"Yours Is Not The Worst of Sorrows."

"We are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter."

                                                         -- from Allen Ginsberg's Howl

It is breathtakingly beautiful outside, the kind of spring day that can only happen in the Pacific Northwest.  The

Way back
In 1911, N.C. Wyeth captured 
me making my way in
the world.

sun is shining, there isn't a cloud in the sky, a gentle breeze is caressing my jeans as my feet rest on the motherfucking dashboard as I lie in repose in the passenger seat of Abby's car, again at acting with her.

You see. I drove Monday. When I asked Jenny yesterday if she would be home from her ski trip to Mt. Hood and brief stay in Portland, and she said yes, one (me) presumed she would be driving Abby tonight.  Nopes.  Nopes.  And Nopes.  To be fair, they didn't get home in time, because they had to go to In-and-Out in Salem first, which is the opposite direction from our home, hence greatly adding to their commute and putting them in rush hour traffic as they hit Olympia.

It wouldn't be so irksome, but I was counting on the time. It was a super busy day at work, Jenny was well enough to go away, I did it Monday. . . Instead, I get this response, when I tell her I am disappointed because I just need a break:

I don't honestly know where to start with this, so feet first I jump.  She took the girls away on vacation. They aren't toddlers. This wasn't a sacrifice. She got time away.  Also, she may be sick, but she isn't working.  At all. Her well days are all fun, as they should be for a person with a terminal illness.  But can I ever get a break, people? Here is the next exchange:

Not to be trite but. . . I just can't. She literally said to me, "I haven't had a day off from anything, either." I am completely discounted, you say it appears, right? You ain't seen nothin' yet.  I respond (and why did I respond?):

At this point I am googling, trying to find a meme for "What in the name of all that is holy?" It could only be more manipulative if, in response she said something about being sick in order to shirk responsibility.   Annnnd, we have a winner:

Bobbin' and weaving like Leon Spinks.  Impressive.  All I can do is laugh.  I mean, it can't  get any worse. She didn't blame me for not getting respite.  I mean, that would be just too much, right? Wrong, wrong, wrong:

So, up is down, peace is war, infidelity is faithfulness, and vacation= work.  Also, Leiney actually has a driver license and did drive today for a leg of the trip. They didn't cook, but ate all their meals out, and it isn't as if they were doing chores at the hotels or homes in which they resided during the two trips. Jenny and Abby went to a friend's beach house. They drove to Whidbey, stayed overnight and came home.  Leiney and Jenny were in hotels.

But, I digress.  Jenny actually nailed it on the second piece. It's my fault I haven't had any respite, because (please ignore journal entry about Easter weekend and Door Dash) I could have had last Sunday off but failed to take advantage of the opportunity.  So, ok, my bad.  Or is it?  Let's see:

She was sick--slept forever on Sunday.  Slurred speech and trouble processing, remembering which day of the week it was, asking over and again if she had been in the hospital the night before (no, she hadn't). She wasn't fit to be left alone for an entire day. Our foray to Ikea was pushing it, and then when we came back, it was me or the kids who had to care for her, and I wasn't putting it on Leiney.  Abby would have been in her room. [Also, riding with a student driver causes myriad typos and syntax errors when texting or even drafting these entries.]

She also said this, lest I forget:

I think she wants me to believe that, but she spends more time with her friends than the kids.  And the friends win over the kids routinely, see earlier posts.  I think she believes it, maybe.  I say maybe because 10 minutes before this text exchange I spoke with her and asked, "how are you doing?"  She said great, and sounded buoyant.  She doesn't gild the lily, if she is in pain she tells me.  Then, I get this follow up text:

So, the pain is not from the cancer, fyi. She has acquired arthritis in her hips--I'm guessing that is what she will tell me was the reason for oxy.  But, I am skeptical of the sudden onset of pain, coinciding with her weekly "can't miss" Wednesdays with Jennifer Murray. Whenever she is at Murrays, I presume Eric the pinché motherfucker (henceforth, "TPM') is there.  The first pictures I found of Jenny and TPM, when I discovered the affair, were of them embracing and were taken by Jennifer Murray in her house.

She did offer that I should find time to go away for a weekend.  I will. She offered to come with me, even. Nah, I'll take the girls. Being on vacation with them is always easy, never work.

Ok.  Let's wrap this up:

Yes, I clean the house, and appreciate the acknowledgement.  The rest speaks for itself.

"Yours is not the worst of sorrows," is said by a character in a Chekov short story, intended to be a salve for a mother who lost her child.  My therapist has tried to get me to remember this concept, and has told me to keep this in mind.  I only rediscovered the Chekov story recently, and it struck me as on point.