Vodka and Tylenol

Ron is teaching me to live without him. 

Allow me to explain, I have had a fire ant issue in my bedroom.  They get in my clothes and bite me (ever had a fire ant in your bra?), or bite me when I step on them, walking around (that, I understand).  Last night they were particularly bad. 

I broke organic training (as a rule, I don't use chemicals in the yard) for fire ants.  I used some sweet-smelling "Ortho" product, and some rubber gloves to protect my hands from the pesticide.  If people actually read the label on their pesticides, they would never use them.  So, I did that.  I even put some pesticide on a paper plate, on their "highway" so hopefully the ones in my bedroom will die faster. 

Ron lived through the night.  Drinking alcohol right after the pain reliever (that didn't work) wore off didn't kill him.  He swears the only thing that works on his leg pain is vodka and Tylenol.   I am sure the Tylenol people are just curdling over this, you don't mix alcohol and Tylenol!  Ever!  He made messes, he made noise, he woke me up repeatedly but he wasn't abusive.  Yes, he was.  Doing all that is abusive.  He didn't castigate me. 

I got up and took my shower.  I did my God Time, as Ron interrupted me repeatedly while drinking yet more vodka. 

The other day, Ron told me he was proud of the fact that he sent Chuck out after a case of vodka as opposed to a bottle.  It's not "cool", it's not "manly", it's very, very, sad. 

Today has just been totally depressing, and I don't mean because I have depression.  It's just awful to watch this slow spiral.  Horrible to watch him clutching after Vodka bottles and becoming this angry, negative, thing.

Ron went to bed and slept for several hours.  I poisoned the fire ants, cleaned the front room, cleaned Torbie's litter box, did up my medication, ate, and took my pills.  Then I tried to take a nap but I couldn't sleep. 

I got up.  Biscuit was still sleeping on my bathrobe, looking adorable.  He is just so cute.  He has a thin coat of fur, that's just how God made him.  I guess he's more of a Houston cat.  He was rolling around on my foot and letting me pet him earlier. 

Ron got up and got not one, but two bottles of vodka from the garage.  "Why fool around?" he says. 

At least he is heating up something to eat; my psychiatrist told me if people drink without eating afterwards, it is easier for them to develop cirrhosis. 

Assuming we don't have it already. 

When Ron goes back to bed I will call my Dad.  I will not call my Dad with drunk Ron in the background interrupting and trying to steal the conversation.  It also keeps me from saying, outright, Ron was very drunk all day, how are you doing? 

Ugh.  My life.  That's the one thing I always swore to myself, that I would never marry an alcoholic.