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.

Some things never change ... but do I really want them to?

My sister-in-law moved last year.  She needed a change.  A new start.  So she picked her place and she packed up her kids, and she moved.  To a totally new place.  Yes, she has a cousin nearby.  But other than that – new town, new school, new job, new friends, new routine.  All new.  But she found her happy place, and I couldn't be more happy for her.

I find that move alternately fantastic and terrifying.

In a few months, my other sister-in-law is relocating too.  Hundreds of miles away.  It’s a good thing.  She’s happier than I have ever seen her.  But still.  Just packing up and moving to a brand new place.  New job, new schools, new friends, new life.  Scary.  And thrilling.

I can’t imagine packing up everything and moving to a new place hundreds of miles away.  Starting over.  Leaving family and friends behind.  It scares the shit out of me. 

Yet at the same time, I would love to do it.  Just once. Maybe.

When I was pregnant, the possibility arose that POF might have to relocate to Austin for his job.  We could have done that.  Could have moved.  Started over.  New everything.

But I couldn't.  Because I can’t leave this place.  I am tied here by family and friends.  Things I don’t want to leave.  Can’t leave.  At least not yet. 

Sometimes, like this morning, I think about it.  I imagine what it would have been like, to pack up and move to Austin.  I imagine what our lives might be like now.  Would we be better off financially, or struggling in a strange place on our own?  Would the kid love school as much as he does now, or would he hate it? What kind of job would I have? Would we have made new friends? How often would we come back here to visit, or would friends/family come visit us?

But then I think about all the other things that keep me here.  Wanting my kid to have his grandparents close by.  My friends close by. My whole life, my grandparents’ house was the one constant, my security, my safe place.  I want that for my kid.  For his kids.

I am in a constant state of conflict. About so many things.  Wanting to be carefree and able to pack up and move, yet feeling rooted and stuck to this place.  Wanting to have adventures, yet being terrified of the unknown. Wanting to be the girl who can go out on a moment’s notice, to somewhere unfamiliar, and be comfortable in a crowd, make friends easily, enjoy myself. But knowing that if I could be convinced to go, I would be hiding in a corner, avoiding eye contact and conversation, counting the minutes till I could escape.

I stop writing.  Re-read what I have written above.  And suddenly, there are tears. I’m not sure what they are for. Am I crying because I feel sad for that girl that longs to be free and fun-loving and social but just … can’t?  I don’t think so. I know who I am.  Most of the time I am comfortable with it.  So why the tears?  I’m not sure.

Maybe for the dream version of me. For what could have been.  Or might have been.  Or never will be.  For that adventure into a new place, leaving everything I know behind.  For the part of me that wants it.  For the part of me that is terrified by the thought of it.  For the part of me that knows it will probably never happen.

I will always be here.  Stuck.  Rooted.  The same.

Safe. Comfortable. Home.

Winter Wonderland

We finally got a dusting of snow over the weekend.  It was totally melted by noon, but for a couple of hours Saturday morning, we had snow.  As I tend to do, I grabbed the camera and set out to capture some shots of the winter magic.  Here are a few of my favorites.                                                      

 Walter caught in action.  He's like a deer, dashing around the back yard.

Here are shots of the trees and snow. I might have a bit of an obsession.

These last three I got just as the sun was really coming through the trees.  I saw spots for about 30 minutes after taking them, but it was totally worth it.

The point I am making here, is that 1989 was the shit

Watching The Minion run into school each morning is so adorable.  And it always makes me think about my school days.

Elementary school was undoubtedly the best time for me.  When everyone was friends with everyone else and I wasn't yet hyper focused on AP classes and scholarships and all that jazz.

But my favorite year of school was 9^th grade.  At the time, I went to a junior high, but the junior high thing was being phased out and everything was going to the middle school format.  We were the last freshman class.  We got away with all kinds of shit.

We were old enough to have power and be the rulers of the school, but still young enough that we really didn’t do anything too terribly dangerous or stupid.  Or at least my crowd didn't.  That I know of.

There was a rather large group of us that were friends.  My first and only time really being in that big group dynamic.  It’s just not my thing.  I’m more of a one friend at a time kind of girl.  But it was fun.  We had classes together and sat at a big long table together at lunch. Frozen Capri Suns and Teddy Grahams were the thing back then. And Guess jeans (though they never fit me right, so I always wore Levis). Pasta sweaters. Swatch watches (I was a Mickey watch girl myself). Big hair.  Oh Lord, the big hair. Mine was this odd orangish blond color thanks to a liberal dose of Sun In. 1988-89. The fashion was awesome and glam metal was mainstream.Every Friday night was spent walking around the mall for hours, seeing and being seen. The Good Ole Days.

I tend to block out a lot of stuff.  Most of high school is just a big blank, especially 11-12 grade.  I honestly do not remember more than a snippet of something here and there.  But 9^th grade, I remember.

I had a boyfriend that was MUCH older than me, and a VERY bad dude.  I think that was the only appeal truthfully.  People were scared shitless of him, and that was cool.  I spent just about every lunch hour of 9^th grade glued to the pay phone in the cafeteria.  Literally as my foot hit the bottom step into the cafeteria, the phone would ring.  He was diabolical like that.

 

I had big hair.  I was painfully sarcastic.  I wore a Harley biker jacket.  I smoked.  I cursed like a sailor.  I was definitely the rebel of the group.  People were intimidated by me, thought I was a giant bitch.  And I loved that.  Of course, I was also a straight A student in all honors classes and band.  Go figure.  I was a conundrum wrapped in an enigma.  In high school, I labeled this as being the band whore.  I was cool with it.  I didn't do drugs or drink or party.   I slept my way through half the drum line and a tuba player for good measure.  It was my thing. 

One thing that has always stayed with me is the sarcastic wit.  I’m not as quick with it as I used to be.  But man, back then, I used to just eviscerate people with words.  And much like now, I just did not give one flaming shit what anyone thought of me.  If you did not want the truth, then you should not ask me the question.  I was the friend that would tell you, “Yes, those pants do make you look fat.  And the color isn't that great on you either.  Also, what the hell is wrong with your make-up?  You look like a rodeo clown.”  Yeah, that was me.

This look here, yeah, it happened.  I never personally donned such hideousness (the fringe ... Sweet Baby Jesus, the fringe), but I remember seeing it with my very own eyes.

One girl in our group caught hell from me all the way through high school about her blue eyeliner.  Daily.  I found it just so personally offensive for some reason.  A small group of us got together and had dinner right before our ten year reunion.  As she slid into the booth and made eye contact, I looked right at her eyes.  And she blurted out, “It’s GRAY!”  I laughed so hard I almost peed.  Obviously my critique of her eyeliner choice left a lasting impression.  At the 20 year reunion, I figure she was probably quite pleased to see that while she was still tiny, I am not at least twice the size I was back then.  Some people get fat.  I’m one of them.  It happens.  It’s not really a big deal.  What I noticed was that she had on eyeliner that could only be described as Raccoon Style.  And it was not blue.  So, good for her.  Maybe she finally learned that blue eyeliner was not her friend.

Once during freshman year, the group got together and decided that I should no longer be allowed to be in the group of friends because I was just too damn mean.  They elected a spokesperson to deliver the news.  I don’t remember what I said to her in response.  I do remember that my life went on without a hitch for the next couple of weeks.  I didn't speak to them, didn't even acknowledge them.  I ate lunch, went to class, did my thing. Wasn't affected at all.  And after a couple of weeks, they graciously allowed me back in.  I still find that funny.  And even though I was “in” the group, I still didn't really participate with the group.  I was attached at the hip with my best friend, but the rest of them were incidental outside of school walls.  Even then, school was about school, not socialization.

For some reason that escapes me, our freshman English teacher was gone for most of the year.  We had a few substitutes before we got the one that was there long term.  He was a nice guy, but not really that interested in expanding our young minds.  It was more of a ‘highlight the key points of the lesson plan and then leave us to our own devices’ kind of approach.  We were good with that.  The school was what you could most simply describe as a split level.  And our classroom was on the second level.  It had a window.  The window opened.  Right out onto the roof of the school, right over the front entrance.  One day at lunch, several of the students got the bright idea to go out the window and hang out on the roof.  I don’t think they got caught.  And if they did, I don’t remember the punishment.  It was just one of those random acts that 14-year-olds do, and then feel like they've made some big statement.

I also remember someone getting the answer key to one of the tests and we all had tiny strips of paper on the inside of our watch bands with the answers.  I rarely studied and still pulled all A’s, so I just used it to check my answers.  But I remember him being amazed that we all aced the test.  Poor guy.

Same for science class.  We had those big tables with the black tops because we did lab stuff.  We sat two to a table. And on test day, the teacher would make us put our chairs at the ends of the table so we would be far apart and not cheat.  I never cheated.  But my friend and I did share a calculator and worked out an elaborate system of checking our answers against each other.  We still did the work.  And if we got different answers, then we’d both work the problem again.  The teacher watched us.  And he never could figure out how we always managed to miss the exact same questions.  Bless his little bow-tied heart.

I got meningitis and missed Halloween because I was in the hospital. That really sucked. Though my friends did come see me, I still hate that I missed out on the fun that year.

My best friend had a HUGE crush on a guy that played drums in band.  We were all friends.  He turned us on to Led Zeppelin.  He always wore Polo.  Somehow I ended up with a bottle of his Polo.  And in like 2001 when we moved into our house, I was cleaning out the shelf in our headboard and found that bottle.  I have no idea why I had kept it, but there it was. Some good memories there.

Sometimes it’s nice to take that stroll down memory lane.  But it’s always best to come back to the present.  Who I was then, definitely shaped who I am today.  I’m older.  Better.  And I still don’t give a shit what anyone else thinks.