Tonight Ron's very defensive and angry. "I suffered too!" Now he wants me to tell him that he's hurt too????
I told him "I'm sorry you got drunk and attacked your wife and degraded yourself. I'm sorry you ran me off!" Then he goes off in a huff.
"You helped me buy it!" Yeah, and I'll never make that mistake again. What inspired this? He wants me to buy him another wine box tomorrow. I said, fine. I'll be happy to do it, per the terms of our contract. You'll get your next one Nov 10.
He said, every month. I said, yes, every 30 days. I am not going down the road of buying wine boxes close together, especially when I'm still looking at bruises! That's when he went to he suffered too... etc.
On the one hand, I'm boiling with anger. On the other, I'm just filled with this endless pit of pain and despair.
Oh, speaking of hopeless and despair, I had this conversation at work yesterday:
Heather: Taking out the dumpster at the far dock.
S - a postal worker who knows us
S: Hey, Heather, it's good to see you! [He walks up to me] Hey, what's that on your arm?
I told him, and showed him the bruises on my arm and leg.
H: I got these last Sunday.
S: So he was drinking?
H: Yes.
S: Were you nagging him? What were you doing when he got you?
H: I was sitting in the other room, talking to my sister.
S: Oh, 'cause if you were nagging him, guys hate that.
WHAT?
I was speechless. I still am.
Another postal worker was very kind. She is a nice lady and I like her a lot. "It's good to have you back, Heather." She asked me how I was doing.
"Ron told me about what happened."
"Oh, you mean this?" I could tell she was looking at the right bicep bruise so I pulled up my sleeve. Then I let her get a look at the whopper on my right thigh. I still sport a variety of finger marks and falling over things bruises as well.
She drew in a sharp breath, shook her head, and moved on. I'm glad people see them as sick and disgusting. They SHOULD be.
Then Ron was playing "confessional" with the sandwich delivery guy, we'll call him G (for gossip). When we came in Monday, Ron specifically called the company to let them know we'd be late (Houston's a big city). G. played dumb and showed up at the regular time.
Maybe he did it to see if I was with him, and our body language. I don't know. I did know that with the juicy tantalizing info Ron had given him, he'd be all over us like a pit bull on hamburger. So I had told Ron on the way over you deal with him.
As soon as we get out of the cab, he asks us do we pay for a cab every day to work. No, Metrolift uses cabs. Then I went inside.
When I came out with the boxes, cart, check, and pen (you'd think for over $100 a week in orders, they could loan me a pen?), G. seemed happy and full of gossip. Satiated, that's the word.
When I overheard Ron playing true confessions, he made a big point of mentioned that "I helped him buy it." So, naturally, the guy asks me "So how much did you have to drink, Heather?"
I told him I never drink.
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