Summer means baseball and being forced to play well with others ... Yeah, I hate that part.

Well, hello there.  It’s been a while.  A long while.  So, I thought I’d dust this old thing off and bring something new for the masses. 

It’s summer.  And that means baseball.  I was never an athletic child.  I’d rather be in a corner reading a book.  But when The Minion started playing sports, it made me realize that while I have no desire to play sports myself, I am fiercely competitive and want my kid to CRUSH the opposition.  Fairly.  And with class.  But still.  DECIMATE.  So.  That leads us to today’s tale from the ballpark.

First, let me give some backstory on the other mom I will talk about.  She’s a foo foo fancy mom.  Her kid went to preschool with mine.  We definitely did not mingle.  We were polite.  But it was obvious we were not of the same social circle.  She’s a Talbots kind of woman.  Always perfectly coifed and bejeweled.  All crisp creases and linen and what’s trending in current fashion.  I am … not.  I am very much a jeans and t-shirts kind of girl.  Always have been, always will be.

She’s also a bitch.  You know the ones.  Loud voice, always taking over the room and ordering things done her way.  Which, in some instances can be a good thing.  But not all the damn time.  I get exhausted just watching her.  You know the type.  She sweeps in for the class holiday party, all decked out in her festive outfit, perfectly put together, with perfect hair and nails and sparkles and the expensive tote bag of goodies.  She pulls out the big bakery box and loudly tells everyone and anyone nearby that she TOTALLY forgot that she was supposed to bring cupcakes for the party, so she had a very dear friend that bakes whip these up last minute.  Then she trills that fake laugh that makes you want to stab her with a spork, and opens the box with a flourish.

Inside are petit fours.  Not the small bite size ones, but the big ones that would cover your palm.  And they are fondant covered squares decorated to look like presents.  There are sprinkles and swirls and metallic flakes.  Fancy.  With marzipan bows and each one has a candy gift tag with each child’s name written on it.  Everyone gasps and oooohs and aaaaaahs.

And in your head you are thinking, “Bitch, please.  Last minute MY ASS.”  And you just know that she put this order in at Thanksgiving.  At the fancy schmancy organic gluten free artisanal bakery that you hear is amazing, but you don’t know personally because you can’t afford $18.50 for one of those damn petit fours.  Well played, diabolical party mom, well played.  She’s casually implied that the owner of said fancy bakery is such a close personal friend that she would whip these up last minute just for her, even though it’s a busy season.  And, one look instantly lets everyone know exactly where they came from and how much this box of 20 petit fours cost, just in case there was any doubt about her large disposable income.

That bitch.  That’s who I am dealing with here at the ball park. 

Her husband coaches the team and she is the official scorekeeper and generally In Charge.  It’s obvious she’s used to being In Charge of everydamnthing.  She has this giant button that is always pinned right at her heart.  It’s a baseball with her kid’s name embroidered in it.  Damn thing is twice the size of a grapefruit.  And it’s hand-made, special.  Cost a pretty penny.  Because of course it did.

We’ve had a lot of rain, so our game over the weekend was rained out.  It’s been a week since we’ve played, and the last game we lost by 2.  Our kids are coming off of a week with no play, and a crushing defeat.  We already knew two boys would be out.  Then a third isn’t coming.  And it’s almost game time.  Suddenly we have a fourth kid that’s a no-show.  Can’t get in touch with him.  We have 8 players.  And it’s raining again.

Google.  Rules say that we have to have a minimum of 9 players on the field or we forfeit.  We have 8.  The umpire agrees to let us play the first inning, with the hope that the 9^th is just running late and will show.  This was very nice of him.  The whole discussion has taken place over by our dugout.  We are well aware of the rules and where we stand.  We take the field with 8.  The other team doesn’t seem to notice or care.

At the end of the inning, the umpire comes over and asks the coach if our 9^th ever showed up.  He tells him that no, we only have 8.  They again discuss the forfeit rule, and the coach acknowledges that he knows and understands.  No matter what happens in this game, we lose due to the forfeit rule.  Okay.  Let’s play ball.  The game is going dismally.  The other team has scored 8 runs on us in about 10 minutes.  Our best player – our home run hitter – is not playing today.  We struggle on.

We rally.  We manage to get into some semblance of our usual rhythm, and the score is close.  It’s 12-11.  We are proud.  We have 8 kids on the field.  Our two best hitters are not even playing.  They have a full team.  And we’ve managed to hang in there.

Suddenly, SHE takes notice.  Gets her phone.  Starts typing.  Then, loudly, so EVERYONE can hear, she starts reading the forfeit rule out loud.  Everyone is looking at her, even the umpire.  She continues reading down to the next part about how teams can borrow players from other teams, but only in advance.  And then, this bitch tells the umpire that she thinks we borrowed a player illegally.  That we “grabbed him from the playground.”

I’m sorry, what?!  Bitch has lost her damn mind.  I mean, if we were going to borrow a player, why the hell would we get only one, leaving us still one player short where we have to forfeit?  Not to mention, every kid on the field is in full uniform.  Where the hell did we come up with a complete uniform for a random kid?!  Absolutely ridiculous.  The game is delayed for a couple of minutes while she babbles on idiotically to the umpire about the rules and how she thinks we did this.  And finally, the umpire realizes he as some sense, remembers that we have 8 kids out there and have from the start, and that it’s completely ludicrous to assume we would only put 8 kids on the field if we were borrowing players because we need 9 to avoid the forfeit rule.  So it’s confirmed that our kids are our kids and not some random playground child and play continues.

Never have I wanted to have a win more than this.  I mean, yeah, we lose due to forfeit, but still.  That bitch would know that we really won.  With only 8 players.  And we would have kicked her teams’ ass with less kids and her team’s victory is therefore bullshit and only because of a technical rule.

Alas, it wasn’t meant to be.  Our boys couldn’t get it together on their last turn at bat, and they ended up beating us 15-11.  Which sucked.  But still.  We managed to get 11 runs in, without our best hitters, and without even having a full team on the field.  I was still proud.

But man, I wanted to give that bitch a hoof to the taco.  I didn’t say a word.  I took the morally superior high ground.  But I also silently wished that she got splashed by a car going through a puddle in the parking lot.  And I also wished that I had parked in the back lot so I could drive through all the puddles. 

Moral of the story:  Don’t underestimate the nonathletic, former band geek mom in the background, cheering on her kid in sports.  Her silence doesn’t mean she accepts defeat easily. She just might be competitive enough to cut a bitch.  Or a bitch’s tires.  

To write or not to write ... That really is the question.

I haven’t written anything in a long time. In fact, I stopped writing on purpose. 

Here’s the thing.  I like to write.  Or I used to.  People have always told me that I am a good writer.  I enjoyed writing my snarky little stories on life.  Then one day someone saw my writing and told me that they liked what they saw.  I was invited to join a writer’s group.  

I was a little intimidated.  A little in awe.  These were some serious writer people.  Some have published books.  Some have huge blog followings and huge FB followings.  Some have pieces appearing all over the Internet all the time. These folks are the real deal.

I began interacting with this group, and reading, and writing a few things.  I got to know them.  They are a different breed.  Writing for them isn’t something they do from time to time.  Writing is a passion.  A must. A definite need. A compulsion.  A calling.  It must be done.  They bleed onto the page.  The results are beautiful.

And I learned something.

I am not a Writer.  I enjoy it.  I am good at it.  But I don’t NEED to do it. That is not me. I don’t have to put words on a page.  There are no sentences and stories and words spinning in my head, vying for a way out.  

I purposefully stopped writing, to see if it would matter to me.  And it didn’t.  Not writing hasn’t made my life any better or worse.  It hasn’t made any difference at all. 

I am a good writer.  But I have no desire to be a Writer.  I don’t care if I publish pieces on websites or magazines.  I don’t care if I ever make money at it.  I don’t even really care if I write ever again.  That makes it sort of hard to be a part of a writer’s group.  I’ve toyed with the idea of leaving.  But I will stick around as long as they will have me.  I have met some incredible people there.  And I enjoy reading their words.  I can even say that some of them have definitely become friends.

Once I made the decision that writing is fun, but Writing is not something I aspire to, a weight was lifted.  I don’t have to be a Writer.  I don’t have to submit and publish and toil and agonize over it.  That’s pressure I was putting on myself, to fit into a category that I really don’t want to fit into.  

Writing is a hobby.  A sometimes thing.  But it’s not a calling.  At least not for me.

Maybe I will start writing again, with no pressure to submit or fit a theme or category.  Maybe I will never write another blog post again.  I am okay with either one.  The words will come, if they want to, when they want to.  Maybe.  One day.

When you find your tribe, love them fiercely

A long time ago, in a career field far away, I was bored one day at work.  I was on the Eonline web site, looking at TV spoilers, when I stumbled across the message boards.  There was this funny message threat about what happened at the office today.  I started reading and there were these pretty funny chicks on there, telling about the stupid stuff they were dealing with at work.  I started commenting.

Pretty soon, there were a group of us that clicked.  We decided to start our own thread on the boards.  The Super Cyber Friends were born.  Everyone got a nickname.  I became QoE.  Everyone chose a name.  We hung out together every day on the boards.  We became friends.  Eventually we became family.  Our own little cyber family of awesome.

Along the way we gained and lost members.  Some came and went without really staying long.  Others just didn’t click.  Somewhere in all the fun, we managed to collect a college guy who loved our brand of crazy and hung around to be silly with us.  It was the best of times.

It’s been a decade since we started our SCF adventure.  Today, we have a secret private group page on FB.  The core group is still there, including our college guy.  Except now he’s all grown up and graduated and being Dr. Eyeball.  We are supremely proud of him.  We’ve had some fights.  We had an implosion at one point that fractured the group and there was tension for a while.  But, eventually we mended hearts and got back to a happy place.

We’ve watched as those in the group finish school and get jobs and promotions.  Get married and have kids and build lives.  Moves across the country.  Divorces.  Deaths.  When I got married, one of my first phone calls was to one of the group to declare it official.  When I lost a job and posted something on the board about just finding out, my phone rang within minutes.  The troops always rally.  On June 6, 2006, my mailbox was flooded with cards that declared it Queen of Evil day.  I treasure them all.

One has a deep love for cheese.  Another an equally deep hatred of blueberries.  She even sent me a video once of her attempting to eat a blueberry.  It was fantastic.  Another loves to torment me about my dislike of The Evil Pink.  Anything I ever get from her is pink.  One year, I sent her a present, wrapped in pink, pink, and more pink.  It was painful, but it was worth it.   There are a few that sing with beautiful and amazing voices.  They can discuss classical arias or current hits in the same breath.  And nothing is as fun as the conversations that arise from our fascination with Jack the Ripper and Lizzy Borden lore. 

We vary in ages spanning three decades.  Some are in the medical and legal fields.  Several in insurance and education.  There’s a writer in the mix.  Her Opus.  I hope to read it someday.  Big cities, small towns.  East Coat, West Coast, and even the Land of Oz.  We are a crazy mix of personalities, and come from all walks of life.  Big city, small town, and everything in between.  We are all uniquely different, and yet we are all peas in a pod.

Two have become the best of friends.  They are the Thelma and Louise of the group.  They may live far apart, but they take trips together and it just warms my heart every time I see something with the two of them pop up in my feed.  Others have met up and visited with each other over the years.  I have had one crash at my house on a couple of occasions.  A couple of us went up to another’s wedding for a weekend.  I have met two others at separate times for a meal when they came through town.  Recently I got short notice that one was coming down for an event with her kids and we were able to hang on the weekend.  I managed not to cry when I saw her then, but I do tear up thinking about it now. 

These ladies (and one gent) are an integral part of my life.  We celebrate victories and mourn losses together.  Still, after all this time.  We share pictures and stories and an unwavering devotion to our honorary mascot, The Hoff.  We have inside jokes and things that we share because as soon as we see it, we think of the group.  It’s an amazing thing.

And I am determined that someday, somehow, I will get to spend time with the others, in person.  I will find a way to make it happen.  Eventually. But until then, we have the internet.  And email.  And phone calls or texts.  I think of them, each one of them, every single day.  

They are my tribe.  And this is my love letter to them.

Thank you, my beloved SCFs, for always being there.  For loving and sharing and celebrating this crazy life together.  Here’s to the last decade.  May we share many, many more together.

The tale no one really asked me to tell ... but I said I would. So here it is.

Yesterday’s Comedy of Errors

So, I promised a tale.  Here it is.

We start yesterday morning.  I arrived at the office at 7:30, as usual.  By the time The Boss got in and things really got rolling, we were getting lots of calls for our guy that works offsite, The Slow Talker.  He lives about 2 hours away, he’s VERY much a good ole country boy, and he usually checks in with me pretty early in the morning.  So, getting calls for him is rare.

The Boss tried calling, and only got voice mail, so he began to get pissed.  That’s one of his top pet peeves – not being available to take your calls.  So, I email and I try to call as well.  Nothing.  Finally, The Boss gives in and calls Slow Talker’s mother.  She’s ANCIENT.  She tells us he is in the hospital with a blood clot.  So now we are in ‘Oh Shit’ mode, scrambling to take care of his stuff because he is not just slacking, but really ill. 

Things have been super busy.  I totally forgot about that stupid follow up doctor’s appointment I had with the eye doctor. It was at 3:45, so I had to leave even earlier than I had planned.  With all the rain, we had a make-up baseball game to play, so that meant I was already going to have to leave by 4:30 to grab The Minion and make it to the ballpark on time.

My eye doctor is … thorough.  She’s all about a medical eye exam and not just a quick in and out.  They check all kinds of focusing and shit.  Tests.  So. Many. Tests.  My first appointment lasted over three hours.  And she’s a talker.  I am pretty much over it within ten minutes, but I do try to be nice because I know she’s just doing her very extensive job.  And both parents do have glaucoma, so I do have some things that need to be watched.

We all know about the whole off-center vase thing I endured (and if you don’t, you can go find the harrowing pic on FB, Twitter or Instagram).  I arrived at 3:30 for my 3:45 appointment.  I am the only person in waiting area.  

Still waiting at 4:10.  When I finally made it back there, I told them I had to leave in 20 minutes to make ball, and I even set my timer on my phone to go off so I didn’t get sidetracked.  They rushed through a quick pressure check and demonstrating these bullshit exercises I am supposed to do to get my eyes tracking and focusing and all that jazz the way they should.  

Whatever.  I got other shit to worry about.  I am 99.9% sure I will not be hitting the craft store for string and beads so that I can rig this deal to the door frame and practice focusing.  Broch String Exercise, my fat white ass. Not.Gonna.Happen.

I rush out, grab the kid, head to ball.  We (finally!) managed to get a game in without rain.  During the game, my phone buzzes for an email.  I have the joy of having my work email on my phone.  It was from Slow Talker responding to my morning messages.  He was in the hospital.  Heart attack.  Having a heart cath procedure done this morning, nervous about it.  Sorry he wasn’t able to call earlier.

I mean, damn.  He’s in the hospital, probably lucky to be alive (he had a stroke in 2011), and he’s sorry he couldn’t call.  I told him not to worry about it.  We had talked to his mom and it was all taken care of.

So I email The Boss to let him know.  And now we are at this weird place where he hasn’t been with us long, and do we keep him and hope he doesn’t croak, or cut him loose and look like assholes.  Because he’s not producing like we thought he would, and this remote working thing has been WAY more of a pain in the ass than anticipated.  Decisions, decisions. 

It went something like this:

QoE:  So, blood clot was really a heart attack.  Heart cath procedure in AM.  Apparently you picked one with one foot in the grave.  Nice.

The Boss:  I just hope his mom has the wherewithal to return our equipment if he croaks.

QoE:  Amen to that.  We can just send Coworker to get it.

The Boss:  I will enjoy hanging out with you in Hell.

QoE:  VIP section in Special Hell.

Now, in the middle of this little exchange, I get the official company email, with the subject line ‘Please Keep In Your Thoughts’:

“I wanted to let everyone know that Slow Talker, our newest addition to the company family, has suffered a heart attack and is in the hospital.  Our prayers go out to his family and friends as we all wish for a speedy recovery.  Thanks.  The Boss.”

I showed POF our back and forth, and then the official “please keep him in your thoughts” email that The Boss sent out to the company.  He was impressed by our ability to be terrible humans together while simultaneously presenting a dignified front.  It’s a skill.  We have it in spades.

Game over.  We rush to get home. As we are getting into the car, The Minion announces he has to pee.  There is no bathroom close by.  And we are in a hurry to get home since the guys are there waiting on POF to jam.  He says Hold It, and we take off.  I distract The Minion with talking about his day.

It was field trip day at Y Camp and they went to the bowling alley / family fun center.  They played laser tag.  He’s smitten.  In fact, I am pretty sure that his career choice has now become professional laser tag player.  He’s like the mini Barney Stinson of laser tag.  

We make it home.  He runs in, drops his ball bag, and runs back outside to see the guys.  Then he comes in and he’s doing the pee dance.  Instead of going to pee, he stands there, waiting for me.  Because apparently even though he’s 6 and has no problem tearing off to the bathroom alone at the ball park, when we are at home he needs an escort.  I told him to go.  Fussed at him to GO!  I was in the middle of starting dinner.  But no.  He waited too long.  And by the time he did make the mad dash, he was too late.  Peed all over his uniform, including his cleats, and the bathmat.  Fanfuckingtastic.

His punishment was to get thrown into the tub.  He’s on this weekly bath kick right now that’s killing me, so forcing him to bathe was killing two birds at this point and I was okay with that.  Extra bath, and he hated every second of it.  There were tears. Win-Win.  Then I had to do laundry to wash the pee clothes.  And take his cleats outside and spray them to try to solve the potential pee smell problem.  That combined with stinky boy feet would be too much to take.

Child clean.  Child fed.  Laundry done.  I throw POF’s gross work laundry in.  You know that it’s true love when you will pick up someone’s stinky, dirty, gross work socks that are still damp with sweat and take them to the washer.  I actually gag a little just thinking about it.  I love him.  I do.  Blergh.

I finally stop to eat my dinner (bacon and cheese grits. YUM), and naturally the kid wants to try it.  And loves it.  And proceeds to eat half of it.  And then asks for it for his lunch the next day.  Which is great.  He tried a new food and loved it.  I love that.  I just wish it wasn’t MY food.  I figure I will actually get to eat my entire meal on my own sometime after he goes to college.

Eventually, I was standing at the sink washing pans.  Because those fuckers seem to multiply when I turn my back.  I feel like I am ALWAYS washing a pot or pan.  So, I am scrubbing and The Minion comes into the kitchen.

Minion: Mama!  I know The S Word!

Me:  (mentally:   fuuuuuuuck.  Be cool.  Be cool.  BE COOL!) Yeah?  What’s The S Word?

Minion:  Shoot.

Me:  (mentally: thank you sweet baby Jesus! *heart rate returns to normal*) That’s right.  And we don’t use The S Word, do we?

Minion: No! (as he runs off)

And at that point, I was D-O-N-E.  At various points through this crazy day, I also negotiated the design and order of a birthday cake we need in a couple of weeks.  Spoke with my financial lady at the bank about some debt resolution shit. Cancelled POF’s dental appointment.  Talked to my sister-in-law about some family shit she needs help on. Spoke to my mom about some of our family shit that we need to deal with. And did my crazy busy job.  I was pooped.

Kid passes out.  POF comes in.  He’s frisky.  I’m tired.  He rubs my shoulders.  I deny his advances. He sulks.  We go to bed.  He wants to cuddle.  I want no part of it.  He sulks.  We sleep.

And here we are starting a brand new day.  The phones are quiet.  New Girl partied last night at a concert and hasn’t dragged her ass in yet – a first.  And I’ve had time to sit and write this.  So far, so good.  More ball tonight. Hopefully this time with less pee.

So, it's been a while.  I have been having a writing block of sorts.  Lots in my head, just no desire to put it out on paper or screen.  But, a piece that I did a month or so ago is running on Mom Babble today.

I am thrilled to have the opportunity to write something for them, and excited to share it with you all. So, if you have a minute, go check it out.  Thanks!

http://mombabble.com/2015/06/im-not-a-perfect-mother/

Being middle class isn't all it's cracked up to be ...

Over the past few weeks, there has been lots of fervor about food stamps with the whole $29 challenge thing.  There was drama.  People got all crazy. 

The problem we, as Americans, have with food stamps is that we simply refuse to admit who the working poor in this country really are.  We don’t want to believe that The Greatest Country In The World has a problem.  That its system has failed.  That the officials we put into office to help us are doing the opposite and serving their own agendas.  We aren't to blame.  It’s the “poor people”.  But … we are the poor people.

If most of the people that oppose government assistance actually went to a Dept. of Health office, the people they see would most likely surprise them. They aren't all a bunch of gangsters in gold chains and Escalades. They aren't all poor white trash meth heads with half a dozen dirty kids clinging to them.

They are normal people just like you.  You can’t look at someone and tell if they are on assistance.  We have this sense that, if you are getting food stamps, then you shouldn't have nice clothes or a nice car.  You should LOOK poor.  Needy.  Unkempt. Anyone that doesn't is obviously taking advantage of the system.  And that just isn't true.

I see plenty of people talk about how they work two jobs and can barely make ends meet, yet they make too much to qualify for assistance.  How they should just sit at home and do nothing and draw a check. And in some ways they are correct.  The system is flawed.  The middle class has become the working poor, and while we aren't making enough to get ahead, we are making too much to get help.  Barely making rent and keeping the lights on doesn't constitute a need anymore.  And that is where things are broken. 

Yet at the same time, those that do get assistance are not just sitting at home,  either smoking crack or pigging out on junk food or both, waiting for that money to come rolling in.  The people that are vocal about only getting $29 a week to feed their family also seem to think that the gangsters and meth lab moguls are sitting on the couch collecting hundreds of dollars a week from the government in assistance.  And that’s just not how it works.  We don’t want to admit that we, the mighty middle class, have a poverty problem.

Yes, there are those that abuse the system.  Those that cheat.  But for the most part, the ones that do get help are still barely getting by.  How do I know that?  Because I have been in that Health Department office.  I have seen the families there needing help.  And, for a while, I was one of them.

For a long time, I felt embarrassed when I thought about that.  Afraid to admit it.  Afraid of what people would think.  But fuck that.  I have worked for years.  I have paid taxes for years.  Then we hit a rough patch and we needed help.  We took what we could get, for as long as we needed it.  And then, as soon as we were able, we said thank you for the help and we don’t need it anymore.

I had a great job.  I was in my early thirties.  I had a college degree.  I was making almost $90,000 a year.  I was the primary breadwinner in the home.  And then, suddenly, I was unemployed.  Market changes.  Company downsizing.  Economy.  The woman in her early thirties with no kids, or the lady in her late fifties with an older husband, five kids and three grandkids, all of them depending on her … the choice was easy.  She stayed and my job was eliminated.  I understood that.

But I had never failed before. To me, this was failure.  Even though it wasn't my fault.  I sent out resumes daily.  For weeks.  Nothing.  Not a single response.  I was in insurance.  I branched out of my field into other possible openings: claims, sales, receptionist.  NOTHING.  The economy was tanking and no one was hiring.  I collected unemployment for six months.  I got about $200 a week.  It wasn't nearly enough. Luckily, I had a support system.  My family stepped up and my mom helped us.  A LOT.  She made sure we didn't lose our house.  That our bills were paid.  She kept us afloat.

I never got a single response on my resume.  I continued to send them out.  My college roommate offered me a nanny gig.  I jumped at it.  Unemployment was over and I needed a job. Any job.  So, now I was making $400 a week.  And that was still nowhere near enough.  We went from bringing in over $100,000 a year between us to making about $25,000 a year from my husband’s job.  My mom was keeping us afloat, but that couldn't last forever.  And then, I got pregnant with the kid.

My husband works in construction, so often, it is by the job.  Not all companies offer insurance.  You work for a year or two, then that job is done.  And you have to wait.  If you are lucky, you go immediately to a new site.  But, if the company doesn't have another contract, you have to go to another company.  His job had ended right after the baby was born.  His insurance went into COBRA.  That got us through the first year, but then we needed coverage. We needed help.

So we applied for food stamps and insurance.  We qualified. 

We own our home, although we do have a mortgage.  We own our vehicles.  We have nice furniture.  TVs with cable. IPhones. Nice clothes.  All that was because I had a good paying job.  And then I didn't.  But we still had those things.  We still LOOKED the same, even though we weren't anywhere near the same financially. Mom paid the bills, but we still had stuff we needed.  Baby stuff.  We lived on a credit card.  The balance inching forward.

But we had the essentials.  And every time I went to the grocery store, I was thankful.  Thankful that I got that couple hundred dollars a month to cover food.  But I was embarrassed to pull out that card and swipe it.  I felt like everyone was looking at me, judging me, KNOWING.  It was awful.  I didn't want to be lumped into the group of people that has nice things so must be cheating the system.

My mother sold the house I grew up in and gave us that money to help us survive.  I was able to stay home with the baby.  My husband went to school so he could try to find a better paying job.  Then the kid was three and it was into preschool and back to work for me.  We started taking over the bills again.  Got on our feet.  And said goodbye to food stamps and free healthcare.

Today, both of us together still make less than I used to make alone.  We struggle each week, living paycheck to paycheck.  There are student loans and a big credit card balance. Bills are paid, barely. But there’s nothing left over.  Nothing to save.  No trips to the beach.  No kitchen remodels. I've needed new tennis shoes for a year.  We have what we need to survive.  But we are still definitely a part of the working poor.

So we work, and we pay taxes, and we manage.  It’s not the life I imagined, or dreamed of.  But it’s good.  We have so much more than so many others.  And I am not ashamed of our time on assistance any more.  We needed it.  We qualified.  We used it for the time we needed it, and then we let it go.  That’s what it is supposed to be there for.  For help when you need it. 

Am I glad that we both have jobs now and can pay the bill and don’t desperately need the help to put food on the table?  Absolutely.  I am grateful for the help we were able to get, when we needed it most.

Do I sometimes wish that we still qualified so that we would have a little bit extra in the bank for new tennis shoes, or emergency car repairs?  Definitely.  Because it would help. So, so much.

But we don’t qualify.  We aren't on the poverty line anymore.  Except, we really are.  

And once, for a couple of years, we were on government assistance.  We weren't drug dealers. We didn't live on the bad side of town.  We didn't have big SUVs and Prada purses and flashy jewelry.  We were normal.  The same as we are now.

Yet we still tiptoe around the poverty line.  It's the line that the middle class doesn't want to admit exists.  Middle class means success.  Good job, nice house, car.  You've achieved something. Made something of yourself.  Middle class doesn't mean poor.  At least, not in our minds.  And definitely not in the facade we show others.  

We are firmly middle class. And we are still the working poor.  

so ... this happened today

http://originalbunkerpunks.wix.com/originalbunkerpunks#!How-Deep-Does-It-Run-by-Kelly/c1kod/F4ACA672-2353-411D-94A0-58935E9BA8A4


i wrote something.  it's live at The Original Bunker Punks site.  i'm kinda panicking.