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fancycwabs: (Default)
Last night in lieu of going to Little Women rehearsals I went to watch the little cwab perform as unnamed cheerleader #4 in Disney's High School Musical at her high school. My life has remained blissfully High School Musical-free up to this point, and I was surprised to discover that the school in question had divided the population into distinct cliques of jocks, cheerleaders, brainiacs, theatre buffs, and skaters, when the school could have very easily lumped them all into the wider category of "spaz," or more precisely "persons who could be easily diagnosed with Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, for all their continued mugging for the audience and complete failure to sit still during a scene."

While there were cast members fully capable of belting out a tune, those members weren't cast in the leading roles, which were instead given to performers based on having the lowest BMI, a common practice in casting. Still, during the company numbers, when the show wasn't focused on the leads or Disney Channel modes of "comedy," the show transcended the inherent badness of the material and the poor casting choices and just let folks sing and dance, which, as a group, they did admirably.

I think the show only cost us $150 in program advertisements and another $100 in tickets for friends and family members who didn't show up to watch the little cwab have no lines. But she was excited for it, so we'll be excited too.
fancycwabs: (Fuck it)
Additionally, Mrs. Cwabs decided to just not come home last night.

Before anyone asks, I don't think the two events are related, except by the probability that it's one of her druggie friends who did it, which is at least a remote possibility.
fancycwabs: (Default)
After the Monday morning meeting, I got back to my desk and immediately received a phone call from Mrs. Cwabs telling me that she'd had a blowout and her spare was in the garage at home and could I please come take care of it. Went home, got the tire, changed pants and shoes, drove to the remote location where the Mini lay, changed the tire (cutting my hand on the steel belts of the bald tire that had blown out), noticed that the donut spare was nearly flat, remarked about this to Mrs. Cwabs as she tried unsuccessfully to start her car (dead battery), rolled her car forward, pulled around, jump stated her battery after several unsuccessful attempts, followed her to the gas station to put air in the tire, drove to Costco to order new tires, had hot and sour soup for lunch since I was out that direction anyway, drove back to work.
fancycwabs: (fancycwab-pink)
The little cwab is on her annual band trip--this year to Washington D.C. They left yesterday afternoon, and I presume they drove all night to get there sometime today.

This evening I received a text message from her:
What is S and M?

There was really only on response:
Sadism and masochism. It's not something you should be practicing on a band trip, and kind of unnerving for your father to hear.
fancycwabs: (Default)
  1. Last night we blocked (somewhat) the seduction scene in The Underpants. The woman playing Gertrude made a point of telling everyone she didn't mind being groped or anything onstage, which is good, as I'm apparently getting to second base.

  2. One of my lines in the show during the seduction scene is "Desire adjusts morality." I suggested that, translated into Latin, would be appropriate for stamping on any currency bearing the likeness of our current president.

  3. For realistic business networking instead of zombies and pirates, I've joined LinkedIn. Naturally among the first persons added to my contacts is my old professor at Georgia Tech, George P. Burdell.

  4. While googling my actual name doesn't turn up much interesting, googling "fancycwabs" gets some really exciting items (for various definitions of "exciting"):
    • A podcast of my voice post where I sing "Bakin' Cookies"
    • A joke about what a "New York Steamer" sandwich would be called if it had been invented in Cuyahoga County, from a page listing posts about the Cuyahoga County Library
    • A comment from Boing Boing under the topic "Spider-Man's Radioactive Spooge Killed Mary Jane!
    • A two-sentence review of an Amy LaVere album, snatched from here and put on its own page
    • Another comment from Boing Boing where I make conjectures about Reed Richards' intellectual capacity, putting the garage on the top floor of the Baxter Building
    • A twitter aggregator by subject called buzztter, which might be fun to play with

  5. Jones Soda makes fizzy grape candy. I can testify that it is both grape, and fizzy. For those who might be questioning my consumption of grape candy while on a diet, I suggest the following:
    • Each piece is 2.5 calories (that's US calories, Britons)
    • Screw you. Grape fizzy candy!

  6. They've blocked flickr here at work full-time now (it used to be accessible before eight and after four), so it'll be a while before I get around to showing y'all pictures of snow in Memphis, and of a barbecue sandwich I got at a cinderblock shack at the crossroads of Macon and Pisgah. I should note that the very best barbecue sandwiches in Memphis also seem to coincide primarily with places that also serve forties. Is that true in other cities?

  7. As predicted, we had to "buy the advertising" for the little cwab's High School Musical program ourselves. I don't know if that's a scam to eliminate royalty payments (which are based on ticket prices), or some other sort of scam, but between that and all the other incidental fees charged over the year, you'd think she wasn't going to public school at all.
fancycwabs: (Safety)
The little cwab got her license today. Best to just stay off the streets.

Probably sidewalks, too.
fancycwabs: (Default)
It hasn't happened yet, but I'm reasonably certain that in an hour or so I'll get a text message telling me that my wife won't be coming home tonight. If I get one at all.

If that happens, tomorrow I will take steps to file for divorce.

EDIT: As predicted, my wife didn't come home last night. I've talked to a coworker who's wife is a divorce lawyer, and I'll have a consultation with her either after work today or sometime this weekend.

I deserve better than the treatment that I've been getting, and I refuse to accept any more of it. She'll be able to stay out as late as she wants, and drink and smoke weed all she wants, and spend every penny of her own money on whatever indulgence she craves. But I'm not gonna sit at home and wait for her while she does it anymore.
fancycwabs: (Default)
1. Since October, she's "crashed" somewhere other than home over a dozen times. Prior to that, she might have done so once or twice in six and a half years.

2. During the entire run of A Christmas Carol, she made a point of giving a ride to one particular cast member. This is the suspected other party.

3. On a whim, I picked up her cell phone and starred looking at her text messages one evening. I caught a glimpse of something explicit from this other party just before she came into the bedroom, saw me with her phone, and threw a glass of water on me while she wrestled the phone away.

4. Once a few weeks ago, her phone inadvertently called me as she was driving down the road with the other party. I overheard her refer to the other party as "my darling" during an otherwise nondescript conversation.

5. She charged several hundred (if not thousand) dollars taking the other party out for dinner and/or drinks over a three-month period.

6. She has purchased a ticket to Burning Man, an event she intends to attend with the other party.

7. On a number of occasions, she's shown up to events for us with the other party in tow, arm in arm.

8. In her bio for Anything Goes, she duscusses her eternal love for someone going by the name of "primrose." In the other party's bio, she talks about loving to "fall asleep in the arms of her beautiful Lily of the Valley."

The evidence against:

1. She says she isn't cheating.
2. She hasn't moved out. Completely.
fancycwabs: (Default)
So I had to drive the little cwab to school today, because for some reason or another she refuses to ride the bus--I've never gotten the complete story on that, but that's not the point of this post.

The point of this post is to remark that she informed me that she's required to sell two advertisements for her program for High School Musical. Which was a secret code meaning that she expected me to sell two advertisements for her program for High School Musical, or perhaps to shell out the $150 or so (she couldn't tell me what they actually cost, but that's probably somewhere in the neighborhood) that those advertisements cost, in effect paying so that my daughter could have a bit part in a play. I was sleepy, and the evil side of me didn't register the information for a while, but once it did, the possibilities presented by such an arrangement came tumbling through.

"Could we sell ads to those companies that advertise in the back of the Memphis Flyer? You know, 'MEET SEXY SINGLES IN YOUR AREA'?"

"No, I think there's something illegal about that."

"Are you sure? High school kids wanna meet sexy singles, too, you know. Or their parents"

"No, we can't do that."

"I mean the ads would just sell themselves."


I dropped her off, and the options just kept coming: Cigarette companies with cute cartoon mascots, beautiful people drinking Bailey's, Babes Show Club, Vote for McCain or the Islamofascists are gonna blow something up. The possibilities for $150 (or whatever) worth of amusement are endless!
fancycwabs: (Default)
Last night, 'cause it was Valentines Day or something, we went to see the touring production of The Wedding Singer at The Orpheum, with dinner at The Majestic Grille beforehand. The production was pretty good; there were initially sound problems which started the show off with a fizzle instead of a bang, but those got worked out and the got things turned around, to the point where they got the Memphis standard Standing Ovation Just Because We Were Getting Ready To Leave Anyway.

But we couldn't leave. The cast (and folks at the Orpheum) had something special planned for Valentine's Day. First, they announced that the marriage proposal that had been on the marquee had been accepted and everyone else sit down so that the happy couple could get a little attention. Then they had a drawing for a door prize. The person seated in J101, a lovely young brunette, won the drawing and was asked to come on stage to receive her prize--flowers, jewelry, etc. Her companion, who looked old enough to be her father, accompanied her to the stage.

Mrs. Cwabs leaned over to me. "What do you think he found her in the phone book?" she asked.

Then he proposed. She accepted, everyone got weepy, and we went out for drinks.
fancycwabs: (Default)
Last night I got a text message at about 11:15 chiding me for not writing a lunch money check for the little Cwab and hinting that Mrs. Cwabs wouldn't be coming home. "Hope you had a good night...painting now..." is code for "I'm not coming home." At about 11:30, I fell asleep.

At 1:15, I woke up completely and ran the gamut of things to try to fall asleep again, with the exception of alcohol. I finally fell asleep a little before 4. The alarm went off at 4:30, and I reset it for 5:30 as getting more than two hours of sleep was more important than getting to the gym before work.

Over that hour and a half I dreamed that I was living in a large attic-like apartment with no windows, although light came in through slats in the walls. The space was probably a hundred feet long by twenty feet wide, and dotted with lounging and sleeping furniture. Someone had decided to use my apartment as a bed and breakfast, and strangers were arranging the furniture so that they could make makeshift beds for themselves, complaining about the accommodations but at the same time acting as if they were entitled to them. I went through the secret passage into the exterior hall, which was like a normal hotel hall, filled with people (some strangers, some known to me) clamoring to get to sleep in my apartment. I was dressed in my normal sleeping garb, which is naught but boxers.

Suddenly I was on a softball field, still in boxers, watching Mrs. Cwabs pitch a game on a team with her girlfriend (who may be more). They ignored me, then laughed and asked what the hell I thought I was doing there.

The order is probably mixed up--it was a flash of me in giant version of my old apartment, flash of strangers trying to arrange my furniture, flash of softball, flash of people I know standing in line, flash of hallway, flash of secret passage, flash of strangers arranging furniture, the way dreams are.

I've long held the belief that dreams are merely your subconscious mind's way of sorting the data you pull off the mental shelves over your waking time back into some sort of organization, filing it and putting it away. That doesn't mean they can't be interesting.
fancycwabs: (Fuck it)
As posted before, Mrs. Cwabs spent Monday night elsewhere

Tuesday night, she also spent elsewhere. She claimed that it was at least partially intentionally to hurt me, for saying that her spending Monday night elsewhere wasn't helping our marriage, when I called her to complain about it. I asked her point blank if she wanted a divorce, and she told me no, but that didn't stop us from re-hashing all the arguments about what a shitty husband I was and how much I deserved the treatment I was now getting.

Wednesday and Thursday nights she came home, but I have no idea when--I just woke up at one point and found her in the bed. Thursday morning I made plans, with her, for Valentine's Day. Fortunately they haven't cost anything yet (although I spent most of my American Express points on tickets to The Wedding Singer).

Friday morning I asked what her plans for the weekend were, so I might be able to make mine. She told me that she'd probably have a late night Friday, and a show to got to Saturday, but that she'd be at home Sunday morning before she went to another show and to rehearsal Sunday night. No mention of staying anywhere else.

Friday night she spent elsewhere. She sent me a text message telling me to "not be mad." I didn't respond.

Saturday she was congenial, via text message, asking how I was doing, seeing what I was doing Saturday night, etc. I responded civilly, not starting any arguments, but not acting as if I was happy. Saturday night she spent elsewhere.

I am so tired of hurting. I am tired of having to be responsible for somebody else's children while their mother goes out partying every night. I'm tired of being told that the house looks like shit, that I don't do enough to fix things, and having all the money that could be spent on repairs spent at bars (or maybe on weed--I don't know) instead. I'm tired of having my sense of responsibility and obligation keep me at home with kids who don't call me Dad, who cuss me out, and who are instructed not to listen to me. I'm tired of being in such a financial black hole that I can't even open a fucking separate checking account, and start separating things.

Comments blocked. I know y'all feel bad about this, and I appreciate the sympathy, but having a reminder of how terrible things are show up in my email inbox every couple of hours for a few days doesn't help. Thanks for understanding.
fancycwabs: (Fuck it)
Just got a text message informing me that my wife won't be coming home tonight.
fancycwabs: (Fuck it)
There's something unpleasant about watching your wife in the arms of someone else, and having her answer "well, I didn't know you were there" when questioned about it that's just delightfully gut-wrenching.
fancycwabs: (Default)
Separating finances, canceling joint credit cards, trying to make her aware of the situation.

I think, I think we've agreed to try to work on this instead of just calling it quits, but we're still separating our finances.

Thanks for all the advice, and all the positive thoughts, everyone. We've got a long way to go, in one direction or the other, but at least we're not ignoring the problem in hopes that it goes away.
fancycwabs: (Default)
I was off sick for part of the day yesterday, and while I was at home I installed some spyware removal software on our son's (our son comes to visit on the weekends) computer. While doing so, I checked his surfing history, and discovered (amongst the porn--he is a fifteen-year-old) that someone had hit the burning man site and checked ticket prices on the Jan 16. Today I asked her if she'd bought tickets, and she said she had. I am assuming she's bought tickets for herself and her girlfriend (who has gone before), whom I also assume has taken my place in her heart, and possibly between her legs.

I cannot think of a single reason (save my marriage vow, which I take seriously) not to file for divorce. Amy has shown no indication that she's interested in reconciliation, but instead that she just wants to stay at the house so our daughter can remain in her school. As soon as that happens, I'm afraid she's going to leave me, saddled with a ton of debt that she's currently charging up.

Any of you lawyerly types of folks who've gone through this before have any advice on protecting myself?

UPDATE: We've talked a little. She has an explanation for the ticket, at least, and still claims that she's not cheating on me.
fancycwabs: (Default)
Coming down with something. Hooray.

Mrs. Cwabs has been in a state for the last few months where I can't seem to do anything right, and has taken to denying me affection of any kind for a revolving set of reasons, including failure to perform adequate housework, failure to show adequate affection to the kids, failure to show adequate support for her staying out all night, et. al. I am concerned that there may be more to the story than she's letting on (perhaps another person), and that as soon as she figures out a way to extricate herself from our marriage I may be a divorcee. Suggestions that we attend counselling are met with the phrase that counselling will be of no use to us, because she already knows what's wrong.

Not sure precisely what to do--attempts to work out her LONG list of criticisms have so far met with no encouragement or reinforcement of any kind, but further distance. Concerned that there may be another force hard at work sabotaging our marriage. Expressions of this concern have met with non-denials, and the statement that she loves me, but is not in love with me, which is the romantic equivalent of "I hope you don't get hit by a bus."

Also concerned that I may be paranoid, and worried about a standard marital hiccup that we'll eventually get through. Mrs. Crabs has offered no reassurance of any kind.

Very concerned that I'm not able to talk to either of our families about this.
fancycwabs: (Default)
Tonight the sixteen-year-old little cwab told me that she couldn't see my car because my headlights were too bright.

fancycwabs: (Default)
  • The little cwab has Governor's School auditions in band and drama this weekend in Murfreesboro, four hours away, so Mrs. Cwabs is driving her there tomorrow night and hanging out while she auditions. I'm concerned that the little cwab may have but all her eggs in the "drama" basket, neglecting the instrumental skills (five years of playing the clarinet every single day kinda trump doing a play every now and again over the last two years as training) that would likely guarantee her a spot. Of course, like the fathers of all sixteen-year-olds, her father is an idiot who has no idea what he's talking about, so I can only hope for the best, and that she's adequately prepared.

  • I was reminded today of a 1992 memory where someone had mentioned a (thankfully false) rumor that Eric Clapton, of all people, would be composing the music for Alien3, which led to a spontaneous outburst of singing:
    You got me on my knees
    I'm begging darling please
    Darling won't you ease
    My worried mind.

  • Character and style discussions for The Underpants are underway. I may have already gotten myself in trouble by suggesting that the intersection of impressionism and expressionism, Victorian modesty and Edwardian opulence, conceivably found itself in the character of Lili von Schtupp.

  • After not playing in over a month, I've cancelled my World of Warcraft account. Naturally, I immediately want to play again--I'm paid up until Jan 26 if someone feels like a last hurrah.