Unemployment Diary Day Four: Chatterbrain

My severance money was supposed to be deposited in our account overnight and it wasn't. I tried to tell myself that it was just some simple snafu, nothing to get all in a tizzy about, but holy cats, the voices in my head know just when to unleash the madness. I fell asleep four times last night to Margaret Rutherford and her many precious chins playing Miss Jane Marple in a swinging 1964 version of Agatha Christie's Murder Ahoy.

And I still don't know who did it. Heck, I still don't know who was murdered. Toss, turn, toss, turn. Worry and fret.

I got up at 1:20 a.m. and checked our account online. No money yet. Do I need this added stress? I asked myself. No I did not, I answered, which is worrisome enough, in and of itself.

Will I survive this latest bump on the road of life? Of course I will, but it certainly was making me twitchy.

MathMan got up to go do something private I shouldn't write here (Okay, he peed.) It was 4:00 a.m. I checked the account again. My last paycheck was in, thank goodness, but not the severance. I told myself to calm down, it had to be some simple snafu. Simple snafu, simple snafu. I liked the sound of it as it echoed around in my brainpan. It was oddly calming. Perhaps it was the alliteration. Simple snafu....

I finally fell asleep and stayed asleep until my alarm shoved me into MathMan at 5:15 - that's a.m., not p.m.

I checked the bank account. My last paycheck was still there, but no severance. I sent an email to the person I knew who would either know what was happening with it and who might be able to fix things. I tried to remain calm. Money issues can certainly make a person cranky.

I took a Prilosec.

It's not just that I had some bills very screamingly due - electric, water, but we were running low on groceries. Gin, vodka, olives, tonic, red wine (it's winter, you know?), but what really drew me up short was the fact that now I also had to worry that I'm turning into my father who lives by the credo "expect nothing, you'll never be disappointed." Except I was giving the pessimist knob just one more twist to the right so that it rested on "Expect the worst, then you'll never be surprised."

I'm telling you, People of the Internets, it's mighty tiring to have your facial muscles all cattywampus with your eyebrows up into your widow's peak in a constant state of shock. T-i-r-i-n-g.

To make matters just a bit more, um, intense, the kids needed money for school lunches and drugs (we'd scraped the bottom of the barrel for packing lunches), there was the little Toys for Tot gift to purchase as admission to Sophie's Chorus concert, and the Pussies for Peace had issued incredibly stern warnings threatening to become The Felines In Support of Eating Their People in Their Sleep if we didn't get some cat food into this house.

I had an instant where Calgon or some other agent of our current Nazi-Socialist-Commie regime could have taken me away to Bellevue Mental Hygiene Clinic and I would have been okay with that. Welcomed it, in fact. Treated it like a friggin' vacation, okay?

Then I remembered my vow to hold it together and I took a deep breath. And then another. Hang on a sec, was that me? I looked around to make sure no one was watching and sniffed my arm pit.

Dang, stress sweat is the worst.