Well, you'll never guess what...

Okay.

So I've waited a while to talk about this 'cause I wasn't really sure how much I wanted to put out there, but now...I needs ta vent something fierce.

Let's make a very long story short and say due to circumstances, Sludge and DeeDee are living with Hubs and me for a week.

Under the same roof. Our roof.

For a week.

I'll give you time to re-read those few sentences.

Now some time to let it allllll sink in.

Welcome to the hell that is my life.

I've kept it off the blog for a while because there are so many things that have lead to this moment that don't really need to be discussed here in my little corner of the blogosphere. I could really give two hoots about Sludge, but I've hesitated out of concern for Hubs and DeeDee. But since Hubs has seen how fuckin stressed I've been over the past few days, he's green-lighted me to speak about it, albeit as minimally as possible, here.

It was either here or a shelter for Sludge for this week. DeeDee was a no brainer - she could stay here no problem. Part of me, the nasty part, was of the mind that Sludge had to accept the consequences of her actions - why should I be the one to bail her out for fucking up yet again? Then the not-wanting-to-hurt-my-husbands-child part of me spoke up and asked how would I be able to look DeeDee in the face and tell her her mother had to go to a shelter and couldn't stay in our guest bedroom because I didn't want her to be here?

And you see my dilemma.

The good news is this is temporary. Seven days. Seven long days. I can survive that, right? I've faced more than three years of infertility, all sorts of other drama - seven days should be a piece of cake, especially when those seven days are spent on my turf.

Yeah right. Today is day two and I am in complete and abject hell.

She's not a terrible person. This is what I have to keep telling myself. She's not a terrible person. Say it with me, boys and girls...it'll help, really. She's not a terrible person.

But dear god is she socially inept and just a few sangwiches short of a picnic.

I can't even begin to itemize my litany of complaints. They're small, they're petty, sure...but they're mine. They're how I feel about the whole situation. And try as I might, I can't change them.

My biggest beef? Nothing new to you loyal readers, I've even dedicated an entire post to it months back. What I can't stand is people who refuse to take responsibility for their actions and actually do something to help themselves instead of expecting the world to just do things for them.

'Cause yet again, that's Sludge. Who found her her apartment and made all the arrangements with the landlord and shuttled her everywhere to drop of resumes - that he wrote, typed and printed up? Hubs. Who researched job postings and bus routes and school info and after school programs? Me.

Why? Because if we didn't, they'd be here for a helluva lot longer than a week.

Again I'm torn - part of me wants her to just fucking fend for herself. Find her own place. Find her own job. But the part of me that wants my life back will do anything - ANYTHING - to get her the hell outta here.

And the sad part is, all we're doing is feeding into her fantasy that people will do things for her. But I gotta tell ya - if it gets her out of my guest room sooner, I'll take up that battle later. When she's a safe distance away.

Sigh.

Breathe.

Two days down, five to go. I can do this....I can do this.

Welcome to your ringside seat.

And that's your daily dash. How's your diva doin'?