Tuesday, my husband, with his usual tact and good will, called me a “fat slob”. Today, he mentioned the flab hanging from my bicep.
So while I praise him for losing 45 pounds, he’s found yet another way to harangue and harass me, some other weapon of words that he can use to make him feel powerful yet make me feel weak. It doesn’t help that while he’s in the best shape of his life while I’m at my heaviest weight and in the worst shape of mine. I’m sure, in his mind, he’s “helping” me face facts. I wish he realized that he’s only being an a**hole.
It doesn’t help that the Muse continues to bitch at me. In fact, she’s screaming.
We moved, this week. My daughter moved to our room, downstairs, and we moved to her room, upstairs in out little Cape. This is a good thing; the upstairs room is, the master bedroom, of sorts–certainly the largest bedroom in the house. And I really love it; it’s got a dormer, and it’s bright and sunny. She’s happy, too, in the smaller room on the first floor. She likes that she doesn’t have slanted ceilings and that she can look out into the backyard at the pool. Go figure.
Anyhow, I haven’t been able to write at all. Between taking care of stuff, moving furniture, and getting things reorganized, and getting the kids ready for school, I can’t write at all.
And my classes start in two weeks, which mean I’ll have even less time to write. So the Muse is complaining, and I don’t blame her.
I’d better get to work. But first…I think I’ll head to the gym and see if I can hook up a membership.
