For a brief mistake there, I dated a man who was a seriously depressed alcoholic. I saw the error of my ways the weekend after my daughter moved out to go to college. I had decided to downsize, and move with my son into a smaller place. My best friend was coming for the weekend to help me pack and clean up what was left of the junk in my daughter's room. My daughter is a pack rat, she never, ever got rid of anything. Actually, we all are; as my son pointed out, when we moved from our first house into our second one, we didn't get rid of anything, we just packed it and moved it. This time, there was some serious culling going on. I found it a bit overwhelming. My best friend was quite organized, she was going to crack the whip and get me together. Mr. Depressed Alcoholic was going to be there to help. When I arrived home that Friday after work, she wasn't there yet, but he was, sniveling on the back deck.
I had seen this crying and whining thing from him once before. One night after he had several glasses of wine with dinner, he started crying about how no one understands him. Seriously, maybe I didn't understand him, but my thoughts at the time were something along the lines of, "You have got to be kidding me. Please let this be temporary insanity." I am not completely unsympathetic, but I can't stand crybabies. Especially in men. Yes, I know that's not the right attitude, but I'm sorry, it's the way I am. I guess because I only cry when I have good reason; typically I'm more logical than emotional. I suck it up and get on with the task at hand. But with this man, it almost ended right there. I decided to give him another chance, hoping the crying jag was a temporary aberration. And, what do you know, here we were: The Crier, Part 2.
He was upset because apparently he had a bad conversation and then argument with his teenaged daughter, who lived with her mother. His daughter thought he was a loser. His sister thought he was a loser. Maybe he should just take his father's Glock and end it all, free everyone from their misery.
I don't have a problem with sensitive men, but come on. What the hell was he crying about? He was here to help me pack and give me support. I was feeling completely overwhelmed; my daughter had left for college, and I missed her. I was getting ready to move and had a house full of stuff to sort, pack, discard. He said, "I don't want anyone else to be here. I just can't handle seeing anyone else this weekend. It's a good thing that you got home when you did, because ten minutes later, I would have been gone." I thought, "Oh jeeze. Get a f&@king grip." What I said was, "I really need your help. If you can't do that, then maybe you should just go." I'm sure my disgust showed in my face. He went.
Character speaks volumes. Or lack, thereof.
About ten minutes later, I found the remains of what had been a previously unopened bottle of Chardonnay. It had a few drops left in it. The man had drunk an entire bottle of wine, then got behind the wheel of a car to drive three hours home.
Looking back on our very brief mistake, I realized he was always drinking, and it never showed. I once caught him having a beer at 8:00 a.m., which, when I expressed surprise and disgust, he said was because he worked the night shift and his internal clock was all messed up. At the time, I bought it, because as far as I knew, maybe he was right. I didn't want to examine it too closely, probably because I knew what I would find.
His leaving that weekend was the end of the relationship. Thankfully.
A month later, I was still getting ready for the move. The movers were coming the following weekend. That said, I still had a house full of stuff. I felt ahead of the game because I actually knew at this point what was coming with me, what was being sold, what was going into storage, and what was going to Goodwill.
One morning, early in the week of the move, I was at my office. A very good friend of mine was in my house, measuring furniture I was getting rid of to see if any of it would work in her house. She was upstairs in my daughter's old bedroom, when she heard someone enter the house through the family room. She knew this was nothing unusual, because people were always coming and going in my house. My friends, my kids, my kid's friends, you just never knew who would be there; however, I was at work, my son was at school and my daughter had moved. My friend is a very pretty woman, petite and athletic, with a quick smile and happy laugh, and she has bigger balls than most men. She grabbed a piece of my daughter's disassembled bed to use as a weapon and stepped with it into the upstairs hall.
"Who's there?" a male voice asked. She wasn't having any of it. "What the f*$k do you mean who's there? Who the hell are you and what are hell are you doing here?" "I'm -----," he said. "I came for my things." "I'm ----," she replied. He slowly climbed warily up the stairs, watching the piece of bed in her hand. She let him pass, watching him intently. Her pretty face belies the fact that she has the ferocity of a pit bull, one that never, ever lets anything go. I'm sure the silence between the two of them was deafening. This man was a puss. She definitely intimidated him. He got his things quickly and left. Passive-aggressive until the end, he left the back door wide open when he left. He and my cat mutually hated each other and I think he was hoping she would escape. That really pissed my friend off, since she and my cat adore each other. The cat actually just slept through all of this drama, since I think she sleeps nineteen out of twenty-four hours per day anyway. My friend immediately called me and filled me in. Then she proceeded to lecture me. This was done, as usual, at the top of her powerful lungs. This woman is a true friend, one who has always been there for me, and one that would do anything for me, but, really, she doesn't know when to just drop it. Especially when she is right. And I knew she was right. So I let her get it all out, because she needed to, and because I'm as good of a friend to her as she is to me. And, in this case, I deserved it, for letting myself be taken in. The woman has character, and principles, and she is not afraid to stand up for them.
So, that was the end of depressed alcoholic. Good riddance. I found out a couple of months later from a mutual friend that in his previous job, he came into work every morning hung-over. He would drink at least four glasses of wine every day at lunch, and return to his office completely hammered. Our tax dollars at work!!!
I sincerely hope he gets the help he needs. Still, I can't help but feel that yet again, I dodged another bullet.
As far as men go, I think sensitivity is a really good thing. However, there is a difference between being sensitive, and being a puss. Also, I really think it takes dating some men with issues to know when you find a good one. So, based on that, this will be my next personal ad: Wanted. A sensitive, intelligent man who is not a puss, and not an asshole. No mental illnesses, please, and no substance abuse issues. Long distance men need not apply. No whining or clingy behaviour allowed. Must love baseball, and like football. Must love my cat. Must allow me the freedom to swim, hike and weight train. Must allow me freedom, period. Also, please be prepared to adore me.
Believe me, I'll know a good one immediately. So, for that matter, will my cat. Maybe I'll just let her choose.
I had seen this crying and whining thing from him once before. One night after he had several glasses of wine with dinner, he started crying about how no one understands him. Seriously, maybe I didn't understand him, but my thoughts at the time were something along the lines of, "You have got to be kidding me. Please let this be temporary insanity." I am not completely unsympathetic, but I can't stand crybabies. Especially in men. Yes, I know that's not the right attitude, but I'm sorry, it's the way I am. I guess because I only cry when I have good reason; typically I'm more logical than emotional. I suck it up and get on with the task at hand. But with this man, it almost ended right there. I decided to give him another chance, hoping the crying jag was a temporary aberration. And, what do you know, here we were: The Crier, Part 2.
He was upset because apparently he had a bad conversation and then argument with his teenaged daughter, who lived with her mother. His daughter thought he was a loser. His sister thought he was a loser. Maybe he should just take his father's Glock and end it all, free everyone from their misery.
I don't have a problem with sensitive men, but come on. What the hell was he crying about? He was here to help me pack and give me support. I was feeling completely overwhelmed; my daughter had left for college, and I missed her. I was getting ready to move and had a house full of stuff to sort, pack, discard. He said, "I don't want anyone else to be here. I just can't handle seeing anyone else this weekend. It's a good thing that you got home when you did, because ten minutes later, I would have been gone." I thought, "Oh jeeze. Get a f&@king grip." What I said was, "I really need your help. If you can't do that, then maybe you should just go." I'm sure my disgust showed in my face. He went.
Character speaks volumes. Or lack, thereof.
About ten minutes later, I found the remains of what had been a previously unopened bottle of Chardonnay. It had a few drops left in it. The man had drunk an entire bottle of wine, then got behind the wheel of a car to drive three hours home.
Looking back on our very brief mistake, I realized he was always drinking, and it never showed. I once caught him having a beer at 8:00 a.m., which, when I expressed surprise and disgust, he said was because he worked the night shift and his internal clock was all messed up. At the time, I bought it, because as far as I knew, maybe he was right. I didn't want to examine it too closely, probably because I knew what I would find.
His leaving that weekend was the end of the relationship. Thankfully.
A month later, I was still getting ready for the move. The movers were coming the following weekend. That said, I still had a house full of stuff. I felt ahead of the game because I actually knew at this point what was coming with me, what was being sold, what was going into storage, and what was going to Goodwill.
One morning, early in the week of the move, I was at my office. A very good friend of mine was in my house, measuring furniture I was getting rid of to see if any of it would work in her house. She was upstairs in my daughter's old bedroom, when she heard someone enter the house through the family room. She knew this was nothing unusual, because people were always coming and going in my house. My friends, my kids, my kid's friends, you just never knew who would be there; however, I was at work, my son was at school and my daughter had moved. My friend is a very pretty woman, petite and athletic, with a quick smile and happy laugh, and she has bigger balls than most men. She grabbed a piece of my daughter's disassembled bed to use as a weapon and stepped with it into the upstairs hall.
"Who's there?" a male voice asked. She wasn't having any of it. "What the f*$k do you mean who's there? Who the hell are you and what are hell are you doing here?" "I'm -----," he said. "I came for my things." "I'm ----," she replied. He slowly climbed warily up the stairs, watching the piece of bed in her hand. She let him pass, watching him intently. Her pretty face belies the fact that she has the ferocity of a pit bull, one that never, ever lets anything go. I'm sure the silence between the two of them was deafening. This man was a puss. She definitely intimidated him. He got his things quickly and left. Passive-aggressive until the end, he left the back door wide open when he left. He and my cat mutually hated each other and I think he was hoping she would escape. That really pissed my friend off, since she and my cat adore each other. The cat actually just slept through all of this drama, since I think she sleeps nineteen out of twenty-four hours per day anyway. My friend immediately called me and filled me in. Then she proceeded to lecture me. This was done, as usual, at the top of her powerful lungs. This woman is a true friend, one who has always been there for me, and one that would do anything for me, but, really, she doesn't know when to just drop it. Especially when she is right. And I knew she was right. So I let her get it all out, because she needed to, and because I'm as good of a friend to her as she is to me. And, in this case, I deserved it, for letting myself be taken in. The woman has character, and principles, and she is not afraid to stand up for them.
So, that was the end of depressed alcoholic. Good riddance. I found out a couple of months later from a mutual friend that in his previous job, he came into work every morning hung-over. He would drink at least four glasses of wine every day at lunch, and return to his office completely hammered. Our tax dollars at work!!!
I sincerely hope he gets the help he needs. Still, I can't help but feel that yet again, I dodged another bullet.
As far as men go, I think sensitivity is a really good thing. However, there is a difference between being sensitive, and being a puss. Also, I really think it takes dating some men with issues to know when you find a good one. So, based on that, this will be my next personal ad: Wanted. A sensitive, intelligent man who is not a puss, and not an asshole. No mental illnesses, please, and no substance abuse issues. Long distance men need not apply. No whining or clingy behaviour allowed. Must love baseball, and like football. Must love my cat. Must allow me the freedom to swim, hike and weight train. Must allow me freedom, period. Also, please be prepared to adore me.
Believe me, I'll know a good one immediately. So, for that matter, will my cat. Maybe I'll just let her choose.
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