First week without the Dave

When no one's around you don't know you're crabby. Have you noticed this? You think you're doing just fine and then you run into a real live person and you tear their head off.

"I think I'm grumpy," I said to a co-worker, after I tore a colleague a new one.

"Just a bit," he said diplomatically. "Is it because they said your house is too small?" ('They' being the hordes of people who have been looking at our house but not buying.)

"YES. Those BASTARDS."

Our house IS small. It's a cabin, people, a CABIN. Right there on the listing it says it's, like 850 sq. ft. or something. On what planet is that considered large? OK, so maybe in Japan where everybody lives in kleenex boxes, but here it's small. So... knowing in advance that our house is going to be SMALL, why do people come look at it? Do they think it is going to be bigger in real-life than it is in the pictures? Are real estate showings like TV - where you gain 10 pounds? Only opposite?

There I am, scooping up the kitty truffles and the frozen dog poo and cleaning the toilet and washing the dishes and dusting everything including the bananas in the fruit bowl, and then the people show up and say our house is too SMALL. Well no shit, Sherlock. If it was bigger, it would cost more. If it was bigger, it wouldn't say COZY because cozy is a dead giveaway that the place is smaller than Granny's bread box. And yes, I mean bread box ... where ARE your minds tonight?

It's been exactly a week since Dave left. On one hand I am doing OK. On the other, I'm a complete mess. The house, though, the house is clean. Small, feck you very much, but clean.

Last night I was reading a blog post from my friend Lisa, the Square-Toothed Girl. I only dropped around because she grabbed me by the nose on Facebook and said, "HEY! STRANGER! I WROTE ABOUT YOU SO GET YOUR ARSE OVER TO MY BLOG AND LOOK!" Well, she didn't say that, not exactly, but close. That's pretty much the only blog visiting I've been doing is when someone leads me around by the twist in my knickers and says READ THIS. Either that or they miraculously appear first in my blog roll, because if they're not first, I'm too lazy/exhausted/depressed/anxious to scroll down any further. Anyway, I read what Lisa said and I started BAWLING. Like, you know when people write LOL? I was BOL. Ugly, blubbery blubbering. It was a good thing there was no one here to witness the debacle, except for the cats and the dog, of course. Fat lot they care. Long as their bowls are full, they don't give a crap. Well, that's not exactly true. They crap a lot. Big turd squeezers, is what they are. Like icing bags, only it's not icing being piped out their hind ends.

Note to self: stop writing about poop so much.

I miss you, Dave, and it's so much worse not knowing when we'll reconnect. It's all in the hands of the mysterious somebody who will love our house, smallness and all, and the suspense is killing me.