Which Witch
Which flavor of witch am I? Am I a blue haired neurotic or a disabled veteran and retired construction boss?
My 65th birthday is approaching. That is one of the magic numbers for the Social Security Administration. There is paperwork I should be shuffling through both SS and the VA, but that *simplicity* is buried under a romantic eggshell pile that has me feeling it would be safer to enter a military war zone than that domestic war zone. I attempted to bring it up with hubs last night and. . . No doubt about it. He was a gated community executor talking to a caged, blue haired neurotic. I went off on him. Hard.
It has been 2.5 years since his rich father died. Longer since his literally blue haired mother died. She was actually the richer of the two, but her strict devotion to the "Stand By Your Man" philosophy made that an ugly fact. This particular Egg Shell Waltz started before we married when a poetic draft dodger met with a VA enabled college coed. It got seriously ugly around our 10th anniversary when the VA held my sons and I steady while hubby and I played separation games for a few years. It got uglier when hubs started considering his own retirement through financial advisors who insisted his little woman had a critical part in all that high finance. "Thank you for the youthenization, Pup. Good to know I still look fuckable." After his father died and left hubs to play executor for his substantial estate? ? ? That ordeal has had a huge impact on the entire family structure and provided many proofs that a rich man's death is far more important than a poor man's death. My brother and my mother both died while my husband was new into the executor shock and their headstones and the psychogriefs over estranged family deaths remain buried under those gated community eggshells. My year long funeral pilgrimage is remembered as a blue hair spa retreat, as is the 3 years of single parenting. There is no personal grief allowed in wifey's gilded cage. The blue haired fuck bunny is just an line asset in an executive portfolio.
Sweeping away that huge pile of eggshells as best I can for now, the disparity between the financial planning conversations I have as a mother/wife and a vet/construction boss remain psychotically disparate. That disparity seems to be even more intense in retirement than it was when I was constructo buff and all my fuck parts were still working. Now that I am old enough to be called, "Young Lady" with patronizing frequence, the old wife platitudes are PTSD triggers in addition to being romantically absurd. Guess how my fuck parts broke and forced me into celibacy here in my Golden Years. Yes, "Young Man," it is all to easy to imagine you as the pervs who declared my young-in-years "Young Lady" self to be woman enough to give you your testosteron boost. Thank you for the reminder of the child exploitation. The vaginal scar tissue is ? ? ? Young at Heart? ? ? here in my old age.
Banks and bureauracies are one of the places where I like to keep it simple and factual. I donae even like to approach them until I have as many of those facts and forms as possible straight. As of the FIL's passing, my VA records, et al were neatly encapsulated and discretely filed. They probably still are, but they have not been updated since hubby's executor duties landed on the bill desk 2.5 years ago. Those executor piles are intense enough that attempting to update files that hubby didnae like acknowleging the existance of back when he was still trying to get into my pants is ? ? ? give me a word for ^it^, please. For now I think I'll call it a waltz which is worthy of any financial loss and/or expense to avoid.
Which witch am I? ? ?
Sorting. . .
The good news is that, while it is far from resolved, I did manage to simplify the verbage far enough that Hubs and I were on speaking terms when we went to bed last night. Well. . . He was listening. . . I think. He at least wasn't trying to talk me into sticking to *his* facts. The night was punctuated with weird dreams, but I slept well.
Replies
The witch is a learned witch. That is neither good nor bad unless it is caged. Contact local vets with your info and meet to take care of the paperwork on both accounts.
is being a husband a genetic change? John and I planned for my demise but not his. He was way more healthy than I before the cancer. So when we knew that it would be he that would be the one, not much could be done and what we should have done years prior, might have made a big difference in how I am surviving now.
So do the do. Much can be done on your side yet not effecting his.
Age is such a bummer at times but I am glad to have met you in mine.
Hugs,
J.
"The witch is a learned witch. That is neither good nor bad unless it is caged."
Consider that one stolen, Jewells. The fancy flourishes of the gilded cage comfort the captor far more than the captive.
Funny how nature keeps thwarting our expectations. I'm playing the med park statistics to keep the odds in my favor that Hubby will go first. But doc. . . You PROMISED I wouldn't have to suffer the indignities of aging! ! ! How did I get to the magic Social Security age, to begin with? You PROMISED I wouldn't have to fuck with this shit! ! !
Sigh. . . Nature do have an infinite number of ways to thwart our expectations.
A decade or three ago I might have trusted a vet with these accounts. Not so since the advent of pet insurance, etc. The process by which insurance company lawyers muzzle and leash the healers is well under way.
The wilderness calls. . .
I love Jewell's description. It is so very true in my opinion.
Over the years, starting at eighteen, I’ve been asked what kind of witch I am, to which I always respond as Grey.
Financial discussions are an definite “egg shell waltz” with my husband & I. I have a careless attitude in a sense about money. It means little to me and has little value in my life. It is just a necessary evil. It nice to have but nothing in my world is valued based on cost. My husband is the financially responsible one, even though I do try so hard to be, and he is much better at it the majority of the time.
After 15 years of marriage, in this last year it has been the first time my cavalier attitude towards money has become a major issue between us. Before, even though I didn’t care a fig about how much money we had or what we had as far as materially valuable possessions, I never spent money on myself without his express permission if it was over $20 and even then it was difficult to justify spending money on myself. Spending money on others was a different story. But I still asked permission.
Part of the changes the recent PTSD has brought is impulse buying as an immediate source of distress relief when triggered. Though I’m making progress in curbing those impulses, it’s still incredibly hard to do.
Wishing you luck and sending support, Arfie as you work this one out.
Hugs & love!
I got bitch witch trademarked, so back off. . .
The fact that we don't argue about money is pretty high on the list of reasons my hubby and I are still together. We dance well together on the bill desk. This waltz round wasnae about money. Impulse spending isnae in my baggage car. Not even *I* get all the problems.
Sorry you suffer the burden. It is a tough addiction.
Whether or not my combat boots belong at *his* company party or his poetic draft dodger rhetoric belong at my Vet meetups is an entirely different dance. Is it ironic that he never corrects the bankers, etc., who see the veteran benefits and thank him for his service?
Hubs and I dance well on the bill desk, but ? ? ? Do I go to my own retirement party as GI Jane or June Cleaver? Do I get to decide or do we egg shell another round? Do you remember what you married, Dear?
Thank you for the wishes and support, Mighty River. Every mighty river has its whitewater strips.
Hugs Arfie!
You have blue hair? Freaking cool!
I got this answer if you arfie don't mine, I guess once I tell it you will have the opportunity to correct my memory of your information for my enlightenment.
Sorry Chris (Did I spell that right) (oh well)... arfie doesn't have cool blue hair unless standing next to a bright blue wall that is reflected onto her silvering gray hair... She told me that the term Blue haired old lady comes from the fact that if hair was over dyed in the old days it would sit on the hair in a blue hue. I am sure she does not dye her hair at all but her MIL, Hubby's mother did in that era. It is freaking cool that she wears her hair to suit herself not the fashion world.
triple hugs arfie. I hope it all gets sorted out to your benefit. Oh , no pun intended on that one truly. I do think you came into this world without hubby's opinion, and you served solo, so whether or not you retire GI Jane or June Cleaver doesn't warrant a second opinion from the Y chromosome unless you feel like making a gift of it to him. IMHO triple more hugs~
I'll pass on correcting the details for Chris's sake, Sis. My hyper-vigilance believes he's just setting me up for the Monty Python sucker punch. Thanks but no thanks. I've never seen anything Monty Python, but their fans bully enough that I don't want them in my brain.
Thank you, Dreamer. I'd like to go as myself, but. . . Works in progress. . . Why does partnership have to be so complicated? Sorting. . .