Hubby Was Fired

Hubby lost his job on Friday. He was doing data transcription for the IRS, but wasn't able to meet the minimum production and quality standards. When I told him that he has to have a job, he went out the front door and sat on the porch steps until I left for a haircut appointment. Pouting. I guess I was supposed to tell him not to worry about it. He should just go ahead and sit around the house, doing absolutely nothing. I'll figure out a way to pay the bills, I'll do all the cleaning; he can relax and write another book.

It's all my fault, really. I should have been a lot less patient a lot sooner. I wasn't willing to deal with long term unpleasantness. As long as Hubby didn't hit me or bring another person into the relationship, my minimum standards were met. By the time I was too sick to keep up with things, doing nothing had become an ingrained habit for him. I'm guilty of bad parenting.

I spent a lot of time cleaning this weekend. It was nowhere near as much time as I need, but my stamina is still very limited. Luckily, I was able to meet my own production and quality standards.

I watched the final regular time seconds in the Mavs-Lakers game, then allowed myself to be talked into watching the overtime even though I knew how it would end. I hate Kobe. I also hate Mark Cuban. Ditto Jason Kidd. I'd be remiss if I didn't mention how much more I hate Isaiah than the whole lot of them thrown together.

I also managed to catch some college hoops, Georgetown vs. Marquette. Patrick Ewing, Jr. plays for Georgetown, so for this game, they were my default favorite team.

I'm still reading When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chodron. Perfect timing on my part. My backup read, when my concentration is too poor to devote to Pema, is called Acid Row. It's written by a British author. British writers are sometimes more than I can do. For example, the people in this book live on an estate, but that doesn't mean they're wealthy. "Estate" in this context means public housing. Who knew.

The new hair stylist didn't make me want to shave my head. That's more than I can say about my most recent stylist, Erika. Much like Dr. Sandbox, her fatal flaw is an inability to listen. The thing is, I'm not all that picky. After you've been bald, things can only get better.

I've already had two conversations with Foot Lady and one with Owner. It's 10:39 a.m. and I already need a nap.