FFS

He’s “confident” a permanent job will appear shortly.  It’s been more than a year since he (my husband) has worked a proper full time job with benefits.  Oh, he’s worked “seasonal” or “contract” – but what I consider to be a real job…  No.  I’m not talking 6 figures, or crazy benefits, like trips to the Maldives – just something that is a regular workweek, that will pay him what someone with his experiences are worth, and benefits.  I think, on the whole, I’m being exceptionally reasonable.

 

I asked, not in aggressive tone, if he could give me a “due date” – one that if he hadn’t found this magical temporary job that would take him on to a full adult’s job, we would go to Plan Delta.  Or Zed.  Or whatever, because we are right the fuck out of options.  He looked at me like I was only slightly more out of focus than if he’d just come out of anesthesia.  “No.  Do we need that?”  I need that.  I’ve been telling him for years, exactly what I needed.  Safety.  Security.  Insurance benefits.

 

See, we’re at a complete and utter dead end.  I have nothing left to sell.  The “big” items, the washer/dryer and the fridge are long gone.  I’ve sold my burial policy, so my kids aren’t going to get squat on a monetary basis when I die.  I’m out of resources.  He just turned down a job because they couldn’t offer him full time and they didn’t want him looking for another job.  You basic seasonal/contract work.  Sweet Loving Jesus on a Jellyfish…  I’ve told him, bluntly, directly, as non hysterically (ha ha!  the jokes on them that thinks I’m hysterical, I no longer have a uterus!) that I need this resolved.  Would it be better to look for work almost anywhere else, so long as it provided a living wage?  Use that money from the burial policy to fund the move?

 

I’m dying inside.  He found out he couldn’t borrow money from his mother, she’s all up and above her spending limits because she bought a bigger car when hers was T-Boned.  She, however, got a job to cover the gap.  His brother is in over his head with planning for a wedding, new durable medical equipment, and sharing his home with the woman he loves.  Like most of the guys in this family – he shows his love by sharing financial attributes.  No shame there – quite frankly, I’m not really in the mood to be taking those kinds of “loans” or gifts from people.  Which is why I about shat myself when he came home from a job interview/visiting a friend with a check to cover next month’s rent.  It was a loving and generous thing for them to do – it sets a bad example for him.  He thinks the Universe is going to keep bailing him out.

 

He’s working 6 hours a week or less.  He spends more time on Facebook in any single day then he spends looking for work – and I am about to loose the crowns on the left side of my mouth from grinding my teeth in my sleep.  I’ve explained – rather patiently, I’ve felt – that when you’re in your 50’s – you don’t just hope for the right job to be dropped in your lap, you damned well hustle.  This juvenile nonsense of hoping that a temp gig will take you through into a permanent job “if you like it” is…  stupid.  A word I use very cautiously around him, because he does pride himself on intellect.

 

You’ve seen ‘A Fish Called Wanda” haven’t you?  Where Jamie Lee Curtis asks Kevin Kline “What would an intellectual do?  What would Plato do?”  That’s what it feels like – that I need to manipulate him into dressing for job interviews nicely, and not just in a “Cosby” sweater and slacks.  I don’t care if you’re freaking applying to scrub out the crappers at the local fish eatery, you dress like you want to own the damned place.  Simple stuff like that, it just sails over his head.  I don’t know what to do.  Just start packing?  And go…  where?  I”m not living with my mother, EVER again.  I can’t really expect to live on my own on what my disability payments are.  Hell, I can’t even guarantee that I can find a place for my mad stash of cats and the doofy dog I can’t even walk on my own.  Live with my Dad?  That seems a bit of a stretch – we barely even talk.

 

I love this man, but he’s happily puttering about, unpacking things that have been in the garage for 3+ years, acting as if we won’t be up shit’s creek before the dust has fully settled.  Not only are we up the creek, we have no freaking paddles, and there’s banjo music.  This is not healthy for me.  It’s not healthy for my mindset, or my mental health or my questionable sanity.  It isn’t healthy for the pets, our marriage or our bank account.  But he’s just doddering along, like the Blue Fairy from Pinocchio is going to come down and make him a “real boy”.

 

Yeah, we’re FINE – FUCKED IN the EXTREME.  I don’t know how to make him see it.  All I know, I can’t unsee it, and I don’t know how much linger I can live like this without shorting out entirely.  And I’m horrifically tired of writing posts like this.