they shoved deep into my back. They’ve altered something about me that was vital to my being the decent person I was. The jury is still out on whether this is something I need that will be the catalyst to push me forward and benefit me in the future, or whether it will serve to harm me by making me more abrasive to others. I’m not quite sure. I’ve been tempted to write about it completely hoping to purge myself of it, but have hesitated to do so. Yes, believe it or not, there are some things that Pissy doesn’t elaborate on. The reason would not be to save them–as I wouldn’t piss on either of them if they were on fire, and in fact might add more fuel and dance merrily around them as their black hearts go up in flames–but rather because of the humiliation I still feel from being a complete sucker in trusting her, and having wasted so many years believing in him.

Anyone ever had this happen to them?

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