Entitlement Worries

My brain still scatters mightily when I contemplate the mess which is still bubbling at the Urban Homestead. Hubs is still holding on to every scrap of it like an executive in denial of what goes in to running a domestic show. Hubs seems to be feeling freer in admitting that there are flaws in his resume ready domestic portrait. but I grow increasingly terrified of going anywhere near the 3 man assumption factory. I've had enough "not working" fun for one lifetime. Add in the still growing stresses of the world league Boom Town and. . . Does I really have to go back there? Over the course of the STBX drama which placed the GKs in protective custody, I have found myself declaring myself divorced from Austin. I'll go back there long enough to pick up and drop off the GKs, but I reserve the right to vent about it. Woofity woof and an arfie arf.

Increasingly, I want to sell the Urban Homestead and roll the equity over into properties in a less inflated market. My motives are far less financial than emotional. With YS, his wife and 3 children due to be homelessness at the end of this month, my doomsayer habits are expecting entitlement wars between the two middle-aged sons over the 3 bedroom house Hubs is not using much any more. Both sons and their SO's have horrendous histories of property maintenence. ALL of them keep house like entitled brats who call housework, "Not working." Leave it. Mommy needs more hobby fun. She's been awful grumpy lately.

At present, ES (Eldest Son, 38) is sleeping alone in the Urban Homestead. I won't call his intense sleep schedule, "Living." Sleep is all he does. YS (Youngest Son, 34) sleeps there whenever the STBX waltzing with his wife requires. During last night's phone call with Hubs, he sounded much more ready to consider the possibility of selling the place as he reviewed the list of clogged drains, leaky toilets and general filth in the place.

There is a popular consensus among the social workers and mental health professionals who have been involved in our family case that neither of our sons will ever be able to live, much less raise children independently. Herstorically, I react similarwise to these prophesies as I did to the teachers, et al, who delivered the 60's prophesies for child prostitutes. Mom-a-kazi coming at you!!! INCOMING!!!! Get ye far from me, you doomsaying morons!!!

Still. . . 34 and 38 and they still can't pick up their own friggin' socks. The GKs are in protective custody while the parental units are being evicted for property damage. Establish their own suburban wonderland? Fat chance. . . Raise those GKs in the midst of adult child drama while we call raising children, "Not working?" Find another lazy woman. 

This not-so-merry-go-round is long in to the insanity of doing the same thing over and over while expecting different results. It is a tough measure of how many years it has been since I stopped playing my part in the drama while Hubs worked to prove I was not working all those years that I *did* play my part. For sure, my physical absence from the Urban Homestead has been fairly continual since Summer of 2016. I have visited since then, but have not stayed long enough to get the house back up to *my* minimum living standards. Even quick visits leave me with the hebegeebees of time in an environmental disaster zone. I felt safer camping in the termite infested toxic mold of post-Katrina New Orleans.

I'm fissuring here. . . Easy does it, Cap'n. It's allot to sort and none of us gets to know the future. Let God lead the dance.

Today's weather forecast is predicting temps in the 70's and sunny skies. Think I'll go paint the box room in the honey barn.