November 16, 2003

I ought to be in bed at 2AM, but I just don’t want to sleep. There’s stuff in my head…aggravating stuff generated by Mr. Passive-Aggressive. He just creates situations, stirs the pot, then backs off and watches the drama play-out. Oh, he’s interesting all right! The sick bastard!

At the end of every day I drive past my house taking a quick glance at the porch and the mailbox. My stomach hurts. If the porch holds no boxes delivered by FedEx or UPS, my breath escapes my lungs in a heavy, hard Whewww! Nothing there to open. God, I hate surprises. However, the dreaded mailbox awaits my daily visit. An envelope from my attorney is just as bad as an envelope from Clayton. Both garner the same reactions: anxiety, dread, shortness of breath and an audible curse! How dare these jerks ruin my day, every day?

Evening before last I was so relieved to see no "gifts" from my favorite ogre. But there was the envelope with the words "Forward to (my address") in tall letters that screamed. Oh, yeah, those words, big, black and angry, had a voice and they were screaming! It was my car coupon and a letter addressing the lateness of my payment. Not only has my ogre not been sending my share of the Coast Guard basic allowance for housing (BAH) to me, he has now decided not to make the current car payment let alone last month’s payment. "What a man! What a man!" as Olive Oil used to purr when Popeye impressed her with his manliness…as everyone knows, Popeye was a sailor of the seas, too. In any case, my sailor just can’t "get his shit in one sock", never could, probably never will. It tickled me he was still carrying on with his usual tardiness regarding debt. Guess it goes to prove nothing changes. If the car debt is in my hands, it will be current, so that’s a good thing.

Yesterday, I crept up on the mailbox trying not to agitate the US Postal Service gods in hope they would be kind to me by sending any Popeye correspondence or attorney’s letters to the four winds. I just wasn’t in the mood for it. But there it was. An envelope from, you guessed it, my ogre. Low and behold there was a check which seemed to be closer to the BAH dollar amount for one month. Shocked the hell out of me!

So, I have to wonder…what does this mean because Popeye is a tightwad from hell …hmmmm??? Not generous, not lavish with dime, is he. I do hope he isn’t expecting me to be grateful to him. I’m not! Even though I can and do support myself financially, he owes me. Un-huh! Popeye owes me big time, but that’s neither here nor there and that debt will never be satisfied. However, it is my most fervent wish he will abandon his pleas for reconciliation and decide to go on and buy himself a lovely divorce. It hasn’t been cheap for either of us, but that’s the way of a passive-aggressive: he’d rather cut off his nose to spite his face than do the right thing. Indeed, the six month waiting period is over, and if the divorce were finalized, he wouldn’t have to pay me BAH. How hard is that to understand?

On the other hand, if he follows through with the divorce, he loses any monetary benefit marriage garners a Coastie. My sailor man is fighting for control! Bless his little old passive-aggressive heart…he can’t even control himself let alone me and my life.
I’m looking forward to the time when the attorney has no need to contact me, envelopes and boxes of soiled linens and useless junk from Clayton will disappear and I won’t have to eat Tums and drink Mylanta to soothe my poor old stomach.

Well, good night all! And to Popeye, "Ahoy, Mate!"