Well, it's been over two years since Mother and Evil Shorty have lived with me in my expensive house I can't afford. Right now I work four part time jobs. My husband has two full time jobs. We don't mind working a lot. I don't have a problem being broke all the time. I'm grateful for all my jobs, especially because jobs are so hard to come by these days. All my jobs are virtually stress free, and I'm happier than hell to get out of my house each day and go to work.
I realized that living in a house for over two years with four generations of women and no boundaries is like trying to make my way through a land field each day without setting off any explosions. Don't step here. Don't push this button over there. Well, it's too late. Explosions are going off everywhere, and I've reverted back to old behaviors to try and control a situation that is not controllable.
Evil Shorty has got to go. I know most people would think that it's horrible to send an old, 94 year old woman to stay with her gambler son in his hell-hole in Vegas. However, after two years of verbal abuse, constant yelling, water running endlessly down drains, refrigerators doors being left open for light, feeding dogs fast food and chocolate cake, cleaning an old lady's vomit and nasty toilet, refusal to wear hearing aids, cleaning spilled coffee on floors and baseboards, things being stolen from my bedroom, and other acts of random violence, I think I've put in my time for the official co-dependent dumb bitch of the year award.
Evil Shorty has got to go. Not in one month, not in two months, I told her and Mother today she's got to pack and be out in two weeks. Evil Shorty asked me if she could come back in six months. I told her to think about her behavior and her lack of appreciating what people do for her. I told her she never thanks Mother for taking her to the doctor, picking up her prescriptions, cooking her meals, making her gourmet coffee every day, running to the store for half n' half every other day, doing her laundry, and paying for the dogs to have stomach medicine from the vet every couple months because she refuses to stop feeding the poor, chubby, wobbly dogs. Evil Shorty just snarled at me and said, "You've changed."
"That's right Evil Shorty and you're a done deal." After all, she's the one who said she was going to do me a favor and move out. "Great, Evil Shorty, move out."
I've always been a believer that in our house our common welfare comes first. For the past two years, I've forgotten that concept. If someone cannot respect boundaries and upsets everyone else in the house, well then it's time for a little change. The dog days of Evil Shorty are coming to an end real soon. The next two weeks are going to be filled with whining and crying and begging and complaining, but oh well. It's not like I'm not used to torture after two years of hell.