I live with my husband, our four kids, two cats, a guinea pig, a brand new kitten . . .
. . . and my dad.
My husband is my best friend, and he has been for many, many years . . . for much longer than we've been married, and for much, much longer than we'd been involved with each other in a nekkid way.
My older daughter is 15. She and her 14-year old brother -- my older son -- are (really) the only good things that came out of my relationship with my ex, and are two of the reasons why I drink.
My ex and I are much better off as friends than lovers . . . though recently he's become my tennent, which is a decision that I regretted almost as soon as I'd made it. He's another reason why I drink.
My younger daughter is 7. She and her 8-year old brother -- my younger son -- are yet two more reasons.
Let's recap, briefly: If there happens to be a list, and that list happens to be titled "20 Reasons Why Sarah Drinks", my four kids and my ex are reasons #16 through #20, in no particular order.
Reasons #1 through #10 . . . ?
My dad, who has lived with me for the past 5 years:
- My dad has COPD; specifically, he suffers with bullous emphysema.
- My dad has only one lung, which is nowhere even remotely near 100% function.
- My dad is an alcoholic, though he rarely drinks these days.
- My dad was an abusive bastard back when I was growing up, and I once hated him with a fiery passion.
- My dad is the most stubborn man (barely) alive.
- My dad is a mere shadow of the man he used to be . . . I mean, like, literally a shadow. He only weighs about 100 lb. these days, and he was once a man for whom buying dress pants was hell, because the size that would fit his waist wouldn't comfortably fit his thighs and calves, on account of how muscular they were.
- My dad often cannot walk the 20 steps from his bed to his bathroom, so I'm often emptying his urinal and/or his bedside commode bucket.
- My dad often cannot walk the 6 - 8 steps from his bed to the dining room table, so I'm often serving him his meals in bed.
- My dad often cannot walk . . . when he does, he does so slowly, painfully, and breathlessly, and he usually only does so when he absolutely must.
- My dad is dying a slow, agonizingly painful death . . . and I have a front-row seat.
- My brother (and his psychotic, cunningly manipulative, and mentally abusive wife).
- My dad's mother -- who is a cold, cruel woman, and for whom a special place in hell must be reserved.
- My dad's sisters -- who are the apples that didn't fall far from the tree, if you know what I mean.
- My mom and her siblings -- whom I love, totally and fiercely, but who drive me utterly bat-shit crazy (especially my mom).
- My husband -- whom I love with all my heart, soul, and body, but whom I sometimes think I shouldn't have married, because he is the youngest child of his siblings, and I am the oldest of mine -- and everyone knows that if you're an "oldest child" and you want to be taken care of -- rather than ALWAYS HAVING TO ACT THE ALPHA -- you simply DON'T marry a "baby of the family".
Welcome to my life.
Hop right in . . . the water is warm, but be forewarned that it might just be on account of all the piss in the pool.