The Elementary School Years begin ...

 Today is a big day.  The last day of the preschool summer program.  Kindergarten starts next week. 

I am in a panic.  Not really because my baby is going to the big school, though there is a bit of that.  My panic comes from the fact that school starts at 7:30.  If you kid is not in their class by 7:30, they are late.  The school literally locks all the doors except the main front entrance at 7:30.  After 7:30, you have to walk your kid into the office, sign them in, and have them escorted to class.  If they have so many tardies, then the parents start getting in trouble.

The Minion operates on Minion time.  The more you hurry him, the slower he goes.  The only way to rush this child is … I don’t know, because nothing has worked.  He is a master time waster.  I can get him up at 6:30 and he can still manage to find enough distractions so that we don’t make it out the door before 8:30.

I am freaking out.  I hate being late.  It happens almost all the time now, but I still hate it.  It makes me crazy.  For years, if I tell POF we have to LEAVE at 9, he will be getting into the shower at 8:30.  It’s a wonder I haven’t gone crazy just from.  Throw in The Minion’s inability to be hurried into any damn thing, and it’s a miracle that I don’t have a permanent eye twitch.

Preschool was less structured on the time frame, less rules, less schoolish.  Now comes the big school, and I am having mild panic attacks every time I see a new schedule or rule list.  They seem to be endless and encompass every possible thing in the school. 

The class schedule.  Supply list.  Cafeteria schedule.  Cafeteria rules.  Cafeteria payment options, schedule, rules.  After care schedule and payment rules.  School handbook.  PIN codes.  Certain things have to be paid on certain days, in specific ways. You get this info from here, this info from there. It’s too much for my brain to take in while also processing that my baby is in fact going to elementary school.

I actually have a calendar to follow for the after care payment schedule.  They are open on certain holidays and breaks, but you have to register for those days in advance.  So each week there is some sort of note about registration beginning for a certain date several weeks in advance (election day, labor day, fall break, inservice days, the day before Thanksgiving, winter break, etc).  It’s complicated and confusing and Lord, help me not screw this up for my kid.

Tonight is his orientation where we find out which class he is in, meet his teacher, get any other info we need for next week.  He’s excited.  Curious.  A little nervous.  I am losing my shit.  I feel like I need to go into this thing with a calendar planner, spreadsheets, a few charts, some legal pads for notes, and a bunch of envelopes to put certain checks in for certain things, all properly labeled and sealed.

School play ... sure, AFTER you
sit through this PTO meeting.

I have already been warned about the PTO.  Those three letters strike fear in the hearts of parents every where.  There’s no avoiding it though.  Those cagey bastards hold the key to getting my kid’s PIN number.  And this number is used for every function in the school.  Sneaky.  So, I am forced to join the ranks of the PTO parents.  Say a prayer for me.

But next year, the fun starts.  First grade, everything has to be labeled with the kid’s name.  And I mean everything.  A 24 count box of crayons … Yep.  Every single crayon has to be labeled.  A 12 pack of markers … You bet.  Label the maker AND the cap, please.  This is the thing that nervous breakdowns are made of.

And what about next summer.  Dear God, the summer.  Preschool was open year round.  Now I have summer.  Where the heck do I put the kid for the summer?!?!?!  Aaaaand there’s that eye twitch I was wondering about.  Deep breaths.  I need a new subject to dwell on before I end up breathing into a paper bag in my office, while hiding under my desk.

The Fostering of Walter

We have been a dog free household for almost 2 years.  The Minion desperately wants a dog.  I do to.  But, I just haven’t been ready.  

I had my baby girl for 15 years.  She was my first kid.  And my sweet boy was with us for 12 years.  I just haven’t been able to imagine having another animal yet.  Plus, the last couple of years were pretty brutal.  Lots of care and vet visits and it was hard.  I didn't realize how much my life had come to revolve around the care of those two until they were gone.  After 15 years, it was nice to have total freedom for a change … no worries about staying out too late or going out of town, arranging for pet sitters or cleaning up messes when we got home.  It’s been a welcome change.

But I admit, I have desperately missed having a critter in the house.

So, sort of by accident, I ended up agreeing to dog-sit for The Boss for the weekend.  And it was great.  She’s the best dog anyway, so there were no worries about messes or her tearing anything up.  We broke through her well-mannered training and got her to sleep on the couch and on the bed.  It was fun.  She loves to chase the ball, and The Minion had a blast playing with her for three days.  I felt like it was a good test run to see how we would do with a pet.  I enjoyed it, but I was also happy at the prospect of getting my freedom back again.

Then came Walter.

Walter is … Walter has eyebrows ya’ll.  And an underbite.  How could I deny that?  It’s just not possible.

Walter belongs to friends of ours.  He is awesome.  Their landlord is not.  Crazy landlord = Urgent and speedy need to relocate.  This meant, for them, temporarily bunking in with the parents.  Not too terrible, except the stepfather is apparently a soulless monster that hates dogs.  I can’t even comprehend how that is possible.  But whatever.  So … Walter went from being an inside, hanging out, snuggling on the couch kind of dog, to being an outside, chained to a post in the yard kind of dog.  He was sad.  They were sad.  It was sad.

Our friends approached us about the possibility of providing a temporary foster home for Walter.  And, seeing that face, I really couldn't say no.  EYEBROWS.

The Fostering of Walter began.  

Walter is a sweetheart.  Walter has systematically destroyed my mini blinds.  Walter becomes a freaking champion show horse and bounds baby gates like Seabiscuit.  Walter likes to investigate the kitchen trashcan.  Walter’s favorite place to lay is across the back of the couch like a giant cat.  Leather couch + Walter’s feet = NO. Walter is a mess.  And Walter is awesome.

Walter will hip check POF and flat out run down The Minion to get to me when I come in the door after work.  I am his favorite person in the house, and I can admit that I adore that.  I've missed that.  But Walter also loves to cuddle with The Minion in the mornings and to run around the back yard like some sort of gazelle. He will, occasionally, play ball with POF.  Mostly he just sees POF as The Mean One that won’t let him do bad things like sneak scraps or sit next to me on the couch when I eat something, or be mean to innocent visiting critters. (Apparently Walter has decided that new house = new personality, so he's determined to prove he's a dominant badass.  Except, he's not.  Walter has an abundance of confidence and determination, and it's a bit misguided.)

The Minion LOVES Walter.  He knows that he’s temporary, and he’s excited about getting a dog of his own when Walter goes back to his family.  This wasn't planned.  And I am a Grade A Planner.  But it’s good.  I have missed the energy that a critter brings to a house.  I am looking forward to getting our own furry friend after Walter goes back home.  I don’t know what we will do about trips and schedules and all that stuff.  But we will figure it out as we go.  I am excited at the thought of being a dog owner again.

But I do still miss my sweet baby dogs something fierce.  And the idea of having another pet does break my heart a little bit.

Last night, we tried to make a friend for Walter.  Walter does not want friends.  Walter is the weird kid that would rather beat up his potential friends.  Walter tried to get all gangster on a nice little Maltipoo, the epitome of white suburbia.  Needless to say, Walter is still friendless, the Maltipoo thinks Walter is a major asshole, and I have my first canine foster parent fail.  

Walter has some social behavior issues. Because, as mentioned, Walter thinks he's Tupac now.  Walter is so very wrong.  Bless his little furry heart.

This is Walter refusing to look at me after the other dog left.  He knew he should be embarrassed by his terrible host dog behavior. 

A gentleman does not try to mangle his guest.  Usually.  We have rules dammit.  I don't have them written down exactly, but I can say with certainty that We Do Not Maul The Company is one of them.

It comes as a shock to absolutely no one with eyes ...

One of the girls in The Minion’s class has a mother that resembles me.  We both wear glasses.  We both have brown hair, worn basically the same way.  But that’s not really it.  The major similarity is that we are both larger women.  The kids get us mixed up.  Parents have confused me for her and vice versa.  It’s almost funny. Almost.

What gets me though is the look of terror in a teacher’s eye when a kid comments that he/she gets the two of us confused.  Because we all know that reason that they immediately see – and that is that we are both fat.  But the teacher absolutely does NOT want the kid to say that.  So she will frantically start naming off things that we have in common, trying desperately to distract the kid enough so they won’t blurt out the F word.

Part of me wants to just laugh and say it’s okay.  I know I am fat.  But I usually don’t.  It’s more enjoyable to watch them squirm and try not to offend me.  But this past weekend was a bit much, thanks to one of the grandmothers.

A month or so ago, I was at a classmate birthday party and the grandmother was there with the two girls.  Of course, she mistook me for the other mom, and asked me where the daughter was going to kindergarten.  I gently corrected her and told her that I was The Minion’s mom.  She seemed embarrassed and apologized and commented about us looking so similar.  Again, it was an awkward exchange because I know she wanted to state the obvious size thing but instead did the grasping at all other similar details thing.  It was amusing.  But …

This past weekend was her granddaughter’s birthday party.  And both of us were there.  And she just would not let it go.  Would. Not.  Every time I saw her she made a comment about how we could be twins.  And yes, we have the same hair color and our glasses are similar.  And we are both fat.  But beyond that, the similarity really ends.  I don’t know if the grandmother was just overcompensating for all her past mistaken identities or what.  But she was relentless.  Just would not stop about how many things we had in common, physically.  Except the obvious.  At one point, she was actually sort of following us around, babbling about it.  It was embarrassing.

After an hour of this, the party was finally winding down, and we both happened to be leaving at the same time.  She followed us about halfway down the drive saying “Bye Twinsies!!!”, and saying it loudly. Dear Lord, it took everything I had not to strangle that woman at that point.  I am sure she meant well, but damn lady.  Let it go for fucks sake.  Forever.

Now I can’t decide if it amuses me or just pisses me off.  Like if we’d both been super thin with brown hair and glasses, would she have had the same confusion?  Would she have made such a ridiculous deal about it?  For some reason, I think the answer to that is no.  Yep.  Not amused.

I realize I'm fat.  I won't get my feelings hurt if someone calls me fat.  It's more of an eye roll with a "duh". That's like insulting a old person by calling them elderly.  No shit, really? Like, that's the best you got? Seriously?

But I do really wish everyone would stop dancing around the issue, like the elephant in the room.

Post Father's Day Musings ... no pictures on this one, but definitely some big emotions. You've been warned.

Yesterday was Father’s Day, and we spent it with my dad, eating and swimming and having a really nice time.  Even considering that would have been laughable a few years ago.  You see, I have what some would call Daddy Issues.

My parents divorced when I was 5.  My mom raised me, with the help of my grandparents.  My dad had me on some weekends and holidays, and for a week or so in summer.  He wasn't exactly the lovey hugs kind of dad.  He could be harsh, gruff.  I always felt like I just wasn't quite good enough.  I had a lot of anger and resentment by the time I was a teenager.  And it just built and grew and it was yucky and difficult.

I made efforts.  I have a half-sister.  She’s ten years younger than me.  Born of my birthday.  Irish twins is what some call it.  I was not unhappy to have a sibling, but I wasn't really happy about it either.  I mean, damn, I don’t even get my own birthday.  She lived with him (and her mom), and I lived with my mom.  The age difference was just enough to make it awkward and we never really formed a sisterly bond.  I was hardly ever there.

Meanwhile, I went about my life, pissed off that she got my “happy family” upbringing.  I got a set of towels when I went to college.  She got a car at 16.  I would go over for Christmas and get maybe one or two gifts.  She had a mountain of them.  I was angry.

I sorta failed to see that I wasn't really being fair.  I had my own mountain of gifts at home under the tree from my mom.  And again from my grandparents.  But I was still bitter.  She had the dad that I always wanted.  The one that was there for school plays and weeknight dinners.  The one that took her camping and all that stuff that I never got.  That anger had some teeth, and it dug in.

By the time I finished college and started working, I rarely saw or spoke to my dad or my sister.  My dad’s voice had the ability to make me feel 6 years old and unworthy in about two syllables.  I HATED it.  So, I just didn't interact.  I missed my stepmother though.  She was always wonderful to me.  She never tried to take the place of a mom, but she made sure that I was loved.  She sewed me dress up outfits and clothes for my Barbies.  She made sure I got cards for holidays and all that stuff.  She was cool.

But distancing myself from him meant also distancing myself from my sister, and from my stepmother.  And also my grandmother.  I spent lots of time with her growing up.  I loved to go to her house and spend weekends, and she would often pick me up from my grandparents’ house and we would go do things together.  I remember she had a box of Legos at her house, and I would sit in the floor for HOURS, building things with those.  She made the best homemade pimento cheese, and this potato candy with peanut butter that was amazing.

I remember going to her house – the last time I did, in fact – as an adult.  She and I had a very long talk about dad and how we didn't get along.  She was sorry that she had missed so many years with me because of my strained relationship with him.  But she understood.  And she was cool.  It was probably the last time I saw her, though we talked on the phone a few times.

My stepmother passed away not long after my sister graduated from high school.  We communicated a LOT by email while she was sick, but I never went to see her.  She had cancer.  I don’t do well with emotional stuff and face-to-face.  I need a wall.  So email was good.  I wish I had gone to see her though. I said everything I needed to say to her.  She knew I loved her.  I knew she loved me.  But still.  I regret not sucking it up and being there.

After she passed away, I made a few attempts to connect with my sister.  We just have no common ground.  I hoped that as adults we could find a bond.  She’s my sister.  I love her. And we have built a relationship.  It’s not that strong sister bond that I never really knew I wanted until I was hitting 30, but it’s something.  And it’s better than it was.

I remember one day, I guess it was early 2000s, and Dad called me at work, on my birthday.  He said something about how I needed to be around more because he wouldn't be around forever, and that automatically pissed me off.  Then he said that he knew he hadn't been the best dad to me, but he had made peace with that, and I needed to get over it.  I hung up the phone without saying another word. And that was the last time I spoke to him for YEARS.  Just thinking about it now still pisses me off.  And it makes me angry cry.  

I still have Daddy Issues.  We will never discuss it, there will be no face to face, heart to heart.  Because I just can’t go there. Remember, I don’t do that very well.  I can write you a novel about it.  But don’t ask me to talk about it. 

I can make avoidance and denial an art form.  

Example:  My mom’s mother passed away while I was in high school.  It was sudden.  I was devastated.  Am devastated still.  She was … I don’t even have the words.  She was just the best.  I can’t even see the screen now because I have tears.  25 years and it’s still like it was yesterday.  And I still can’t go there.  At the time, there was no way.  I coped by denial.  I refused to go to the funeral home.  I refused to attend the funeral.  My mom was SO mad at me.  But she didn't force me, and I have to give her credit for that.  I know that wasn't easy for her.  And really, I should have been there.  For her.  But I just couldn't, not then.

I remember a trip to the cemetery after the headstone was placed.  I kept my eyes closed the whole way so I would have no idea where she was buried.  I didn't know for YEARS.  It wasn't until I was out of college and working and on my own that I one day had the desperate urge to know. I found myself in the office of the cemetery, sobbing and begging them to help me find her grave.  I go there quite often now.  It’s a peaceful place for me.  And I make flower arrangements for the grave site and just find my center.  But it took me a long time to get there.  And I still can’t talk about it without having an ugly cry.

Time passed.  And still I avoided my dad and all things surrounding him.  But I never wanted to be accused of not doing the bare minimum, so I always made sure I sent cards.  Father’s Day. Birthday. Christmas.  Always, even if we weren't speaking, I at least acknowledged that he was half of my DNA.  I found out that he had remarried again when I got the Christmas card and his girlfriend now had his last name.  I had a new stepmother, and I’d never met her.

My sister got married.  I didn't attend.  My sister got divorced.  I still don’t know why.  And I probably never will because I will never ask.  Hell, I don’t even think my dad knows.  We don’t exactly have that kind of relationship.  There are no deep secrets or truths.  I don’t know if we will ever get to that point.  If we are even able.

My sister had a baby.  I knew about it when I got the announcement.  And I was horrified. 

See, the baby was born in November.  And just a few weeks before, in October, POF and I had been costume shopping.  For the first time in years, we were going to dress up for Halloween.  And we went to one of those seasonal costume places that pops up.  We were shopping, looking for stuff, and I see this girl that works there.  She was cute, tiny with this adorable brunette bob, and HUGELY pregnant.  I saw her, and I thought, “Wow, she really resembles my sister.  But SURELY, I would know if my sister was about to have a baby.”

We found costumes, we checked out, and she just kept smiling at me.  And I smiled at her.  And we left.  I commented on how much she reminded me of my sister.  Then a month later I get the birth announcement.  And I knew.  HOLY SHIT.  That WAS my sister.  And I had no idea. NO FREAKING IDEA.  That was … well, it sucked.  And I was so damn embarrassed.  To this day I have NEVER mentioned that to her.  Because, she knew it was me.  But she never said a word.  I am still absolutely mortified about that.  I mean, who the hell doesn't know their own sister?!!? Not a proud moment, for sure.

I was acting as nanny for my college roommate and her husband’s best friend worked with my dad.  She had been to his house a couple of times for football game cookouts.  It was weird.  I guess he found out through their friend that I was the nanny.  He send the old reel-to-reel home movies of me as a kid over with the friend one day.  It was a surprise.  I had asked about them in a card before, but I didn't think I would actually ever get them.  It was a small gesture.  And I really didn't know what to do with that.  I was glad to have the movies.  I tried to send them back to him after I had a CD made, but word got back to me that he wanted me to keep them.  Okay.  I really wasn't sure where to go from there.

And then, a funny thing happened.  I got pregnant. 

Don’t get me wrong.  My mom is wonderful in so many ways.  And she loves being a grandma.  But her health is somewhat fragile and she just isn't able to be a running, jumping, climbing trees kind of grandma.  She isn't able to be there every day like her mother was for me.  My mother-in-law passed away before she was even officially my mother in law.  My father-in-law is not in good health, and he lives 14 hours away.  His relationship with the family is strained at best, so basically, my dad is the only grandfather that my son will ever know.  I wasn't really sure what to do with that information, emotionally speaking.

My sister’s baby girl turned one, and I went to the party.  I also made sure that my dad and stepmother were not going to be there.  Once I knew they were out of town, I was okay to go.  I figure that would be just too much for me to deal with at one time.  It was the first time we had really spent any time together in years.  It was all kinds of awkward.  Like, major MAJOR awkward.  By then I was 5 months pregnant myself, so it started a tenuous relationship between the two of us.  If nothing else, at least our kids could maybe grow up together and be friends.

Then, just before Christmas, my grandmother passed away.  I hadn't even really known that she was sick.  Just a few days before, my sister had texted me to tell me that she was in hospice.  She had stage 4 lung cancer.  I had been planning to go see her.  I got the text that she had passed about 2 am … I had been planning to go see her that day.  And I missed my chance.

Her funeral was on Christmas Eve.  We went.  It was the first time I had seen my dad in about 6 or so years.  It was a hell of a day for a reunion.  We didn't speak much.  He was glad I was there.  I wanted nothing more than to escape.  We muddled through.  I met my stepmother.  She was pretty great.  She invited us over for Christmas.  We went.  I was a nervous wreck.  They had a house full – her kids were in town.  I realized I had a step brother and a step sister.  I realized that I might actually kind of like that.  My step sister and I hit it off immediately.  Dad and I still didn't’ say much to each other, but I made it through. 

A week or so later, I went to my grandmother’s apartment to help them go through her things.  I hadn't even known when she’d sold the house until after the fact.  I wished someone would have told me, because there were things I would have liked to have.  But not even she thought to let me know.  I guess that shows how far I had really removed myself.  

There wasn't much left, but I took a few things.  And I have a photo album of pictures she kept of me, my life.  I never knew she tracked everything.  That was nice.  And my stepmother has some things that I know I will get someday.  It makes me happy every time I see her dogwood pattern dishes in the china cabinet at dad’s house.  I always loved those dishes.

And after that day, I realized something.  I had issues.  I might always have issues.  But my kid didn't.  So, I made a choice.  I would set aside my Daddy Issues for the sake of my kid.  I would let him have a relationship with his grandfather without any of my baggage.  It was terrifying.

We started a tentative relationship.  My sister and I celebrated our birthdays together for the first time since she was little.  We celebrated Mother’s Day together.  I still felt super awkward around my dad, and even now, 5 years later, I still like it best when I can use the husband as a buffer.  They get along so well, and that takes a little pressure off of me.  But I am getting better.

And let me tell you, the day I realized that I had essentially married my father was … a revelation.  POF and my dad are so much alike in so many ways.  It’s almost funny now.  But that day, when that realization hit me, was like the earth shook.  I had spent so many years avoiding the man, and here I had gone and married someone so similar to him, without even realizing it.  Huh.

About two weeks before I delivered, I had my baby shower.  My sister and my stepmother both came.  I give her some major props for coming.  She knew no one there except my sister, she barely knew me.  And yet she came.  And she met my mother, and she met my friends and family, and she had cake, and it was okay.  It was awkward, but it was okay.

They came to the house to see the baby a little over a week after delivery.  Dad held his first grandson.  I took pictures.  It was pretty neat.  Still a little awkward, but I think I might always feel a little awkward.  I think it’s me that makes it awkward for myself.  No one else feels it.  It’s all internal.  I still feel it at times, but it’s easier to push it aside now.

Slowly, over the past 5 years, we have built a relationship.  Those issues are still there, to some extent.  A few of those sore spots have healed.  Some probably won’t ever, but that’s more me than him at this point. I think.

We celebrate holidays.  We go over just to hang out and let the kids swim.  They take the grandkids to do stuff, have camp outs in the back yard.  It’s not as awkward any more.  I can actually enjoy being there.  I still like having the hubster there as a buffer, but I don’t have to.  When we get ready to leave, I can hug my dad and tell him that we had a great time and that I love him.  And I actually mean it.

I have let go a lot of my resentment of my sister, of their relationship as she grew up.  Yes, she had the dad that was there every day.  The dad that I never had.  The dad that I wished I had.  But … I still have my mom, my grandfather.   She lost her mom.  She needed dad more than I did.  And she had him.  And I am okay with that.  It makes sense.

And it has been totally worth it.  To hear my son say that he is so excited to go see his grandpa.  To watch the two of them play and have a good relationship.  To see him play with his cousins and watch him have a conversation with my sister.  To watch him hug my stepmother.  For all those little moments, all those memories.

I am so thankful that am able to give him that, with none of my baggage attached.

The one where I hate being stressed about finances

Right now I have less than $50 in my checking account.  The electric bill is due in three days, along with water, a student loan payment and a minimum on the credit card.  We are also almost out of milk and eggs.  I am a little stressed.

Some unexpected expenses came up, and we knew the next month would be tight.  Really, REALLY tight.  So, I should be prepared.  But then the battery in the van died, so now I’m driving the truck and that thing sucks gas like nobody’s business.

I’m sitting on $20k in credit card debt.  And yes, that’s my fault.  But it was accumulated over a period of years, and it was how we lived when we were both essentially unemployed.  It wasn't spent on extravagant things like vacations or big screen TVs.  It was spent on food and toilet paper.  I can manage the minimum payment each month.  And I still need it to buy gas.  That’s pretty much all I use it for now.  But that balance is still sitting there.  Because the minimum payment barely covers the interest due each month.  At this rate, I will never get it paid off.  And that means I can’t qualify for a home loan or a car loan.  And that freaks me out.

It also makes me anxious and angry.  We are good people.  We don’t live extravagant lives.  We try to help others when we can.  And so I have the thoughts … the jealous, envious, bitter thoughts that I hate even more than the circumstances.  Why us?  Why can’t we catch a break? Why do (fill in blank with name of friend/family member that seems to have such a greater amount of good fortune than we do) always just have luck and good things fall into their laps while we struggle and do without?

God, I hate myself when this shit runs through my head.  It’s so petty and it makes me feel like a horrible person.  But the thoughts are there. 

But here’s the thing.  I have a house.  I have a vehicle.  I have a job.  We do have cable and internet.  We do have cell phones.  The kid has more toys than he knows what to do with.  We do have food to eat.  And clothes to wear.  We have it so much better than so many people.

I know people who live literally check to check, moving money around to cover this bill this month, and that bill the next, always with bills late and things in danger of being cut off.  I know people who don’t have cable, or internet, or a cell phone.  Who don’t have more than one vehicle, or who have way too many people crammed into way too small of a space.  I am fortunate.

But still I am angry and frustrated and dammit, why can’t we catch a break?!  What this break is, I have no idea.  We aren't winning Powerball because I've never bought a ticket.  In order to get any sort of money, we would have to have a relative die … and I can’t exactly sit around hoping for Aunt Bitsy to kick so I might get a few bucks.  There’s no good karma that can come from that.

We work hard.  We do our best to pay our bills, ALL our bills, every month, on time.  We don’t spend things we don’t need.  Okay, yes.  We do go out to eat sometimes.  And if the boy has a really good week or two at school for behavior, we will get him a reward.  But usually it’s nothing over $20.  We aren't blind to our circumstances.  But that doesn't mean that I don’t feel like we are just digging this hole deeper and deeper and there’s no way out.

Our eaves and gutters need to be repaired.  One of our garage doors is broken.  The back door into the garage has a broken hinge so it hangs funny.  The flooring in the living room is coming up.  The wallpaper in the bathroom is starting to peel off.  The wallpaper in the kitchen has places that are pulled off from when the kid was little and saw a loose edge and couldn't resist.  The faucets in the tub and sink in the master bath drip … or in the case of the tub, there’s a small steady trickle. My front landscaping looks like something in an abandoned neighborhood where the weeds and bushes reclaim the houses.  We have WAY too much stuff, and not nearly enough room. And I just don’t even know where to begin.

So I don’t.  None of that can be taken care of right now.  Right now, it’s just about paying the bills and getting through to the next month without an overdraft or a declined card.  It’s survival mode.  It seems like it’s been that way for over a year.  Any mention of struggles to mom and I get a lecture about spending money and how she just can’t understand how that credit card could be so high.  That never helps, so I just don’t say anything.  Don’t get me wrong.  She helps us.  She helps us a LOT.  We wouldn't be where we are today, precarious though the finances are, without her help and support.  My family has kept us afloat through the worst of times.

Yet I still have those feelings of why us? Where’s our windfall?  Why can’t we ever get ahead? Are we EVER going to be able to have a nest egg? To be able to afford a vacation? Hell, to be able to afford a car payment if needed?

The future is equally scary.  We both chose career fields that aren't conducive to 401Ks and retirement plans and savings accounts.  We have no savings.  We have no 401Ks.  We have no safety net or backup plan.  It’s scary as hell.  And if I think about it too much, I will have a nervous breakdown.  So I just keep my head down, focused on one bill at a time.  One week at a time.  We will make it through.  We will find a way.  We ALWAYS find a way. 

I am so tired of always having to find a way and figure it out. I don’t want to be rich.  I don’t need a huge house or expensive cars.  I just want to be able to pay my bills and not be in panic mode 24/7.  I want to hear that the kid is invited to a birthday party and not have my first thought be about how we need to get a gift and where will we get the money for that?!

I think about getting some sort of side job for extra money.  But what?  I don’t have enough hours in the day to get things done now.  And what am I going to do?  I am a terrible sales person, so while the idea of all those “make extra cash on your own time, from home” sort of things like Pampered Chef or whatever sound great, the actual nuts and bolts of it would be horrible for me.  And yeah, I am creative, but I have no idea how to put the things I am creative at into action to make money.  Give me the tools and I can plan and research and nitpick it into amazingness.  But give me nothing but a vague idea and no direction, and I am dead in the water.

I want to have the kid in soccer or martial arts or send him to camp.  That’s just not our reality.  It’s not anywhere near a possibility. I don’t know if it ever will be.  Looking back on my childhood, I realize that there were a lot of years where we were technically poor.  But I never really knew it.  My grandparents made sure of that.  I never wanted for anything.  And my mom always makes sure that the boy has anything he needs.  But it breaks my heart to have to say “not this week” when he asks for a certain cereal or Popsicle or toy because we legitimately can’t afford it right now. 

Part of it is pride.  I went to school. I got a degree. I’m smart.  I work hard.  I pay my bills.  I’ll be damned if I am going to ask for help unless I just absolutely have to.  I hate it.  And the truth is, at this point, I don’t know what kind of help I’d even ask for.  Can someone please come write me a check for about $50,000 … no strings attached?  That’s not happening.  And I’m not holding out hope for some sort of intricately detailed plan for getting all our problems solved to come floating down from the heavens.  I don’t know what to do next.  I don’t know what tomorrow is going to bring.

I do know that I can’t give up.  And I can’t stop doing what I’d doing, even though it seems hopeless and fruitless at times.  I know that I am lucky, and have so much more that so many others.  I know that I will make it through, even if there are some bumps and bruises along with way.  And probably some tears.

At the end of the day, we do the best we can with the tools we have in front of us.  Tomorrow is a new beginning.

The one where I have anger and hate all things

Today is Friday.  And it is … not going well.  Can’t put my finger on exactly why, but it’s just one of those days where I am borderline nervous breakdown.  Everything makes me either want to HULK SMASH or sob hysterically.  Sometimes both.

Yes, money is a little tight right now.  And that always makes me a little more anxious and irritable. And I hate walking around with that low level of dread in the pit of my stomach every hour of every day.  But I can deal with that.  Usually.  Apparently, not today.

I woke up when the alarm went off at 5 with a headache.  Since the hubs had an appointment at 8:30, I knew he wasn’t leaving at 6 for work, so I reset the alarm for 6 with the hopes that I would wake up without a headache.  No such luck.  In fact, not only did I wake up with the headache still intact, but I woke up feeling irritable and angry.  Just Mega Bitch for no real reason.  And, that hour made me feel more tired and threw my entire routine off.  So, instead of being out the door – late as always – by 8, I was washing my hair at 8:10.

My hair is thin and fine.  I hate my hair.  I covet thick hair.  I have prayed for thick hair.  It just ain’t happening.  I mean, if I could change one thing about myself, it would be to have thick hair.  And that’s saying a lot considering I am overweight and not real happy with the way I look in that department.  Still.  Hair.  Ugh.  So, it knots up easily.  I use a nice wooden brush and I condition and I use detangler. Normally it’s all good.  But not today.  Today that damn brush got tangled in my hair three times.  And each time it was like some sort of intricate system of knots that only a sailor could manage.  By the third time, I was so out of patience for gently untangling it, that I just jerked on it till it came loose.  There’s probably a big chunk of hair missing on the side of my head, and I don’t even give a shit.  I am OVER it.

Then there’s the kid.  I love this kid.  Love him more than I ever thought possible.  But some days … some days he pushes all my buttons and puts me on the brink of apocalyptic emotional upheaval.  Like today.  He’s stubborn.  Gets that from me.  I know it.  I expect it.  I usually handle it pretty well.  He’s also independent.  Like me.  And I can usually take that too.  But some days … I get that he is flexing his little muscles of independence and pushing boundaries.  But for the love of all that is holy, that kid better learn to do what I ask, the FIRST time I ask it, or there’s gonna be bloodshed.  Probably from my head as I rip my hair out.

We are so late.  Saying we are behind schedule at this point is like saying Death Valley gets a bit warm in summer.  So, I ask him to please go brush his teeth.  Twice.  He finally wanders in from the living room and flops onto the bed.  I tell him we need to go, brush teeth and hair.  Now.  And he lays there.  I say, “Don’t make me tell you again.” He rolls around a bit.  He pulls the blanket around himself.  He stretches.  I am about to seriously put a hole through the wall.  With MY MIND. So, I take a breath, I ask calmly again.  He’s doing his stretches.  He will go in a minute.  I tell him he needs to go now.  Finally, after he seems in no hurry to get up, I get him by the hands, pull him up off the bed and point him toward the bathroom.  He starts whining about how he was “about to go”.  I swatted his butt and said that was the problem.  He should have already been in there, and finished.

He is of course doing the fake cry thing, which always makes me crazy, but today is like nails on a chalkboard to my already fraying nerves.  I hand him his toothbrush with the toothpaste on it.  And he refuses to take it.  Mumbles something.  I HATE mumbling.  So I tell him to speak clearly.  He mumbles again.  I ask again for clear words.  He does it in baby talk.  I repeat to speak properly.  Baby talk gibberish.

Oh My God, I am about to have an out of body rage experience.  What the fuck is wrong with this kid?!  Why is he insisting on being so damn difficult, when he KNOWS I am at the end of my patience and about to snap?  It’s like he does it on purpose.  In fact, I am 98% certain he does do it on purpose, just to see if he can finally drive me nuts.  The teenage years are going to be brutal.

Finally, I take the toothbrush and brush them for him.  Which is what he wanted to begin with.  I understood the baby talk, I just wanted him to speak like a freaking 5 year old.  Geez. 

So, I am frustrated and angry and just so over this damn day already.  I feel the tears start to form.  And dammit, that just pisses me off more.  I hate being an angry crier. I am trying to ask him why he’s being so difficult when I realize he’s giggling.  I look down, and he’s mooning me.  I look up into the mirror and he’s sticking his tongue out at me.  Normally, I would probably find it funny.  But considering I’ve been trying to get him to listen and follow instructions for two simple tasks for about 10 minutes, and he’s fought me every step of the way, I find NO humor in this.  So I pop his tail.  Once.  Not hard.  Just like I smacked his butt as I headed him toward the bathroom before.  Not a spanking.  Just a swat to say Hey, focus and get your shit together kid.  Well, naturally, he starts to wail like I have beaten him with a wire coat hanger.  And I am trying to ask him why he’s being so stubborn.  He knows he has to brush.  He knows we are running late.  He knows he had to follow instructions or I will lose my mind.  And he is not giving me any answers.  None.  He’s too busy making faces at himself in the mirror.

I am trying to have a serious ‘what the hell is the deal with your behavior’ this morning talk, and he’s making silly faces in the mirror.  WTF?!?!  At that point, I did lose it.  There was no stopping the tears.  I felt like I was having a total parental fail and something had to be seriously wrong with this kid to be more concerned with making stupid faces at himself in the mirror than he was about getting his butt popped.  He was just howling like a banshee about it 30 seconds ago … I was just at a loss.  How can this even be normal behavior?  Am I in fact raising some sort of sociopath?  Oh God, I do NOT have time to go down that road today.  Just don’t have the mental fortitude to deal with whackadoo train of thought.  So I shut it down.  Moving on.

I manage to get him out the door.  We get halfway to school when I realize that I didn’t even brush my teeth.  Gross.  Thank goodness I have a toothbrush in my desk.

I drop him off.  I head to work.  So late.  So over it.  Still feeling overwhelmed and anxious and angry and fighting tears.  I want to just say screw work, find someplace quiet and peaceful somewhere – like in a boat in the middle of the lake – and just sit.  And that scares me because I don’t do boats in lakes and there are snakes and how could I even for a second think that would be peaceful?  But that’s what I want.

I am here.  I am at work.  I am working.  I am still angry.  I still don’t know why.  I hope everyone just leaves me the hell alone today.  I don’t want to be here.  I don’t know where I want to be.  I know it involves quiet and nature sounds and being totally alone with no one saying my name or asking me questions or wanting anything from me.  I really need to learn how to astral project. 

And I totally still hate my hair.  But I am a little calmer now.  I am pretty sure I can get through the next couple of hours without crying or screaming at anyone.  I don’t feel like I am about to cry anymore.  I’m gonna consider that a small victory and hope there’s coffee.  Today is a day that calls for coffee.  LOTS of coffee.  And chocolate.  Oh, I would sell a kidney for some chocolate.  My wallet is empty, so no chocolate for now.  I can deal with that.  Surely.  It’s Death By Chocolate, not Death from Lack of Chocolate.  I think.  It could go either way at this point.  My emails are stacking up.  Time to lock this shit down and do the work thing.  I’m not very enthusiastic about that.  Some days being a grown up really sucks.

One of the partners just walked in.  Shit.  Just what I need.  Time to go out there and try to smile and pretend I give a shit.  Frat Boy is out.  Cheerleader is out.  The Boss is not here yet.  But loud obnoxious Howdy Doody with his little idiotically dressed Muppet self is here.  Loud as ever.  Today might be the day I tell him to fuck off.  Huh.  The prospect of that actually cheered me up a little.

What the world needs is a Jabba beanbag chair ...

As I may have mentioned, we have a sort of Star Wars obsession in our household.  And, I may have also mentioned how POF sometimes has some serious and totally hilarious jealousy issues about stuff.  Like having a dream about me flirting with some guy in a bar and being mad at me ALL DAY LONG. Well.

The other day a friend of mine posted this on FB.  This is an actual merchandise idea that Lucas decided not to produce.  There are quite a few actually, and just about all of them are amazing.  Like, they need to review that rejected file IMMEDIATELY and make some of this stuff.  But I digress.

I saw this:

This most definitely falls into the "Shut Up And Take My Money!" category.

I commented that I neeeeeded one of these.  Later that nignt, out of the blue, POF says this to me as we are sitting on the couch:

POF:  And one other thing.  You are NOT sitting on a Jabba the Hutt beanbag chair. 

I look at him like he's possibly lost his mind.

POF:  Besides ... he's the bad guy.  And he's slimy.  And he puts Leia in chains.  .............  No.  I will de-bean that fat bastard!

Me, now laughing hysterically, gasping or air.  De-bean.  Seriously.  The man would kill my imaginary Jabba beanbag chair rather than allow my ass to touch it.  He is a nut.  And I love him for it.

But I would TOTALLY wallow on one.  In. A. Heartbeat.  Because it's awesome.  And so it this:

And, naturally,  we would need this to go with it:

Oh Great and Powerful Mouse ... PLEASE MAKE THESE THINGS HAPPEN.

Just Google "rejected star wars merchandise ideas", and you will see lots of these super cool concepts that should be a reality.