This morning, I have:
- Re-upped on Dice and Monster.
- Signed up for the Harvard Business Review web site, which has a lot of good info and not nearly as much snootiness as expected.
- Applied for three jobs online.
- Gone out to the local food bank, only to learn they are open on Monday and Wednesdays.
- Sent a letter of inquiry to a technical writing agency.
- Began cleaning out my way overloaded email accounts.
- Had a snacky.
- Pandered to Gussy. I found him sitting under the kitchen heating vent, so I cleared out all the junk, put one of his beds next to the vent. Then I put a big pan of water on the stove to humidify the kitchen. Sheesh.
- Started a load of laundry.
- Avoided really looking at the house.
I was in a weird mood yesterday. I didn't know how to shake myself out of it, so I took a nap.
I am so cold all the time. I have the heat on 68F and I'm freezing. I think I need to drink more tea.
Oh, and insomnia has come bouncing on my chest in the morning. Wakey wakey! Rise and shine, campers! Heloo, wake up now! Are you awake yet? No? How 'bout now? Now? And because yesterday was so strange and so depressing, I have a to-do list that should keep me busy all day and well into the evening.
Alas, I have learned that there is no place in Jersey where I can sell my plasma. Pffft.
Showing posts with label whining. Show all posts
Showing posts with label whining. Show all posts
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Me vs. Fate
Or God.
This is pretty much just middle-class whining, so ignore at your leisure.
What I want to know, God, is when I get a break. Sure, I'll go along with...oh, say 80% of this mess I'm in being my own doing. However. There is another 20% that needs to be accounted for. And maybe it's the old 80/20 rule - if you can brush off the 80%, then the 20% must be pretty choice.
Honestly? It hasn't been easy. Stop, I know, it could have been harder. But really. Could you please cut me some slack, or has that rope already run out?
How was I to know the weird pinging headache that I've had for over a week was caused by allergies? How was I to know that Benadryl suddenly made me go face-first into a conference room table? Especially since my past experience with Benadryl has been like waving away a fly. Yes, I know when I went out to my car for a snooze that I should have put my Big Finance badge around my neck. I also know that no matter how clever I think it is, it isn't all that smart to carry my debit card piggy backed in the ID case.
I just took three bags of trash out of my car. Oh - have you looked at my car lately? At the bashes and dings and scrapes? Anyway, I didn't find my Big Finance ID. And I'm kind of sad today because I let down The Worried Man at Big Finance.
Anyway. Ahem. RCW and I used to say to each other, in sternly warning voices, "Don't fuck away the magic." I don't think I did that. I think I gave it away in handfuls to people who didn't deserve it.
The other day, I asked myself, if I had a ten gallon pail filled with magical stardust, what exactly would I expect to have happen if I flung it up into the air?
I couldn't think of answer.
It was like the scene in "Uncle Buck" when John Candy is trying to talk to his girlfriend, who won't let him get a word in edgewise.
I could save some mone - no. I could take a va - no. I could buy new clo - no. It would rain - no. My front steps would stop crumbling - no.
Well, I still can't find my ID. Or my ego. Or my superego.
I also figured out recently that with the Mom Voice In My Head forever stilled, the Annushka Voice in My Head right along with it, that I now have the grooming habits of a 19 year old American male in a frat house. And the cleaning habits, too. I never got to rebel. Oh, I shot my mouth off a lot but I was always home before ten, cleaned the house on Saturday mornings, started dinner when I was told to, did my laundry, bought and ironed (!) table cloths. And used them. Newp. You won't see much of that around here.
So.
The Benadryl was a mistake. Reading Little Bee, despite how wonderful the writing is and how grab you by your throat the story is, I still think it's a mistake. I was going to join a reading group, you know. Oh, it's a long list. Do we have to do that now?
One thing I do have in my thin and ragged bag of tricks is a flashlight given to me by a fire fighter. (Don't ask.) It is a magic flashlight because it always illuminates the lost and misplaced. I'll use that and if it fails me for once, will go through the necessary drudgery of getting my ID and my debit card replaced.
Okay - here's the deal. You can keep raining shit down on me, but save up all the magic for that day in October, okay? Is that a deal?
You never talk back to me but I suppose that's a good thing.
This is pretty much just middle-class whining, so ignore at your leisure.
What I want to know, God, is when I get a break. Sure, I'll go along with...oh, say 80% of this mess I'm in being my own doing. However. There is another 20% that needs to be accounted for. And maybe it's the old 80/20 rule - if you can brush off the 80%, then the 20% must be pretty choice.
Honestly? It hasn't been easy. Stop, I know, it could have been harder. But really. Could you please cut me some slack, or has that rope already run out?
How was I to know the weird pinging headache that I've had for over a week was caused by allergies? How was I to know that Benadryl suddenly made me go face-first into a conference room table? Especially since my past experience with Benadryl has been like waving away a fly. Yes, I know when I went out to my car for a snooze that I should have put my Big Finance badge around my neck. I also know that no matter how clever I think it is, it isn't all that smart to carry my debit card piggy backed in the ID case.
I just took three bags of trash out of my car. Oh - have you looked at my car lately? At the bashes and dings and scrapes? Anyway, I didn't find my Big Finance ID. And I'm kind of sad today because I let down The Worried Man at Big Finance.
Anyway. Ahem. RCW and I used to say to each other, in sternly warning voices, "Don't fuck away the magic." I don't think I did that. I think I gave it away in handfuls to people who didn't deserve it.
The other day, I asked myself, if I had a ten gallon pail filled with magical stardust, what exactly would I expect to have happen if I flung it up into the air?
I couldn't think of answer.
It was like the scene in "Uncle Buck" when John Candy is trying to talk to his girlfriend, who won't let him get a word in edgewise.
I could save some mone - no. I could take a va - no. I could buy new clo - no. It would rain - no. My front steps would stop crumbling - no.
Well, I still can't find my ID. Or my ego. Or my superego.
I also figured out recently that with the Mom Voice In My Head forever stilled, the Annushka Voice in My Head right along with it, that I now have the grooming habits of a 19 year old American male in a frat house. And the cleaning habits, too. I never got to rebel. Oh, I shot my mouth off a lot but I was always home before ten, cleaned the house on Saturday mornings, started dinner when I was told to, did my laundry, bought and ironed (!) table cloths. And used them. Newp. You won't see much of that around here.
So.
The Benadryl was a mistake. Reading Little Bee, despite how wonderful the writing is and how grab you by your throat the story is, I still think it's a mistake. I was going to join a reading group, you know. Oh, it's a long list. Do we have to do that now?
One thing I do have in my thin and ragged bag of tricks is a flashlight given to me by a fire fighter. (Don't ask.) It is a magic flashlight because it always illuminates the lost and misplaced. I'll use that and if it fails me for once, will go through the necessary drudgery of getting my ID and my debit card replaced.
Okay - here's the deal. You can keep raining shit down on me, but save up all the magic for that day in October, okay? Is that a deal?
You never talk back to me but I suppose that's a good thing.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
I Must Keep in Good Health and Not Die
Actually, I can do either. I can't do anything in between. I can't get sick. I can't get hurt. But I (preferably) can stay in good health or I can die. Anything else is right out.
I'm thinking of canceling my health insurance. I can't afford to use it. The money it would free up would ease my worried mind greatly.
When I went for my physical, the doctor wanted me to have an ultra sound done of my tummy. She wanted me to have an MRI for my back and hip. She had great aspirations for me, but the end result is that I haven't had any of that done.
And when I went to the gyn a little earlier, she wanted me to have a mammogram. I'm not having a mammogram. Because honestly, if there's anything going on in there, I don't want to know.
When I was updating the "Jingle" blog - actually, before that - it occurred to me that maybe I don't have ten years left. In a weird way, I hope this is true.
I was talking to my insurance agent today and he was nagging me about Roth IRAs and I told him, "I can't afford to retire. I can afford to work. I can afford to die. I cannot afford retirement." He laughed uneasily. No, I don't have life insurance with him. I don't have life insurance, period. What would be the point?
Of course, this all coincide with or is because of the medicine drawer running low to empty. I have to go this evening to pick up everything.
This morning when I got to work, exactly on time for once, I sat in my car in the nicely darkened parking deck. I leaned my seat back and I slept! For half an hour, but still, it amazed me that I could sleep anywhere other than the pile of mattresses with no peas under them.
Then later I was sitting at work and I realized why I have not been beating my brains out at work.
It's because I really don't give a fuck. Stock options, tranches, expirations, I really don't care. It's about as relevant to me as some rock falling into a quarry in Italy.
I realized that I haven't cared for a long, long time. Probably since Fezziwig & Co. made me walk Spanish down the hall. But I think it might have been earlier than that.
Maybe I'll care if I medicate myself.
When I see the young 'uns at work, when I see how fired up they are about dividends on expired options and how deeply they're into it, it's a nostalgic moment for me. I remember caring that much. And I remember what it got me.
No. Truthfully? I don't give a fuck. I only care as long as I can keep getting a paycheck. Maybe I'll care if I medicate myself.
I'm thinking of canceling my health insurance. I can't afford to use it. The money it would free up would ease my worried mind greatly.
When I went for my physical, the doctor wanted me to have an ultra sound done of my tummy. She wanted me to have an MRI for my back and hip. She had great aspirations for me, but the end result is that I haven't had any of that done.
And when I went to the gyn a little earlier, she wanted me to have a mammogram. I'm not having a mammogram. Because honestly, if there's anything going on in there, I don't want to know.
When I was updating the "Jingle" blog - actually, before that - it occurred to me that maybe I don't have ten years left. In a weird way, I hope this is true.
I was talking to my insurance agent today and he was nagging me about Roth IRAs and I told him, "I can't afford to retire. I can afford to work. I can afford to die. I cannot afford retirement." He laughed uneasily. No, I don't have life insurance with him. I don't have life insurance, period. What would be the point?
Of course, this all coincide with or is because of the medicine drawer running low to empty. I have to go this evening to pick up everything.
This morning when I got to work, exactly on time for once, I sat in my car in the nicely darkened parking deck. I leaned my seat back and I slept! For half an hour, but still, it amazed me that I could sleep anywhere other than the pile of mattresses with no peas under them.
Then later I was sitting at work and I realized why I have not been beating my brains out at work.
It's because I really don't give a fuck. Stock options, tranches, expirations, I really don't care. It's about as relevant to me as some rock falling into a quarry in Italy.
I realized that I haven't cared for a long, long time. Probably since Fezziwig & Co. made me walk Spanish down the hall. But I think it might have been earlier than that.
Maybe I'll care if I medicate myself.
When I see the young 'uns at work, when I see how fired up they are about dividends on expired options and how deeply they're into it, it's a nostalgic moment for me. I remember caring that much. And I remember what it got me.
No. Truthfully? I don't give a fuck. I only care as long as I can keep getting a paycheck. Maybe I'll care if I medicate myself.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Rosy's Ultimatum
I am yawning, trembling, and bleary.
Rosy looks at me. "What the hell is wrong witchu?"
I look at her. I tell her the tale of the parking lot. She giggles. "But what else?" Then she answers her own question. "Girlfriend, you are fried. You are done. You are a crispy critter."
I tell her what an astute observer she is.
"Yeah, well fuck that, when are you going on vacation? Aanh, don't give me that look. Another week of this and I just might have to put you out of your misery." (NB: This was not a terroristic threat. It probably involved copious amounts of Corona and tequila.)
I am miserable.
"You look fucking miserable."
"I am."
"I don't care where you go. Pick a hotel in Pleasantville and go there."
Oh no. The hoteliers of Pleasantville are my own Zagat-approved Trail of Tears.
"Pick someplace. Just pick someplace and go over night. The cats can live without you for one night."
During the day, I have fallen asleep in the parking deck, twice. Nodded off during a conference call.
At one point, I noted down all my symptoms and Googled them: Clammy, exhausted, trembling, muscle spasms and Google handed me back pages and pages and pages on anxiety.
It was 3:30. I was done for the day.
"Go home and sleep," she said. "And when you come back, you better have a reservation from Priceline in your hand."
And so I will. I have a place in mind in the country. All I require is a room dark and chill as a cave, soundless as one, too. And if it happens to have a very deep tub, so much the better.
Rosy looks at me. "What the hell is wrong witchu?"
I look at her. I tell her the tale of the parking lot. She giggles. "But what else?" Then she answers her own question. "Girlfriend, you are fried. You are done. You are a crispy critter."
I tell her what an astute observer she is.
"Yeah, well fuck that, when are you going on vacation? Aanh, don't give me that look. Another week of this and I just might have to put you out of your misery." (NB: This was not a terroristic threat. It probably involved copious amounts of Corona and tequila.)
I am miserable.
"You look fucking miserable."
"I am."
"I don't care where you go. Pick a hotel in Pleasantville and go there."
Oh no. The hoteliers of Pleasantville are my own Zagat-approved Trail of Tears.
"Pick someplace. Just pick someplace and go over night. The cats can live without you for one night."
During the day, I have fallen asleep in the parking deck, twice. Nodded off during a conference call.
At one point, I noted down all my symptoms and Googled them: Clammy, exhausted, trembling, muscle spasms and Google handed me back pages and pages and pages on anxiety.
It was 3:30. I was done for the day.
"Go home and sleep," she said. "And when you come back, you better have a reservation from Priceline in your hand."
And so I will. I have a place in mind in the country. All I require is a room dark and chill as a cave, soundless as one, too. And if it happens to have a very deep tub, so much the better.
Wednesday, June 09, 2010
The World is Too Much With Me and I Don't Even Have Cable
Haiti. Chile. Guatemala. Haiti. Guatemala. The Oil Spill. The mysteriously-neglected-by-the-news war in Afghanistan and Iraq.
I...I've just had enough. It keeps going on and on and I'm tired of hearing about it. I appreciate that I have the luxury of temporarily turning a deaf ear to it, but honestly, this is too much.
I think I need this thing - what is it called? - vacation? Yeah. Like that's going to happen.
I...I've just had enough. It keeps going on and on and I'm tired of hearing about it. I appreciate that I have the luxury of temporarily turning a deaf ear to it, but honestly, this is too much.
I think I need this thing - what is it called? - vacation? Yeah. Like that's going to happen.
Saturday, May 15, 2010
The Pain, The Pain
It's a beautiful day. We get about three of these in New Jersey every season. Today is bright and breezy. It's like a song by the New Christy Minstrels.
And this is one of those weekends where at least a hundred fascinating, fun, and entertaining things are happening. Why couldn't they spread these over a month or two?
One of the things happening this weekend - right now - is The A Capella Singers Annual Wing Ding. I am not there. I am here. I am here at my desk in my chair because I know those no-nonsense Quaker benches would hurt me a lot. And I don't link the singers with pain.
There are things I should be doing around the house. I am not doing them. I am going to take a Vicodin and read a Barbara Ehrenreich book from the library. The Vicodin might make me sleepy but the whiny Ehrenreich book will have me steamed up enough to stay awake.
I am in pain. Not the double-over kind of pain, just the kind where you think, if I don't move, I'll be okay. Where's the heating pad? Where's my maid? Why won't the cats do the dishes?
It's my back. And my hip. And my neck. Yes, I know. I need to see a doctor. I saw a doctor two weeks ago, who recommended that I have an MRI. I need a referral and permission from my HMO and despite many calls to the parties in authority, still do not have an appointment for an MRI.
Today, I managed to go out for breakfast, get money from the ATM, and went to the library to make amends for my life of crime and pay an astronomical library fine. And I think that's my limit until I reach the Vicodin saturation point. I suddenly understand Dr. Geoffrey House more than I ever wanted to and share his opinion about mere Tylenol.
And this is one of those weekends where at least a hundred fascinating, fun, and entertaining things are happening. Why couldn't they spread these over a month or two?
One of the things happening this weekend - right now - is The A Capella Singers Annual Wing Ding. I am not there. I am here. I am here at my desk in my chair because I know those no-nonsense Quaker benches would hurt me a lot. And I don't link the singers with pain.
There are things I should be doing around the house. I am not doing them. I am going to take a Vicodin and read a Barbara Ehrenreich book from the library. The Vicodin might make me sleepy but the whiny Ehrenreich book will have me steamed up enough to stay awake.
I am in pain. Not the double-over kind of pain, just the kind where you think, if I don't move, I'll be okay. Where's the heating pad? Where's my maid? Why won't the cats do the dishes?
It's my back. And my hip. And my neck. Yes, I know. I need to see a doctor. I saw a doctor two weeks ago, who recommended that I have an MRI. I need a referral and permission from my HMO and despite many calls to the parties in authority, still do not have an appointment for an MRI.
Today, I managed to go out for breakfast, get money from the ATM, and went to the library to make amends for my life of crime and pay an astronomical library fine. And I think that's my limit until I reach the Vicodin saturation point. I suddenly understand Dr. Geoffrey House more than I ever wanted to and share his opinion about mere Tylenol.
Sunday, May 02, 2010
All of These Are True
When I was riding toward the train station this morning, I jounced over the railroad tracks. Someone twisted a crank installed in my back and I thought, I can't do this. I physically cannot do this. I hurt. A lot.
Plus I couldn't find my sunglasses.
Plus it was humid.
I did take myself out for breakfast, but when I'd paid up, I hied myself off to the doc in the box. A weary woman took elebenty-seven x-rays of my hip and spine. A youngster fresh off the playground told me that it looked like I had a couple of herniated discs, but an MRI would tell the story in full. Also, it looked like I had only bruised my hip. "But nearly a month is a long time for this to be hurting." Who knew?
So I have to get an MRI.
And in the meantime, I have naproxen (I worked on the clinical trial of that. Ha!). And....I have...Vicodin.
I'm going to change back into my nightie and try to sleep the day away because it aches too much to stay awake through this.
Plus I couldn't find my sunglasses.
Plus it was humid.
I did take myself out for breakfast, but when I'd paid up, I hied myself off to the doc in the box. A weary woman took elebenty-seven x-rays of my hip and spine. A youngster fresh off the playground told me that it looked like I had a couple of herniated discs, but an MRI would tell the story in full. Also, it looked like I had only bruised my hip. "But nearly a month is a long time for this to be hurting." Who knew?
So I have to get an MRI.
And in the meantime, I have naproxen (I worked on the clinical trial of that. Ha!). And....I have...Vicodin.
I'm going to change back into my nightie and try to sleep the day away because it aches too much to stay awake through this.
Wednesday, April 21, 2010
Why Did I Bother?
The Pleasantville School Board incumbents got voted back in. A $77 MILLION budget was approved. And yes, that is just for Pleasantville. There are maybe 10 elementary, 2 junior highs and 1 high school in town. And it costs $77 MILLION to run them.
This has been a local hot topic, especially since a neighboring town learned that their school superintended, imported from Florida, had brought two hos with him and paid them over $100,000 each for positions they weren't qualified for.
We all know Jersey is messed up.
The property taxes are ridiculous. Ma Maisonette's yearly tab is about $5,000. And for this I get...sewer service and the street plowed.
I have always thought that it was unfair to charge people without children for school fees. There is nothing in the Constitution that guarantees people an education. This will lead me into another rant about how the American school system is arranged, so I should stop this train of thought right now.
I did go to special trouble to vote yesterday. I should have known it was pointless. The people I voted for - all new to the school board - were beat by a 2 - 1 margin. The vote on the budget was a little closer.
Ever since I've been voting in New Jersey, I've been at odds with the majority on local stuff. It kind of makes me wonder what I'm doing here.
Then again, I'm stressed about money. Just because I got a job doesn't mean the fall-out stopped.
This has been a local hot topic, especially since a neighboring town learned that their school superintended, imported from Florida, had brought two hos with him and paid them over $100,000 each for positions they weren't qualified for.
We all know Jersey is messed up.
The property taxes are ridiculous. Ma Maisonette's yearly tab is about $5,000. And for this I get...sewer service and the street plowed.
I have always thought that it was unfair to charge people without children for school fees. There is nothing in the Constitution that guarantees people an education. This will lead me into another rant about how the American school system is arranged, so I should stop this train of thought right now.
I did go to special trouble to vote yesterday. I should have known it was pointless. The people I voted for - all new to the school board - were beat by a 2 - 1 margin. The vote on the budget was a little closer.
Ever since I've been voting in New Jersey, I've been at odds with the majority on local stuff. It kind of makes me wonder what I'm doing here.
Then again, I'm stressed about money. Just because I got a job doesn't mean the fall-out stopped.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
My Mood Matches the Weather
Flood Warning
According to weather.com, Jersey is in for another 2 - 6 inches of rain.
It wasn't until this past Thursday that Main Street in Bound Brook was open. Poor Bound Brook! Or as Xman used to call it, Un-Bound Brook. Bound Brook, Elizabeth, and Wayne always get the worst of it. People died in Bound Brook during Hurricane Floyd. Buildings that were one story underwater caught fire and burned down to the water line.
My favorite place on earth at the time, the Palmyra Tea Room, was flooded out and the owners never had the money to start again.
The Army Corps of Engineers did three parts of a four part project, so Bound Brook still floods and it's going to flood again.
I hope that all it means for me is that I'll have to find a different route to work, because right now my trip takes me along two rivers that always flood. I hope there isn't a recurrence of Lake Becs, but I have a feeling there will be.
------------------
Google'll Getchya If Ya Don't Watch Out
I googled someone's nom de net today and found several unpleasant surprises. There's nothing quite like getting gut-punched on a peaceful Sunday afternoon. I don't have the energy or inclination to cry, but I do feel like someone took my guts out, unwound them, then stuffed them back in.
Even though I've suspected this for awhile, it still hurts.
------------------------
Eat This, You'll Feel Better
The other day, I thought, all I have at home is poor people's food. Frozen meaty bits that I should cook up. Yesterday, I got yet more poor people's food. Today, I'm cooking it up. I planned a menu for this week, hoping to avoid the expense of the cafeteria. And the torrential rain coming during the next couple of days.
I had broccoli-cheddar soup for lunch. I'm baking brownies right now and I'm getting ready to go put a corned beef brisket in the pot. After that, I'm chopping up the poor people's fruit into a nice, handy, easy to pack up fruit salad.
And I do feel a little better after the soup.
Ah, the brownies are done.
-----------------
Canceled Due to Inclement Weather
No long ride this week. No short rides until the rain goes away on Wednesday. And now, of course, I kind of miss it.
I need to find consolation in something today, even if it's whatever I can dig up on Netflix or Hulu. I had been watching "Rescue Me", but that will not serve to rescue me from the gut punch I got today.
According to weather.com, Jersey is in for another 2 - 6 inches of rain.
It wasn't until this past Thursday that Main Street in Bound Brook was open. Poor Bound Brook! Or as Xman used to call it, Un-Bound Brook. Bound Brook, Elizabeth, and Wayne always get the worst of it. People died in Bound Brook during Hurricane Floyd. Buildings that were one story underwater caught fire and burned down to the water line.
My favorite place on earth at the time, the Palmyra Tea Room, was flooded out and the owners never had the money to start again.
The Army Corps of Engineers did three parts of a four part project, so Bound Brook still floods and it's going to flood again.
I hope that all it means for me is that I'll have to find a different route to work, because right now my trip takes me along two rivers that always flood. I hope there isn't a recurrence of Lake Becs, but I have a feeling there will be.
------------------
Google'll Getchya If Ya Don't Watch Out
I googled someone's nom de net today and found several unpleasant surprises. There's nothing quite like getting gut-punched on a peaceful Sunday afternoon. I don't have the energy or inclination to cry, but I do feel like someone took my guts out, unwound them, then stuffed them back in.
Even though I've suspected this for awhile, it still hurts.
------------------------
Eat This, You'll Feel Better
The other day, I thought, all I have at home is poor people's food. Frozen meaty bits that I should cook up. Yesterday, I got yet more poor people's food. Today, I'm cooking it up. I planned a menu for this week, hoping to avoid the expense of the cafeteria. And the torrential rain coming during the next couple of days.
I had broccoli-cheddar soup for lunch. I'm baking brownies right now and I'm getting ready to go put a corned beef brisket in the pot. After that, I'm chopping up the poor people's fruit into a nice, handy, easy to pack up fruit salad.
And I do feel a little better after the soup.
Ah, the brownies are done.
-----------------
Canceled Due to Inclement Weather
No long ride this week. No short rides until the rain goes away on Wednesday. And now, of course, I kind of miss it.
I need to find consolation in something today, even if it's whatever I can dig up on Netflix or Hulu. I had been watching "Rescue Me", but that will not serve to rescue me from the gut punch I got today.
Thursday, August 06, 2009
My Face as Emoticon
I worked at St. Fatty's Fair the other night. Six and a half hours next to five gallons of boiling hot oil in an industrial size deep fryer.
There were a couple of other people at the pizza stand with me. (Yes, the pizza dough was fried, then sprinkled with sugar or laden with sauce and Parmesan.) There was Dave, a retired UPS guy who seemed more interested in schmoozing than actually doing real work. And there was Dee, a nurse practitioner at a local medical group.
I was assigned / volunteered to take the money, then finish off said pizza with choice of topping. This I did for about two and a half hours. When a customer ordered, over the din, in my best "Yes, chef!" voice, I would shout "I need one with sauce, please!"
I made a point of smiling. Maybe it looked phony, I don't know. But I was pleased with myself. It had to be 100 degrees in the tent, in the 90 degree day, with 80% humidity, and I didn't melt, nor did I melt down.
And I was having fun. I know it's weird, but I was. I liked the carnival atmosphere, I loved seeing the families out for an evening. I was truly enjoying myself.
Three hours into it, after Dee had her dinner break, I went on mine. I had pierogies and realized with some sadness that I will never have pierogies as good as Annushka's. It's been a year since the big break and neither side has contacted the other. That's pretty final to me.
When I came back, there was a lull for about ten minutes, so I sat down and Dave sat opposite me.
He grinned. "I can see you as a school teacher."
I was horrified. "Me? A teacher? I don't even like most children."
"Naw, naw. I mean - " he made a gesture, a flick of the wrist. "I mean cracking that whip. Keeping 'em in line, you know."
I was still horrified. It was delivered without a lot of subtlety, but the translation I got was that I was being wildly overbearing in the worst possible Gordon Ramsay way.
With that arrow hitting the mark, Dave walked away. I sat, stunned, and Dee began taking orders and handling the money. I moved over to put sauce on the pizzas and generously sprinkle them with Parmesan.
"What's the matter," Dee asked. "You want to come back and count the money? You look so sad and disappointed."
Disappointed? Over not counting money? I didn't think so, although I have to admit, I liked the feeling (obviously bogus) of flow that had been with me earlier.
When closing time came, I left. I'm not working the Fair again and I'm just as glad.
Last night, I had a dream that I, full grown, was standing behind my mother where she worked. She looked like she did in the early 1970s. She was typing away - she could type 120 words per minute with her little hands. Her back was toward me.
"Mom," I said. "Mom? Why didn't you teach me how to be normal?"
She didn't look back but I could tell she heard me.
"At least let me learn how to blend in? To do what people expect of me? Why didn't you teach me that?"
Again, she would not turn around although in my dream, I know she heard me. What would have been the beginning of a brawl in real life was given the cold shoulder in my dreams. Maybe it's better that way.
She couldn't be bothered.
And while waking, I know that once you hit, say, 21, the statute of limitations on what our parents do to us should run out, I think it's too late to correct this damage. I've tried a number of times and it comes off as fake or phony. My face outs me, as Graphics Gary told me, too. The face that never lies. The face that shows scorn, sarcasm, disbelief, irony and for far too many years, no love.
Monday, November 03, 2008
An Inauspicious Start to the Week
Run, run, run, run awayyyy
It's been a long time since I've had any escape fantasies. For a long time, it was a Holden Caulfield-ish fantasy of being a mute waitress in the Coalville, Utah's sole restaurant.
Next came the t-shirt fantasy. There were some extremely cool t-shirt shops in St. Augustine, FL when I visited there many years ago. I had a fantasy of working in the t-shirt shop along the colonnaded walkway. I would rent a little house or apartment and ride my bike to work every day. My sustenance would consist of one meal a day, bought at a cheap diner, where presumably the waitresses were not mute. My apartment would be bare as a nun's cell and about as active. That was it, all day. Ride bike to work. Work, selling and making t-shirts (I have exhibited exactly zero talent at either), and riding my bike back home again.
Well, an escape fantasy came to me this morning. I don't deal with the details of what I leave behind. It's all shrouded in a mist, because the whole purpose of an escape fantasy allows no room for concern over things past.
This fantasy is to go to someplace like Columbus, Ohio or Charlottesville, Virginia where I would roll into town in the Becsmobile, find a charming empty storefront, and poof! There would appear my version of Shakespeare & Co. I would grow my hair and stop dyeing it. In a few years, it would be a shining white braid down my back. I would wear basic comfy clothes, just barely stopping short of being one of the Birkenstock Brigade. My shop would be clean and cozily lit - well enough so that old eyes can see the titles. There might be a fireplace or a faux fireplace. There would be a cat to live in the shop. I would live in a one-bedroom apartment above a florist's shop. (Hey - it's my fantasy. I can be as specific as I want.) I would occasionally have favorite customers over for dinner and when a special author came by on book tours, a reception for him / her.
That's it. And that's where I hang my sanity this morning.
---------------------
Disaster! Mayhem!
The blessed Heated Mattress Pad blinked an error code at me this morning. "FF!" it said. "FF!" I actually have a manual for the HMP and it says I need to check the connection (check), unplug the HMP (check) and then visually examine every square inch of the HMP (negatory. Maybe tonight.)
If it's dead for sure, I'll buy a heated throw and put that on the bed only when I am in the bed. I have a feeling one of the kitties (Dylan) was probably stretching (Dylan) with his claws out (Dylan) and snagged one of the wires.
-------------------
And furthermore...
My hypochondria has kicked in and I found two skin lesion on my left arm. Time to make an appointment with the dermatologist to find out if I have a rogue mole.
The kitchen clock isn't working. $1.99 from IKEA nine years ago. Hmmm... I sit in the living room every morning and write down the lastest adventures in my oh-so-exciting life and keep an eye on the time by that clock. Dang.
I think Fred's back in the office today, which scares the crap out of me since I've done bugger all in the weeks he's been gone.
There are two convention halls in central Jersey. I decided at the last minute to go to the home show. I completely forgot about Hall A and instead went to Hall B, where the Sugarloaf crafts fair was going on.
Instead, I came home by way of South Bluecollar, which has a real butcher's shop. It was open. When I went in, still in search of fillet mignon, I was astounded when Joe the Butcher told me he was completely out. "I don't know what happened," he said. "It was crazy in here yesterday and everybody wanted fillet." He sold me a New York strip. I had it for dinner last night. Poor baby. It just wasn't the same.
I realized this morning that the last time I had a vacation was...was...November, 2006. I mean real vacation, splashy vacation. I know I must have done something last year, but at the moment, I can't think of what it was. I need to do something, now, even if it's just a week at home cleaning Ma Maisonette so I don't have these frustrating escape fantasies any more.
I know I am not likely to get a real vacation for some time to come. Although lately, a seductive voice has been whispering to me, what about Paris next March? With your tax return money...Paris...Paris...
How can I hate my job when I should be very freaking grateful to have it?
How many clonazepam am I going to have to take to get through this day? Somebody start a pool. I'm saying two.
It's been a long time since I've had any escape fantasies. For a long time, it was a Holden Caulfield-ish fantasy of being a mute waitress in the Coalville, Utah's sole restaurant.
Next came the t-shirt fantasy. There were some extremely cool t-shirt shops in St. Augustine, FL when I visited there many years ago. I had a fantasy of working in the t-shirt shop along the colonnaded walkway. I would rent a little house or apartment and ride my bike to work every day. My sustenance would consist of one meal a day, bought at a cheap diner, where presumably the waitresses were not mute. My apartment would be bare as a nun's cell and about as active. That was it, all day. Ride bike to work. Work, selling and making t-shirts (I have exhibited exactly zero talent at either), and riding my bike back home again.
Well, an escape fantasy came to me this morning. I don't deal with the details of what I leave behind. It's all shrouded in a mist, because the whole purpose of an escape fantasy allows no room for concern over things past.
This fantasy is to go to someplace like Columbus, Ohio or Charlottesville, Virginia where I would roll into town in the Becsmobile, find a charming empty storefront, and poof! There would appear my version of Shakespeare & Co. I would grow my hair and stop dyeing it. In a few years, it would be a shining white braid down my back. I would wear basic comfy clothes, just barely stopping short of being one of the Birkenstock Brigade. My shop would be clean and cozily lit - well enough so that old eyes can see the titles. There might be a fireplace or a faux fireplace. There would be a cat to live in the shop. I would live in a one-bedroom apartment above a florist's shop. (Hey - it's my fantasy. I can be as specific as I want.) I would occasionally have favorite customers over for dinner and when a special author came by on book tours, a reception for him / her.
That's it. And that's where I hang my sanity this morning.
---------------------
Disaster! Mayhem!
The blessed Heated Mattress Pad blinked an error code at me this morning. "FF!" it said. "FF!" I actually have a manual for the HMP and it says I need to check the connection (check), unplug the HMP (check) and then visually examine every square inch of the HMP (negatory. Maybe tonight.)
If it's dead for sure, I'll buy a heated throw and put that on the bed only when I am in the bed. I have a feeling one of the kitties (Dylan) was probably stretching (Dylan) with his claws out (Dylan) and snagged one of the wires.
-------------------
And furthermore...
My hypochondria has kicked in and I found two skin lesion on my left arm. Time to make an appointment with the dermatologist to find out if I have a rogue mole.
The kitchen clock isn't working. $1.99 from IKEA nine years ago. Hmmm... I sit in the living room every morning and write down the lastest adventures in my oh-so-exciting life and keep an eye on the time by that clock. Dang.
I think Fred's back in the office today, which scares the crap out of me since I've done bugger all in the weeks he's been gone.
There are two convention halls in central Jersey. I decided at the last minute to go to the home show. I completely forgot about Hall A and instead went to Hall B, where the Sugarloaf crafts fair was going on.
Instead, I came home by way of South Bluecollar, which has a real butcher's shop. It was open. When I went in, still in search of fillet mignon, I was astounded when Joe the Butcher told me he was completely out. "I don't know what happened," he said. "It was crazy in here yesterday and everybody wanted fillet." He sold me a New York strip. I had it for dinner last night. Poor baby. It just wasn't the same.
I realized this morning that the last time I had a vacation was...was...November, 2006. I mean real vacation, splashy vacation. I know I must have done something last year, but at the moment, I can't think of what it was. I need to do something, now, even if it's just a week at home cleaning Ma Maisonette so I don't have these frustrating escape fantasies any more.
I know I am not likely to get a real vacation for some time to come. Although lately, a seductive voice has been whispering to me, what about Paris next March? With your tax return money...Paris...Paris...
How can I hate my job when I should be very freaking grateful to have it?
How many clonazepam am I going to have to take to get through this day? Somebody start a pool. I'm saying two.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Run Away, Run Away!
All of the "How to make friends" books tell you never to let on that you are alone and friendless. There are a couple of good reasons for this.
There are human animals who prey on such women. Admitting such a thing is far more dangerous than you would think.
Another good reason is that it's practically like telling the person you just French kissed that you got a call from the AIDS clinic and have to go downtown tomorrow to find out about your results.
In short, you'll meet people you don't really want to meet and you'll chase away those you might have wanted to get to know.
Still.
I have been so lonely all week. It's been like a rock inside my chest. I can feel it bang from one side to the other as I walk and move. Tears are just one wayward thought away.
The phone didn't ring all week. Only emails passing along jokes to me and twenty people I don't know. Going to work on Saturday was a relief. So was going to see "The Dark Knight" on Sunday morning. I realized that yesterday, I spoke four words to a human being: "One for Batman, please".
I seem to be especially susceptible to the side effects of the new blood pressure medication I'm taking, and one of them is depression. I have an appointment with Dr. Lavender coming up, but I don't want to go. Last time, I went in all chirpy and happy and I came out with a black cloud over my head. Why would I want to go back for more of that?
It's funny, but a couple of years after I divorced Xman, I started thinking about dating again. I thought I still had something to offer someone. When I thought about who that someone was, the first thing I thought (above the obvious no cocaine, no hitting, etc. etc.) was, well, he has to have a big family that gets together a lot. I don't even care if he has grown kids.
Anonymous Boyfriend wanted me to have no part of his day to day life and for that matter, wanted none to do with mine. For some reason, I would take him around to whatever office I was temping at. I would drive him around and absurdly point out things. "Oh - that's my dry cleaner... My favorite ice cream place... Best pancakes...My library." As if he would care. As if I would see whatever things equated in his life. He had siblings. He had nieces and nephews. One of the 'rents was still kicking. I doubt if any of them even knew of my existence.
The last run I had at having friends was in a writing group in 1996 or so. It morphed and became a boys' club and that was the end of that. Before then... well, I really don't want to think about it.
I went to high school with a girl named Alice Hayes. She was known to be a foil for Robin Highsmith's beauty. Alice was chubby, always smiling and laughing and even when Robin wasn't around, people seemed to flock around her and laugh at her jokes. I wondered often why I couldn't be like Alice.
Some gene got switched in me. Some chemical tripwire didn't do what it was supposed to do. I wasn't brought up as much as I was left to bring myself up. I never learned this, whatever it is.
But I'm lonely. And I comfort myself with kitties. But I would be so glad to hear my man (whoever he is) walk into my kitchen and have him say, "John and Donna want to go to the diner for dinner. You in?" Or ... well.
That's just ridiculous.
There are human animals who prey on such women. Admitting such a thing is far more dangerous than you would think.
Another good reason is that it's practically like telling the person you just French kissed that you got a call from the AIDS clinic and have to go downtown tomorrow to find out about your results.
In short, you'll meet people you don't really want to meet and you'll chase away those you might have wanted to get to know.
Still.
I have been so lonely all week. It's been like a rock inside my chest. I can feel it bang from one side to the other as I walk and move. Tears are just one wayward thought away.
The phone didn't ring all week. Only emails passing along jokes to me and twenty people I don't know. Going to work on Saturday was a relief. So was going to see "The Dark Knight" on Sunday morning. I realized that yesterday, I spoke four words to a human being: "One for Batman, please".
I seem to be especially susceptible to the side effects of the new blood pressure medication I'm taking, and one of them is depression. I have an appointment with Dr. Lavender coming up, but I don't want to go. Last time, I went in all chirpy and happy and I came out with a black cloud over my head. Why would I want to go back for more of that?
It's funny, but a couple of years after I divorced Xman, I started thinking about dating again. I thought I still had something to offer someone. When I thought about who that someone was, the first thing I thought (above the obvious no cocaine, no hitting, etc. etc.) was, well, he has to have a big family that gets together a lot. I don't even care if he has grown kids.
Anonymous Boyfriend wanted me to have no part of his day to day life and for that matter, wanted none to do with mine. For some reason, I would take him around to whatever office I was temping at. I would drive him around and absurdly point out things. "Oh - that's my dry cleaner... My favorite ice cream place... Best pancakes...My library." As if he would care. As if I would see whatever things equated in his life. He had siblings. He had nieces and nephews. One of the 'rents was still kicking. I doubt if any of them even knew of my existence.
The last run I had at having friends was in a writing group in 1996 or so. It morphed and became a boys' club and that was the end of that. Before then... well, I really don't want to think about it.
I went to high school with a girl named Alice Hayes. She was known to be a foil for Robin Highsmith's beauty. Alice was chubby, always smiling and laughing and even when Robin wasn't around, people seemed to flock around her and laugh at her jokes. I wondered often why I couldn't be like Alice.
Some gene got switched in me. Some chemical tripwire didn't do what it was supposed to do. I wasn't brought up as much as I was left to bring myself up. I never learned this, whatever it is.
But I'm lonely. And I comfort myself with kitties. But I would be so glad to hear my man (whoever he is) walk into my kitchen and have him say, "John and Donna want to go to the diner for dinner. You in?" Or ... well.
That's just ridiculous.
Jammie's Tag
A challenge to come up with a six-word memoir. I know there's a "six word" thing going around. Hemingway was triple-dog-dared into coming up with a six word story. It was:
For sale: Baby shoes, never worn.
As I think Mark Twain once said, "I would have written a shorter letter, but am rushed for time", I could have written a shorter memoir, but I didn't have the time. And I'm tired of having this hanging over my head.
So. Here is my eleven word memoir:
When I said, "Leave me alone", I meant "Stop hurting me."
For sale: Baby shoes, never worn.
As I think Mark Twain once said, "I would have written a shorter letter, but am rushed for time", I could have written a shorter memoir, but I didn't have the time. And I'm tired of having this hanging over my head.
So. Here is my eleven word memoir:
When I said, "Leave me alone", I meant "Stop hurting me."
Friday, July 18, 2008
Decluttering Tip
First, find an old cat in renal failure.
Second, give him access to the house.
Third, throw away everything that he pees on. Because he will.
Result:
First, less clutter in house.
Second, woman at the end of her tether.
Third, woman wondering if she's a heartless bitch to put him with a litter box, water and food in the spare bedroom overnight. Because she just can't take it anymore.
Oh, Butchy, Butch. Poor old guy. You make me want to cry.
Second, give him access to the house.
Third, throw away everything that he pees on. Because he will.
Result:
First, less clutter in house.
Second, woman at the end of her tether.
Third, woman wondering if she's a heartless bitch to put him with a litter box, water and food in the spare bedroom overnight. Because she just can't take it anymore.
Oh, Butchy, Butch. Poor old guy. You make me want to cry.
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Some Things You Just Leave to the Experts
Yesterday I was listening to NPR (still don't have my car CD fixed) and I heard about Omar Khadr, the Canadian who was 16 years old when he was arrested in Afghanistan after a four-hour firefight. Let's just dismiss exactly why a Canadian was in Afghanistan lobbing unholy hand grenades at people.
Now there is a hue and cry over this guy's maltreatment at Guantanamo. Oh! How horribly he was treated! He was deprived of sleep. He was kept in isolation. His plaintive cries for help went unheeded when he was told to eat his Burger King burger. The interrogator reassures him several times that "we do care about you." And the interrogator's coup de gras? "I'm very disappointed in how you behaved."
Oh man. Please, turn back time and throw me in Gitmo with these fierce Canadian beasts. Better yet, let's bring forward in time an expert in breaking people down into weeping, spitting, snotting pools of degradation, shame, and hopelessness.
That would be my mom.
I see no evidence that this boy was hit, slapped, beaten, threatened with death, taken in a car with the interrogator threatening murder-suicide while driving down the highway at 80+ miles an hour. Not once did they say that it was a sin, shame, and burden that this boy was born.
When he was hot, Omar was told to turn the fan on so he would be more comfortable. I don't think the words, "Live with it, you don't know how good you've got it" with the proper accompanying fierceness.
He was told to relax. He wasn't subjected to his mother's tears about her pain, her desolation, her wish to die, how alone she was in the world and how no one, not even her only offspring, would cry when she killed herself.
A long weekend with my mother. Start on Friday evening. By Sunday night, he'll be a quivering mass you can do absolutely anything with. Guaranteed.
Now there is a hue and cry over this guy's maltreatment at Guantanamo. Oh! How horribly he was treated! He was deprived of sleep. He was kept in isolation. His plaintive cries for help went unheeded when he was told to eat his Burger King burger. The interrogator reassures him several times that "we do care about you." And the interrogator's coup de gras? "I'm very disappointed in how you behaved."
Oh man. Please, turn back time and throw me in Gitmo with these fierce Canadian beasts. Better yet, let's bring forward in time an expert in breaking people down into weeping, spitting, snotting pools of degradation, shame, and hopelessness.
That would be my mom.
I see no evidence that this boy was hit, slapped, beaten, threatened with death, taken in a car with the interrogator threatening murder-suicide while driving down the highway at 80+ miles an hour. Not once did they say that it was a sin, shame, and burden that this boy was born.
When he was hot, Omar was told to turn the fan on so he would be more comfortable. I don't think the words, "Live with it, you don't know how good you've got it" with the proper accompanying fierceness.
He was told to relax. He wasn't subjected to his mother's tears about her pain, her desolation, her wish to die, how alone she was in the world and how no one, not even her only offspring, would cry when she killed herself.
A long weekend with my mother. Start on Friday evening. By Sunday night, he'll be a quivering mass you can do absolutely anything with. Guaranteed.
Thursday, June 26, 2008
Oh. That Again
Butchy
Yesterday I talked to Hunky Vet on the phone. In the middle of all the tumult about Gracie, I had taken Butch to the vet. And what Hunky Vet told me that I decided not to hear, was that Butch has the same thing Gracie had. He's in renal failure.
Yesterday, I made Hunky Vet spell it out for me, although I've been through this half a dozen times before. Yes, it may be that getting subcu fluids a couple of times a week could help him. On my way home from work yesterday, I picked up the kit, the line, the needles, the bag of Ringer's. In the evening, I marked out the 100 ccs where I could see it, then took Butch with me into the bathroom. The bag was hanging from a robe hook on the back of the bathroom door. I got the needle in him, started the fluid, and told him was a handsome, brave, and wonderful kitty he was.
He got tired of it just as the line reached 100 ccs. The needle popped out and we both got spritzed with the solution. Butch had a bizarre hump on his back.
This evening when I got home, he had peed. And peed. And peed. Had probably peed out last night's solution and then some.
I'm used to this now. I clean it up, spray disinfectant on it, mop it up again, spray more disinfectant, and then pick Butchy up, put him on my shoulder and tell him he is a good, good kitty.
--------------------------------
Lists. And Lists of Lists.
Someone who shall remain nameless mocked me recently for my lists. My lists and then my lists of lists.
There is such comfort in this. It gives the brief illusion of control where little control is to be found and heartens me to control what I can control.
Today, I realized that I don't know how on earth I'm going to afford The Temple to the Bath Goddess. I just barely stopped short of hyperventilating. I totted up all my debt, added that to it and thought, dear God. How on earth can I afford anything?
I get my gym membership at a wildly reduced rate and I have been going, so I'll keep that up. But everything else - the Sunday movie every single Sunday, the kayaking lesson, the trips into NYC, vacation, books, new clothes, they all get crossed off the budget list.
I've been here before. I know I can cope. Strangely, saving money is like dieting. You do them by not doing them, if you know what I mean. You can't actively go out and not eat. You can't actively go out and not spend money.
Then I made another list, a list of what I have. A list of things I need to do and things that will entertain me. Don't forget, I've got a piano and I'm not afraid to use it. And books and books of music. And lesson books. (Bach is hard. Did you know that? My hands, after nearly 40 years of typing, do not want to do things at the same time. They don't mind doing the same thing at the same time, but you throw a little counterpoint into it and I'm in the weeds.)
Tonight, when I came home I had such a weird mishmash of leftovers that I had to eat each item separately and I couldn't think about them all being on the same plate together. Yeah, the old OCD acts up sometimes, too.
My lists heartily remind me that I have lots and lots of clothes, that I have lots of shoes, books, videos, cats, music, and so on. It does hearten me.
How many times have I been to this place?
When I was in college, living in my own apartment.
When I was dating Xman and my long-distance phone bill was more than my rent.
When I decided to ditch Mighty Citadel the Divestiture Years, when I was going to write the great American romance, no, mystery, no, suspense novel.
When I decided to ditch Xman.
When Evil Empire laid me off.
I've been here before. It's always nice to take a break from it. Oh, I loved that freedom while it lasted.
When people say time is money, I say money is freedom.
Welcome back to this place, I say to myself. As cells go, it's really pretty comfy.
Yesterday I talked to Hunky Vet on the phone. In the middle of all the tumult about Gracie, I had taken Butch to the vet. And what Hunky Vet told me that I decided not to hear, was that Butch has the same thing Gracie had. He's in renal failure.
Yesterday, I made Hunky Vet spell it out for me, although I've been through this half a dozen times before. Yes, it may be that getting subcu fluids a couple of times a week could help him. On my way home from work yesterday, I picked up the kit, the line, the needles, the bag of Ringer's. In the evening, I marked out the 100 ccs where I could see it, then took Butch with me into the bathroom. The bag was hanging from a robe hook on the back of the bathroom door. I got the needle in him, started the fluid, and told him was a handsome, brave, and wonderful kitty he was.
He got tired of it just as the line reached 100 ccs. The needle popped out and we both got spritzed with the solution. Butch had a bizarre hump on his back.
This evening when I got home, he had peed. And peed. And peed. Had probably peed out last night's solution and then some.
I'm used to this now. I clean it up, spray disinfectant on it, mop it up again, spray more disinfectant, and then pick Butchy up, put him on my shoulder and tell him he is a good, good kitty.
--------------------------------
Lists. And Lists of Lists.
Someone who shall remain nameless mocked me recently for my lists. My lists and then my lists of lists.
There is such comfort in this. It gives the brief illusion of control where little control is to be found and heartens me to control what I can control.
Today, I realized that I don't know how on earth I'm going to afford The Temple to the Bath Goddess. I just barely stopped short of hyperventilating. I totted up all my debt, added that to it and thought, dear God. How on earth can I afford anything?
I get my gym membership at a wildly reduced rate and I have been going, so I'll keep that up. But everything else - the Sunday movie every single Sunday, the kayaking lesson, the trips into NYC, vacation, books, new clothes, they all get crossed off the budget list.
I've been here before. I know I can cope. Strangely, saving money is like dieting. You do them by not doing them, if you know what I mean. You can't actively go out and not eat. You can't actively go out and not spend money.
Then I made another list, a list of what I have. A list of things I need to do and things that will entertain me. Don't forget, I've got a piano and I'm not afraid to use it. And books and books of music. And lesson books. (Bach is hard. Did you know that? My hands, after nearly 40 years of typing, do not want to do things at the same time. They don't mind doing the same thing at the same time, but you throw a little counterpoint into it and I'm in the weeds.)
Tonight, when I came home I had such a weird mishmash of leftovers that I had to eat each item separately and I couldn't think about them all being on the same plate together. Yeah, the old OCD acts up sometimes, too.
My lists heartily remind me that I have lots and lots of clothes, that I have lots of shoes, books, videos, cats, music, and so on. It does hearten me.
How many times have I been to this place?
When I was in college, living in my own apartment.
When I was dating Xman and my long-distance phone bill was more than my rent.
When I decided to ditch Mighty Citadel the Divestiture Years, when I was going to write the great American romance, no, mystery, no, suspense novel.
When I decided to ditch Xman.
When Evil Empire laid me off.
I've been here before. It's always nice to take a break from it. Oh, I loved that freedom while it lasted.
When people say time is money, I say money is freedom.
Welcome back to this place, I say to myself. As cells go, it's really pretty comfy.
Friday, June 13, 2008
Friday the 13th blah blah blah
Watch it flow like water...
I got paid today. Here's how it went:
$88 for a pair of pants like the 'cool spf' shirt, with a ludicrous amount spent to get them to me here today, only to find out the bastards lied on their sizing chart. I'm not fudging. I measured. And they're too small but only by the scootch of an inch that makes them uncomfortable.
$38 on fruit and veg. Seriously. I love summer fruit and wanted to steal boy instructor's raspberries last week. As I was bringing the raspberries into the house, I realized that I am once again a mother, or at least godmother to a new brood of sparrows. I stumbled, the raspberry container fell from my arms, and half of them landed where no five-second rule could apply. The others remained in the container. Grr.
$57 on gasoline.
$32 on stuff for my skin. Neutrogena's Dry Sunscreen really does dry. And then some stuff for my rosacea.
$2.09 for a well-deserved ice cream cone.
But wait, there's more. I have to pay bills tonight.
-------------
Lists
I crack myself up. I'm going to be gone all day tomorrow and will have about two hours to drive each way. Knowing I'm going to be gone and wanting to be so well prepared, I wrote a list. It involves things like washing the car, which I can tell you right now will not happen.
I think there's something in there, too, about negotiating a no-nukes treaty with North Korea.
--------------------
Unpacking the car
While I was trying to hoist into the house all the crap that's been accumulating in my car for at least three weeks, I lifted out the cat carrier. Oh wait, I thought, I need that to go pick up Gracie. And before I could put it back in the car, thought, no, I don't.
------------------
Waiting for the Peapod Guy
I know my house is a horrible mess. I wish I could get myself more psyched up about cleaning it up. (See List, above.) Instead, the house feels hot, I am annoyed about the Coolibar pants, and I am afraid to look at my online bank account. (See 'paying bills', above.)
-----------------
Stood Up, Yet Again
This time by Dr. Lavender. I showed up ten minutes before my appointment and his secretary came out. "Who are you here to see?" she asked.
"Dr. Lavender."
"Oh. I don't think he's back until the 16th."
From the bowels of my handbag, I retrieved a card with Dr. L's writing on it, assigning us this appointed date. June 13, 2 pm. Becs, yes. Dr L., no.
I went back to work, feeling a little let down. I thought I had a number of good things to tell him this week, but have to just choke on it until the next time I see him.
------------------
Bloody Air France
My CD player in my car has conked out. #*%&*# for the second time and it's only a 2007 model. Instead of listening to CDs, I have to listen to the radio and I heard an Air France commercial.
The announcer cooed that everybody gets a glass of champagne. That flights leave from Newark Airport seven times a day, bound for Paris. Paris! Paris! And then from there, she cooed again, destinations far and wide.
And I thought, now how's this for a fantasy? Tomorrow instead of driving to West Podunk, I get in my car - no, I don't get in my car. I call a taxi to take me to the train station and from there, to the airport and from there to Paris and from there I can go any bloody place I want.
I imagined myself walking on dusty roads in Greece, floating placidly in a lagoon, of going to the real-life Beaumont-sur-Mer or maybe Portofino. I don't know what the hell is in Portofino, but I want to find out.
And what if I just kept on walking? Or got on another train? What if I ended up in Rajasthan? What if I kept going and found myself on the gloriously deserted beaches of eastern India? Buying fresh-roasted spicy peanuts, renting a house directly on the beach and for a few rupees a day, have a cook and houseboy to attend me? I would stay there until the rains came and then I would go to Japan. I have always wanted to see the gardens of Kyoto in the autumn.
And in my mind, I kept traveling. There was no Fireman Fred to placate. I have a new thorn in my side, Vijay The QA King, who is expert at piling on useless work after useless work. There would be no Vijay to bedevil me. No cats. No house. No worrying about Ma Maisonette. Just clear, gem-like green water, olive trees, tiny houses clinging to the edges of cliffs, and the joy of being, for all practical purposes, deaf and mute.
With no demands on me. No negotiating with the garbage pickup company, no haggling over the latest misunderstanding between my health insurance company and my doctor, no dragging in thirty pound bags of kibble and forty pound tubs of cat litter.
Maybe I can get a little bit of that tomorrow, although I'm betting gem-like water is not going to happen.
I got paid today. Here's how it went:
$88 for a pair of pants like the 'cool spf' shirt, with a ludicrous amount spent to get them to me here today, only to find out the bastards lied on their sizing chart. I'm not fudging. I measured. And they're too small but only by the scootch of an inch that makes them uncomfortable.
$38 on fruit and veg. Seriously. I love summer fruit and wanted to steal boy instructor's raspberries last week. As I was bringing the raspberries into the house, I realized that I am once again a mother, or at least godmother to a new brood of sparrows. I stumbled, the raspberry container fell from my arms, and half of them landed where no five-second rule could apply. The others remained in the container. Grr.
$57 on gasoline.
$32 on stuff for my skin. Neutrogena's Dry Sunscreen really does dry. And then some stuff for my rosacea.
$2.09 for a well-deserved ice cream cone.
But wait, there's more. I have to pay bills tonight.
-------------
Lists
I crack myself up. I'm going to be gone all day tomorrow and will have about two hours to drive each way. Knowing I'm going to be gone and wanting to be so well prepared, I wrote a list. It involves things like washing the car, which I can tell you right now will not happen.
I think there's something in there, too, about negotiating a no-nukes treaty with North Korea.
--------------------
Unpacking the car
While I was trying to hoist into the house all the crap that's been accumulating in my car for at least three weeks, I lifted out the cat carrier. Oh wait, I thought, I need that to go pick up Gracie. And before I could put it back in the car, thought, no, I don't.
------------------
Waiting for the Peapod Guy
I know my house is a horrible mess. I wish I could get myself more psyched up about cleaning it up. (See List, above.) Instead, the house feels hot, I am annoyed about the Coolibar pants, and I am afraid to look at my online bank account. (See 'paying bills', above.)
-----------------
Stood Up, Yet Again
This time by Dr. Lavender. I showed up ten minutes before my appointment and his secretary came out. "Who are you here to see?" she asked.
"Dr. Lavender."
"Oh. I don't think he's back until the 16th."
From the bowels of my handbag, I retrieved a card with Dr. L's writing on it, assigning us this appointed date. June 13, 2 pm. Becs, yes. Dr L., no.
I went back to work, feeling a little let down. I thought I had a number of good things to tell him this week, but have to just choke on it until the next time I see him.
------------------
Bloody Air France
My CD player in my car has conked out. #*%&*# for the second time and it's only a 2007 model. Instead of listening to CDs, I have to listen to the radio and I heard an Air France commercial.
The announcer cooed that everybody gets a glass of champagne. That flights leave from Newark Airport seven times a day, bound for Paris. Paris! Paris! And then from there, she cooed again, destinations far and wide.
And I thought, now how's this for a fantasy? Tomorrow instead of driving to West Podunk, I get in my car - no, I don't get in my car. I call a taxi to take me to the train station and from there, to the airport and from there to Paris and from there I can go any bloody place I want.
I imagined myself walking on dusty roads in Greece, floating placidly in a lagoon, of going to the real-life Beaumont-sur-Mer or maybe Portofino. I don't know what the hell is in Portofino, but I want to find out.
And what if I just kept on walking? Or got on another train? What if I ended up in Rajasthan? What if I kept going and found myself on the gloriously deserted beaches of eastern India? Buying fresh-roasted spicy peanuts, renting a house directly on the beach and for a few rupees a day, have a cook and houseboy to attend me? I would stay there until the rains came and then I would go to Japan. I have always wanted to see the gardens of Kyoto in the autumn.
And in my mind, I kept traveling. There was no Fireman Fred to placate. I have a new thorn in my side, Vijay The QA King, who is expert at piling on useless work after useless work. There would be no Vijay to bedevil me. No cats. No house. No worrying about Ma Maisonette. Just clear, gem-like green water, olive trees, tiny houses clinging to the edges of cliffs, and the joy of being, for all practical purposes, deaf and mute.
With no demands on me. No negotiating with the garbage pickup company, no haggling over the latest misunderstanding between my health insurance company and my doctor, no dragging in thirty pound bags of kibble and forty pound tubs of cat litter.
Maybe I can get a little bit of that tomorrow, although I'm betting gem-like water is not going to happen.
Friday, May 16, 2008
I Drew a Circle
Dr. L and I are picking over my late relationship with Anonymous Boyfriend. But it's more than just that.
I tell him the things I liked about Anon Boy. I tell him secrets about Anon Boy I have never told anyone else. Things I won't reveal here but will make it all that much harder to tell you the impact of just 40 minutes with Dr. L. today.
I came out of his office with my heart a little heavier than it had been when I'd gone in, because I realized some things.
Again, I'm sorry to be so vague. But anyway, I mentioned something to Dr. L that I thought signified the possibility that Anon Boy had loved me. He did not comment. It was something that Anon Boy had kept, something of me that I thought he had kept because...well, because he loved me.
And on the way home, it hit me so hard, my head ached and my heart hurt and I wanted to pull over to the side of the road and cry.
He didn't love you, jackass. How many times did he tell you this, that he never throws anything away. It wasn't love. It's a compulsion that has nothing to do with you. Get it? Nothing to do with you.
Oh, man.
But wait, there's more.
Some of this he said directly to me, some of it he hinted at, and for others, he told stories to illustrate a point.
I am afraid of people and given my past history, with good reason. Over the years, I have managed to let absolutely nobody in. (You may think you're in. I'm sorry. You aren't.) People have tried, but I think it was mostly to see if they could do it. My personal space is literally arm's length. Mentally, arm's length, too.
The relationship with Anon Boy was ideal as it was. He didn't want to get closer and I didn't want him to get closer. Until I thought I loved him. And I wanted him to love me back.
Any couples therapist will tell you that the minute the initial contract of the relationship is breached, all bets are off. And so it was.
But once more, yet again, this is about me and not Anonymous Boyfriend.
I told Dr. L that I get along surprisingly well with the men at work who are in their mid to early 30s. In short, men who could be my sons. There is banter and witty repartee, but it's all very safe.
Dr. L said, "You've made a bargain with people. They'll stand out here - " he indicated about a yard's length away from me - "And you won't beckon them in."
What happens if you let them in? What happens? Do they eat away at you? Is it like having acid splashed on you and you dissolve? What happens? Do they leave you, penniless, cold, and hungry? What happens if you let them in? Will you spend the rest of your life regretting it?
And I can only think, yes, yes, it's true, that's what they'll do and it will burn until you'll wish you were dead.
They'll get bored. They'll get what they want. They'll make promises they'll never keep. And when they've taken whatever they've wanted, if they don't leave, they will turn their back on you. And they'll still be gone.
That's why I keep you away. That's why I tell funny stories. That's why I mock myself, so you won't. This far is far enough. No closer, no closer. There's no need. There's nothing in here that will surprise you or endear me to you. It's only me.
Did any of them ever love me? I don't know. I won't let myself believe it. Because they still turned around and left me. And I sigh and shrug and say I'm all right with that. And I've actually started to believe it.
I tell him the things I liked about Anon Boy. I tell him secrets about Anon Boy I have never told anyone else. Things I won't reveal here but will make it all that much harder to tell you the impact of just 40 minutes with Dr. L. today.
I came out of his office with my heart a little heavier than it had been when I'd gone in, because I realized some things.
Again, I'm sorry to be so vague. But anyway, I mentioned something to Dr. L that I thought signified the possibility that Anon Boy had loved me. He did not comment. It was something that Anon Boy had kept, something of me that I thought he had kept because...well, because he loved me.
And on the way home, it hit me so hard, my head ached and my heart hurt and I wanted to pull over to the side of the road and cry.
He didn't love you, jackass. How many times did he tell you this, that he never throws anything away. It wasn't love. It's a compulsion that has nothing to do with you. Get it? Nothing to do with you.
Oh, man.
But wait, there's more.
Some of this he said directly to me, some of it he hinted at, and for others, he told stories to illustrate a point.
I am afraid of people and given my past history, with good reason. Over the years, I have managed to let absolutely nobody in. (You may think you're in. I'm sorry. You aren't.) People have tried, but I think it was mostly to see if they could do it. My personal space is literally arm's length. Mentally, arm's length, too.
The relationship with Anon Boy was ideal as it was. He didn't want to get closer and I didn't want him to get closer. Until I thought I loved him. And I wanted him to love me back.
Any couples therapist will tell you that the minute the initial contract of the relationship is breached, all bets are off. And so it was.
But once more, yet again, this is about me and not Anonymous Boyfriend.
I told Dr. L that I get along surprisingly well with the men at work who are in their mid to early 30s. In short, men who could be my sons. There is banter and witty repartee, but it's all very safe.
Dr. L said, "You've made a bargain with people. They'll stand out here - " he indicated about a yard's length away from me - "And you won't beckon them in."
What happens if you let them in? What happens? Do they eat away at you? Is it like having acid splashed on you and you dissolve? What happens? Do they leave you, penniless, cold, and hungry? What happens if you let them in? Will you spend the rest of your life regretting it?
And I can only think, yes, yes, it's true, that's what they'll do and it will burn until you'll wish you were dead.
They'll get bored. They'll get what they want. They'll make promises they'll never keep. And when they've taken whatever they've wanted, if they don't leave, they will turn their back on you. And they'll still be gone.
That's why I keep you away. That's why I tell funny stories. That's why I mock myself, so you won't. This far is far enough. No closer, no closer. There's no need. There's nothing in here that will surprise you or endear me to you. It's only me.
Did any of them ever love me? I don't know. I won't let myself believe it. Because they still turned around and left me. And I sigh and shrug and say I'm all right with that. And I've actually started to believe it.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Misc. Mash
Good Gracious
I'm really worried about Gracie. Really, really, really worried. I did manage to get, like, three doses of amoxicillin down her. She started to eat again. But now she's taken to going into the kitchen and going "rowrf" in a tone that means distress. Either that, or she's looking for Mo. She is skin and bones. I can feel every single rib when I put my hands around her. She eats, but she doesn't gain weight.
And I know that taking her to the vet about this would cost at least $500, probably closer on to $1,000, with no guarantee of her coming home healed, happy, and with meat on her bones.
I'm taking the cheap-o path right now. I bought some smelly cat food just for her, put it in a bowl and shoved it under the bed where she jumped the instant she saw me. I shooed the other cats out. Now I just have to wait for her to start yowling to get out of the room, because to get to the door, she has to go past the food bowl.
I also bought regular, not "lite" cat food, so maybe I'll end up with 11 porkers and one normal-sized cat.
------------------------
What the Hell is Wrong With You?
I don't know. I wish I did. Spring fever?
Nothing feels settled. I have not had a definitive answer on how much the surgery would cost, but I have learned that the max out-of-pocket for me would be $1,000.
Last week at work, a woman who looks remarkably like me and wears the same kind of clothes I wear (only newer and nicer) came in to the office looking particularly spiffy. I said, "Hey, how'd that job interview go?" When she turned to me, I saw her face was puffy from crying.
"I just came from my best friend's funeral. I'm only here because I'm waiting for my boyfriend to pick me up."
Later, there was an exchange of email and we ran into each other on Saturday at the office. I mentioned Hoity Toity Medical Group and the ankle surgery. "Oh yeah," she said. "My friend went there, the one who died? For three years, they said it was a recurrent UTI and when someone finally did an MRI on her, it showed a tumor the size of a baseball pressing on her bladder. And by then, it was too late to operate."
Oh-kay.
I know ankles can get fucked up in surgery. I've seen a lot of botched orthopedic surgery - or maybe not so much, but the ones I've seen have definitely stuck with me.
---------------------
In the Meantime...
Always being a woman of resourcefulness, I've tried all kinds of things to brace my ankle. Wraps. Off the shelf braces. None of it works. I have huge calves and tiny ankles (comparatively) so none of the off the shelf braces fit. Instead, I'm off on my own, talking to an orthotist on-line. How much would a custom made ankle brace cost? $500.
I'm weighing my options.
---------------------
No, Really. What the Hell is Wrong with You?
I truly don't know. Headaches play ring-around-the-rosy in my head. I feel a low boil constantly with Fireman Fred, who is sucking my will to live. I have an earworm from Tom Petty, from "Last Dance with Mary Jane", the line that goes, "I feel summer creeping in and I'm tired of this town again." I feel pretty trapped. Not enough saved for retirement. Not enough saved to get me through a month if The Worst happens. Not enough love. Too many cats. Too many sick cats. Too many dirty dishes. No vacation. And this is the worst time of the year. Even worse than the beginning of the Long Dark in November is the coming of the first ten days of April. It feels like every one of these days is stained with its own secret, stained history, stains that I'm the only one left alive to see. Well, there is someone else. But I doubt if he remembers what he did to me, much less the date.
I'm really worried about Gracie. Really, really, really worried. I did manage to get, like, three doses of amoxicillin down her. She started to eat again. But now she's taken to going into the kitchen and going "rowrf" in a tone that means distress. Either that, or she's looking for Mo. She is skin and bones. I can feel every single rib when I put my hands around her. She eats, but she doesn't gain weight.
And I know that taking her to the vet about this would cost at least $500, probably closer on to $1,000, with no guarantee of her coming home healed, happy, and with meat on her bones.
I'm taking the cheap-o path right now. I bought some smelly cat food just for her, put it in a bowl and shoved it under the bed where she jumped the instant she saw me. I shooed the other cats out. Now I just have to wait for her to start yowling to get out of the room, because to get to the door, she has to go past the food bowl.
I also bought regular, not "lite" cat food, so maybe I'll end up with 11 porkers and one normal-sized cat.
------------------------
What the Hell is Wrong With You?
I don't know. I wish I did. Spring fever?
Nothing feels settled. I have not had a definitive answer on how much the surgery would cost, but I have learned that the max out-of-pocket for me would be $1,000.
Last week at work, a woman who looks remarkably like me and wears the same kind of clothes I wear (only newer and nicer) came in to the office looking particularly spiffy. I said, "Hey, how'd that job interview go?" When she turned to me, I saw her face was puffy from crying.
"I just came from my best friend's funeral. I'm only here because I'm waiting for my boyfriend to pick me up."
Later, there was an exchange of email and we ran into each other on Saturday at the office. I mentioned Hoity Toity Medical Group and the ankle surgery. "Oh yeah," she said. "My friend went there, the one who died? For three years, they said it was a recurrent UTI and when someone finally did an MRI on her, it showed a tumor the size of a baseball pressing on her bladder. And by then, it was too late to operate."
Oh-kay.
I know ankles can get fucked up in surgery. I've seen a lot of botched orthopedic surgery - or maybe not so much, but the ones I've seen have definitely stuck with me.
---------------------
In the Meantime...
Always being a woman of resourcefulness, I've tried all kinds of things to brace my ankle. Wraps. Off the shelf braces. None of it works. I have huge calves and tiny ankles (comparatively) so none of the off the shelf braces fit. Instead, I'm off on my own, talking to an orthotist on-line. How much would a custom made ankle brace cost? $500.
I'm weighing my options.
---------------------
No, Really. What the Hell is Wrong with You?
I truly don't know. Headaches play ring-around-the-rosy in my head. I feel a low boil constantly with Fireman Fred, who is sucking my will to live. I have an earworm from Tom Petty, from "Last Dance with Mary Jane", the line that goes, "I feel summer creeping in and I'm tired of this town again." I feel pretty trapped. Not enough saved for retirement. Not enough saved to get me through a month if The Worst happens. Not enough love. Too many cats. Too many sick cats. Too many dirty dishes. No vacation. And this is the worst time of the year. Even worse than the beginning of the Long Dark in November is the coming of the first ten days of April. It feels like every one of these days is stained with its own secret, stained history, stains that I'm the only one left alive to see. Well, there is someone else. But I doubt if he remembers what he did to me, much less the date.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
In which I accept my fate to struggle on...
The payroll lady hand-delivered the W-2s today (or, you know, whatever you need to file your income taxes).
I did a quick, surreptitious calculation of my taxes online.
At one point, I nearly fainted. The total was me owing Los Federales more than $3K. I choked, then tried it again. Oh, gee, only $800. And the last time, I owed them $6. Okay. I can pay the Feds six bucks.
But what happened to the days of the lush refunds? The refunds that put a cushion between me and the sucky, sucky world?
Those days, I think are gone.
In fact, I think they have been gone for a long, long, long time. I just choose to pretend every now and then that they haven't gone.
And from there, I started thinking about how this weekend, I had done what I had always sworn I would not do: I put groceries on the Visa. This in and of itself was a wake-up call.
I can't go playing games with myself anymore. I can't believe what my online checking tells me, because there's always something else coming up.
This month, it's the big long scratch I got on the Bullet at GiGi's funeral. And the other day, I looked at the car and thought, when did I lose the wheel cover on my left rear wheel?
Tuition cost $400 more than I had planned. Yeah, I'll be reimbursed for it - sometime in April, no doubt.
There's the deductible for the car repair - $1,000. I'll get it back eventually, but for now, it, too goes on the Visa.
The $6K I got rid of in the spring has crept its way back onto my Visa card and I'm the one who did it. $60 here. $100 there. Me. I did it.
I am busy trying to come to grips with a very grim fact. I don't like it. That's why it's so hard.
I will most likely spend the rest of my life scrabbling like this. The trip to Paris in 2005 was the last hurrah, and what a hurrah that was. I have realized I can't even really afford to go hang out with the nuns.
Until I have paid off the $3,500 on my Visa and built up six months expenses in my savings (whatever form that might take), there will be no movies, no Starbucks, no Coffee Heaven, no diner, no Kohl's, no Target, no Kwik-e-Mart. There will be no trips that require me to go out of my normal and ever-narrowing routine route.
There will be no electronic piano, no music lessons (who has the time, anyway?), no voice lessons (I had hoped...), any of the many, many things that have been on the list for the last ten years.
I cannot foresee a vacation for myself...ever, really.
There will have to be a bathroom renovation, a new roof, and a new driveway on Ma Maisonette, along with some smaller internal improvements, like replacing the ceiling tiles in the basement where the cats come crashing through.
In the face of all this "no, no, no", I realize I still have an incredible wealth of resources around me.
I have drawing pads, pencils, and instruction books. I have books I keep meaning to read. I have books I keep meaning to write. I have the cats to attend to, to play with, to love. I have the house to keep clean and bright and comforting. Okay, so there won't be any roses this year, but I can divide the irises and the daffodils and try my hand at growing annuals from seed. Who on earth can't grow a marigold? And the honeysuckle I crave grows wild along the roadside. I just have to hop out, cut a bunch, and bring it back home to root.
I have yarn. Maybe I can learn to crochet something that isn't flat. Maybe I can learn to knit. Actually, I have a lot of yarn. A lot.
I have watercolors. I have my little keyboard and an acoustic guitar. (Surely I can scrape together the $6 for strings...maybe for my birthday? Poor little match girl.)
I have a sewing machine and a couple of quilting projects I'd always meant to get to.
Nonetheless, I've been here before. I know this dark territory. This is pretty close to where I was when I first moved into Ma Maisonette, except at the time I only had one payment left on the Faithful Camry and $500 on the Visa. I brought no money, not one penny, in to work with me. I kept my wallet in the glove compartment of the car. I took my lunch with me everyday, ate lunch at home, had E and Annushka over to my house and would provide brownies or apples and cheese and the vital pot of tea.
Those days still haven't gone. They've just been waiting for me to come back to them.
Here I am.
I did a quick, surreptitious calculation of my taxes online.
At one point, I nearly fainted. The total was me owing Los Federales more than $3K. I choked, then tried it again. Oh, gee, only $800. And the last time, I owed them $6. Okay. I can pay the Feds six bucks.
But what happened to the days of the lush refunds? The refunds that put a cushion between me and the sucky, sucky world?
Those days, I think are gone.
In fact, I think they have been gone for a long, long, long time. I just choose to pretend every now and then that they haven't gone.
And from there, I started thinking about how this weekend, I had done what I had always sworn I would not do: I put groceries on the Visa. This in and of itself was a wake-up call.
I can't go playing games with myself anymore. I can't believe what my online checking tells me, because there's always something else coming up.
This month, it's the big long scratch I got on the Bullet at GiGi's funeral. And the other day, I looked at the car and thought, when did I lose the wheel cover on my left rear wheel?
Tuition cost $400 more than I had planned. Yeah, I'll be reimbursed for it - sometime in April, no doubt.
There's the deductible for the car repair - $1,000. I'll get it back eventually, but for now, it, too goes on the Visa.
The $6K I got rid of in the spring has crept its way back onto my Visa card and I'm the one who did it. $60 here. $100 there. Me. I did it.
I am busy trying to come to grips with a very grim fact. I don't like it. That's why it's so hard.
I will most likely spend the rest of my life scrabbling like this. The trip to Paris in 2005 was the last hurrah, and what a hurrah that was. I have realized I can't even really afford to go hang out with the nuns.
Until I have paid off the $3,500 on my Visa and built up six months expenses in my savings (whatever form that might take), there will be no movies, no Starbucks, no Coffee Heaven, no diner, no Kohl's, no Target, no Kwik-e-Mart. There will be no trips that require me to go out of my normal and ever-narrowing routine route.
There will be no electronic piano, no music lessons (who has the time, anyway?), no voice lessons (I had hoped...), any of the many, many things that have been on the list for the last ten years.
I cannot foresee a vacation for myself...ever, really.
There will have to be a bathroom renovation, a new roof, and a new driveway on Ma Maisonette, along with some smaller internal improvements, like replacing the ceiling tiles in the basement where the cats come crashing through.
In the face of all this "no, no, no", I realize I still have an incredible wealth of resources around me.
I have drawing pads, pencils, and instruction books. I have books I keep meaning to read. I have books I keep meaning to write. I have the cats to attend to, to play with, to love. I have the house to keep clean and bright and comforting. Okay, so there won't be any roses this year, but I can divide the irises and the daffodils and try my hand at growing annuals from seed. Who on earth can't grow a marigold? And the honeysuckle I crave grows wild along the roadside. I just have to hop out, cut a bunch, and bring it back home to root.
I have yarn. Maybe I can learn to crochet something that isn't flat. Maybe I can learn to knit. Actually, I have a lot of yarn. A lot.
I have watercolors. I have my little keyboard and an acoustic guitar. (Surely I can scrape together the $6 for strings...maybe for my birthday? Poor little match girl.)
I have a sewing machine and a couple of quilting projects I'd always meant to get to.
Nonetheless, I've been here before. I know this dark territory. This is pretty close to where I was when I first moved into Ma Maisonette, except at the time I only had one payment left on the Faithful Camry and $500 on the Visa. I brought no money, not one penny, in to work with me. I kept my wallet in the glove compartment of the car. I took my lunch with me everyday, ate lunch at home, had E and Annushka over to my house and would provide brownies or apples and cheese and the vital pot of tea.
Those days still haven't gone. They've just been waiting for me to come back to them.
Here I am.
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