He had the flu

My ex-husband is diabetic, and, he’s an alcoholic.

When I went to retrieve our daughter from his house the other day, he was having a diabetic episode again. I didn’t know he was back to drinking (he had supposedly quit), but, I know now. The beer bottles lying around everywhere sort of gave it away.

The last time he had our daughter overnight, she called me at 3 a.m. in hysterics, because he was having a serious diabetic reaction and he was talking and crying and telling her stupid shit and not letting her sleep. When I went and got her, I called his mother and she said he’d been fine lately, but maybe this was triggered by a bout of the flu he’d just had.

Then he claims to have had the flu last week, too.

Unless the flu virus is transmitted via Becks Dark, I don’t think so.

Diabetes + alcohol = The Big Stupid. He was in the hospital six months ago, and his sister told me he was down to 25% liver functioning and was on a liver transplant list (but his sister is a drama queen, and not above stretching the truth to serve her own purposes). Whether or not his liver is shot, he’s going to die if he keeps drinking. While it’s sad, it’s his choice, and as an adult he gets to make his own choices.

I thought once we divorced I’d be out of his sucky whirlwind of craziness. Now I can’t even sleep at night when our daughter is over there, for fear that I’ll get another middle-of-the-night panicked call and have to get her. I don’t think he’s drinking while she’s there, but if he drinks a couple of days before she goes over, it triggers the diabetic reaction. She only stays over two nights a month…you’d think it wouldn’t be that difficult.

He wants me to sign The Document, a fictional piece of paper he’s supposed to be creating that will let him move his girlfriend into his house, which is contrary to our custody agreement. And I’m considering it, because at least if she’s there, my kid won’t have to deal with his nonsense on her own. Besides, it’ll be interesting to watch that relationship implode as a spectator. What kind of woman starts dating a still-married alcoholic diabetic? Odds are ten-to-one that she’ll get sick of being his babysitter in a damn hurry.

Eastern Bluebird of Happiness

One of my odd goals is to be able to identify birds. It’s a pretty ill-defined goal, and not a very serious one, since I only think of it about ten minutes after I say, “Oh, that’s a pretty bird.” But about this time of the year, my yard is full of them. Maybe they’re migrating and on their way back north. Maybe they’re just hanging out here for the winter. Maybe my yard just has very delicious birdy treats. I don’t know. But, I notice them a lot more these days.

I had to take down the bird feeder because the squirrels were getting downright paunchy. And audacious, too. One evening I went outdoors to refill it, and the little rodents were lined up, waiting for the chow line to open. Plus, they’re messy eaters, and would spill seeds all over the place, which attracted their verminous cousins, who moved into my house. Ick. Cartoon rats are all good and well, but when the real ones move into your house and start eating your electrical system, the charm fades quickly. So my backyard birds have to make do with nature’s abundance, not mine.

But they seem to be thriving. Flocks of red-winged blackbirds cover the ground around the time sun sets. Yeah, rare bird, as rare as pigeons in New York City, but it took me several trips to my bird guides and the great Cornell website before I really believed they were red-winged blackbirds. With my birds, you can’t see the red hardly at all when they’re standing around feeding. As soon as they’re startled and take off, then you see the red, and it’s a glorious sight.

Today I took a friend’s daughter to the park for a walk, and we took the binoculars and spotted an eastern bluebird. He was very kind, and flitted about to different nearby branches to give us a good look at him. He was the bird celebrity of our walk. We saw cardinals and robins and sparrows, of course, but they’re easy. The bluebird? He was pretty special on chilly gray day.

A Gente de Minha Terra

I’m hoping, with that intro title, to get lots of Portuguese spam.  If you’re going to solicit spam, I always say, get the kind you don’t understand.  It’s so much harder to give away all your money to ousted Nigerian officials when you can only pick out a word or two of their heartfelt pleas.

Which doesn’t explain why I’m such a sucker for dogs and cats, since you’d think the utter lack of a verbal language would render it next to impossible for them to bend me to their will.  And yet they do, quite often.  Some of them aren’t even very nice about it.  The poor Nigerians use every flowery courtesy in the English language, and not a one of them has ever pooped on my bed, but it’s still Dogs: 55,017, Nigerians: 0.

Of course, mostly the dogs aim low.  A dog biscuit, maybe some leftovers, an extra blankie on cold nights.  I trust them to never raid my checking account, not because I think they’re above that kind of thing, but because none of them can drive, or buy stuff on eBay.    My oldest did have a fondness for twenty-dollar bills and my ex-husband’s American Express Gold Card.  But all she did was run around with money flapping in her mouth like a little green streamer, and put a hole or two in the credit card.  There was no actual financial damage.

They would work for me if  I’d let them.  Unfortunately, they have few marketable skills, other than the same skills you see listed as requirements for the girls on “Millionaire Matchmaker”.  They’ve got the silky, touchable hair.  They’re slim and leggy.  They are smart, but not smarter than me, they’re excellent listeners, and they would gladly move with me if I had to for my job.  The never ask me for anything outright, but graciously accept all my gifts.

I suppose this makes me their sugar mama.  Cool.