All Better Like This

And like this...HolidayDecorationsDismantledAndPutAway;WatchedFrostNixon-LikedIt!
ShowerTaken;PantsWithZipperDonned;MakeupApplied,IncludingLipstick.
HadGoodTimeWithBadGirls.
ErrandsCompleted,ToWit:
MathMan'sPrescriptionFetched;MadeIt(n&OutOfTargetWithoutAnyUncessaryPurchases;
TripToLibraryFruitfulforBooksandVideos;SignedUpfortheReadingProgram;
Sophia'sBedroomReorganized(thankgoodness!!!);LaundryinProgress;EmailsAnswered;
OneJobApplicationHalfwayPrepped(WhyIsItSoHardToWriteCoverLetters?);
OneOilBusinessProposalReceivedViaEmail>IBelieveI'llTakeAPass.....

AndIHaveAHugeMusicalBonerForHansZimmer!
AsSoonAsIHitPublishHere,YouCanFindMeInBedDrinkingWine,EatingChocolate,Half-Reading/Half-WatchingAMidsomerMurderI'veSeen4XBefore.
AtLeast.

Photo from here. Courtesy of her.

Sick or Depressed?

Or same thing?

Something has rendered me quiet (except for the complaining), chock full of the mehs, and feeling like doing nothing at all. Or at least nothing productive. Even my cherished act of ironing - the domestic engineering equivalent of Xanax, isn't working it's typical magic today.

The fun has even been taken out of comfort food. Chloe, the Dancer, has taken up her post next to the kitchen door and I can feel her silently judging me as I drift in and out of there hunting for something to make me feel right again. I know that she looks at my growing ass and thinks "dear lord, is that what I have to look forward to?" right before she starts clearing her throat and throwing disdainful glances at my bowl of ice cream or glass of soda or that Duggar-Family sized bag of cheese doodles I'm pulling in the wagon behind me.

Nothing tastes right, I'd really rather just sleep, passively watch old movies or kinda sorta read. And there's this nagging sense that I should be doing something. It's an internal nag, not an external one. Except for the moment when MathMan very sweetly wondered aloud if I'd be joining him at the gym today, I damn near took his head off in a most unpleasant growl "Did you not just hear me say I don't feel like doing anything?" I hit almost every word in that sentence so hard for emphasis that I don't even know where to place the italics.

I'm sorry MathMan. As if you need a grump of a wife to deal with now.

So my question is out there - sick or depressed? Please discuss. Before I make another attempt at the ironing, I'm going to don a disguise and sneak into the kitchen for some pudding. I think there's whipped cream, too.......

And Now for Something Completely Different

Because I'm busy coughing up a lung, reading books that are due at the library today and beyond any ability to renew, slathering my feet with Vick's Vapor Rub and contemplating the fact that draft one of my novel (I still feel incredibly self-conscious calling it that) may be complete, I'm going to take the easy way out and do something crassly commercial (as if that's something completely different) .

You see, I don't get out much and so, when I do, I make damn sure that it's for something I'm glad on which to spend my time and money. For example, I don't just go see any movie. I go see the movies that, when I see the trailer, I say something like "I HAVE to see that movie." The ones I think might be interesting can wait until they are on Pay Per View or On Demand or Turner Classic Movies, for that matter. Yeah - it may take me that long.

So on Christmas day, we saw the new movie Sherlock Holmes. Now I love Jeremy Brett's portrayal of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's creation so I wondered how I would feel about Robert Downey, Jr. in the role. It was not lost on me that one addict playing another might make Downey's portrayal richer somehow, but I wasn't sure it that would be enough.

Well, let me tell you that I was not disappointed. I loved this movie. I loved it so much so that I want to see it again. It was rich and lush and fun and action-packed and slightly campy and humorous and witty and even had eye candy for anyone's tastes (midget, giant, Mrs. Hudson, shirtless men, beautiful women, officers in uniform, shipyard workers, butchered swine, gamblers, people with funny teeth). Something for everyone!

I don't do this often, but for good entertainment, I recommend Sherlock Holmes. Mind you, I am one who enjoys movies as entertainment and escapism, not so much as social commentary. I could never sit through Slum Dog Millionaire, for example. When it's too real and too depressing, it's too real and too depressing. Thank you, no. That's why I call my mother once a month, okay?

So there we were all ready to watch the movie. The theater darkened and the previews came on (yay!). Wouldn't you know it? Another movie trailer for one in which I exclaimed "I have to see that!"

Oh, no, wait, that's not it. I've seen that one several times. Here's the right one...



See you at the movies. I'll be the chickadee with the purse weighted down with smuggled in candy.

Tis the Season...

This turns out to be the season of change. Or perhaps, more accurately, the season of going back to the start...

Our gifts have been of an incredibly practical nature. We put up a tree for the first time in probably ten years. (Thank you Target staffer who pointed out the display tree was 75% off. $7.50 for a tree? Why not?)

There are no more markers of having little kids in the house - it's more like when MathMan and I first started sharing a life. Although Sophia is ten going on twenty-five and still a child, of course, there is a distinct lack of things that need assembling. There were no stickers to stick on Barbie things, nothing that needed to be cut out of packaging using the Jaws of Life.

Christmas Eve started what, I hope, will become a new tradition. This year, we used the wonders of technology and the Spirits of Skype to converge on MathMan's oldest brother's house for carols played by the Golden Family Concert Band. There we were, us in our Georgia living room and MathMan's youngest brother and his family in their house in New Jersey, enjoying the sights and sounds of Christmas Eve, just like the old days. It was quite nice, actually.

We put out our own version of a holiday spread and will probably just eat leftovers all day and save the turkey roll (hey, there are only five of us) dinner for another time when the food is running low and we've got more month than money (The joys of a once a month paycheck for teachers. Ask any educator you know, they'll tell you that January seems to stretch on forever, especially when even the Ramen Noodles have run out.)

The point is, we've fussed more than usual with the busyness of the holidays, but the fussing has been in ways that have been more rewarding and less frustrating. I keep telling myself - write it down, this is what the holidays are about - being with the ones you love, being good to them and yourself, spreading the cheer where you can and having some fun that doesn't feel squeezed from the last little bit you have to give.

Okay, so now I've written it. The trick is to remember it, right? Right.

From all of us here at Golden Manor, may you and yours have a very happy holiday season. Thank you for sharing yourself and your thoughts here. I'm honored that you come here to read and be a part of this happy madness.

Love,

Lisa

Here's a little sampling of the music from Christmas Eve (with special guest, MathMan's sister)

Our Christmas scrapbook.

I Read You, I See Me, Part 2

Continued from yesterday....

Much of Powell's book makes me cringe from a certain, palpable recognition, but I won't go so far as to beat up Powell for her issues surrounding her husband. I was especially annoyed with the female reviewers who claimed that Powell treated her husband like crap. Well, perhaps so, in some ways, but the truth is - and I'm speaking from experience here - her husband stayed in the relationship out of his own desires for whatever it is that he gets from the situation.

I seriously doubt that Powell ever pulled a knife on him and told him that he couldn't leave so that she could continue to cuckold him and then write about it. No, there's more to it and I won't pretend, unlike those other reviewers, to know what it is. Powell's husband is a grown man with a mind of his own. If he were so unhappy, he would leave. Why doesn't he or why can't he? Perhaps he could write his own book and explain. Perhaps he doesn't feel the need.

All of this is to say that as I've plucked images, people, moments and bad actions from my own life to write my book, I have fretted over how my characters would be viewed because they, too, are incredibly flawed people. Not one of them is all good or all bad. Like most of us, each has their quirks and demons. Each of them can appear utterly normal while a river of ick runs below the surface. And each of them will just carry on, as people do, stumbling, picking themselves up and trying again. Some will even be kicked while they're down and the person doing the kicking might surprise the reader. But isn't that how life is?

So do I love the Powell book? Probably not.

Honestly? I'm reading it with the same self-absorption that Powell wrote it. I'm making it all about me. I'm skimming the butchery parts because I got dragged out to the slaughterhouse one too many times when I was a kid and reading those parts can give me an olfactory flashback that is most unpleasant. Nope, I'm a perfectly self-absorbed reader, searching for the words and passages that resonate with me, that reflect my own situation or that illustrate perfectly and quite eloquently the relationship MathMan and I have shared lo these twenty-two years. More embarrassingly, I cling to the bits that describe her obsession with her lover because it, too, reflects my own personal mismanagement that sent me skittering toward madness a couple of years ago.

Would I recommend it to you? Not without caveat. As one reviewer said, "If you believe in the sanctity of marriage, this book is not for you...." Oh, agreed. A big heaping helping of agreed. If you're a sanctity of marriage person, consider this my Danger! Danger, Will Robinson! moment. Do not bother yourself with this book.

But if you think that people get married for all kinds of reasons - known and unknown - and that each marriage is the sum of its parts, rather than some spiritual binding, then you might like this book.

The fact is - infidelity is but one way to hurt your spouse. There are sins of commission and sins of omission. No one ever wants to talk abut the damage done by withholding affection or love or intimacy. No one wants to discuss how marriages begun in one's twenties might just outlive their realistic shelf life when the couple reaches their forties, fifties or sixties. Perhaps the whole reason we've seen a cultural shift in the average age at which people marry for the first time is because the younger generations understand that who you are when you're twenty-two isn't the person you want to have picking out the person with whom you'll spend the rest of your life.

For my part, I'm going to finish my story the way I'd originally intended. Yesterday morning, as I was going over it with MathMan, fussing about what the moralists might think (fingers crossed they'll have their chance to moralize about it!), MathMan asked why I should care? I care, I guess, because I know that I will just as protective of my characters as I was of Julie Powell, a character of her own making. It irritates me that often the same people who can get totally insane about marital fidelity are the same people who would insist that people stay in unhappy marriages - kind of the 'you made your bed, now you must lie in it' approach to living. It's punitive and petty and unnecessary.

Of course, Powell puts herself out there for the attacks by the simple act of writing about her life - warts and all. I suspect she must have a relatively thick skin by now, but who knows? And besides, as someone once said, respectability is overrated. I'm sure Powell has heard that before...

I Read You, I See Me

MathMan and I lay in bed this morning doing what we do when the day stretches ahead of us with no work, no plans for anything in particular. Talk, snuggle, fight over the blankets, bemoan a sore back (me), spoon, talk some more. I know, it's almost embarrassing in its wholesomeness, and you thought I was going to tell you something much more risque, didn't you? Admit it. You thought it was Thursday.

Anyway, as we lay there in the new morning light, I told MathMan some more parts of the story that I planned to write today. Sometimes I actually do try to work out the action before I put the words on paper. Thank goodness for MathMan. He's been my sounding board on so much of this story, he's been key to any of it that's actually gotten finished.

I told him how I'd finally decided to keep the story as fiction, partly because I was so brought up short by the reaction to Julie Powell's book Cleaving. I saw some reviews of it via a couple of online resources and I was a naively surprised at the rancor and venom directed at Ms. Powell for what is likely her pretty straight forward telling of an extramarital affair that was more like an addiction.

Mind you, the complaints were not about Ms. Powell's writing, although one person noted that even though she may have been a "good blogger," that doesn't make her a good writer. Noting that all the reviewers I read yesterday evening were women, I felt a bit protective of Ms. Powell. I was pretty huffy after reading one from a woman who spent lots of words to tell us all what a "despicable" creature she believed Julie Powell to be.

For those of you who've been around since the PoliTits days and who remember the Drama of Golden Manor Part XI aka UnGlued, you're hardly expressing any shock to yourself or your cats right now that I was a wee bit stung by the sanctimonious moralizing of people - okay women - who think that Julie Powell is a piece of trash because she admits to cheating on her husband, being a weak individual and generally using sex and alcohol as her guiding lights when all else failed.

Of course she's flawed, but isn't that the point?

As for those reviewers who noted that Ms. Powell is self-absorbed, I have to wonder how they missed the fact that the book is a memoir? People who aren't a least semi-self-absorbed don't write memoirs. In fact, I'm going to go out on a limb here and suggest that most of us, even the most ardent of those reviewers, don't want to read a book about a life that is entirely without conflict, drama or an occasional bad thought.

Would you go to the library or bookstore and pick out the book that sells itself like this:

Lisa Golden lives a clean life. She never does anything wrong. She is a good mother who never falters, never yells, never lets fast food cross the threshold of her perpetually tidy and sanitary home. She has never been guilty of letting her kids stay up late and she's never bought a single thing to simply make a kid shut up. She loves her husband completely, but with just the proper amount of reserve to retain her respectability. She never questions authority. She consumes a healthy, balanced diet and gets just the right amount of exercise. She's never been hospitalized for anything other than giving birth. She is a solidly adequate daughter, sister, and employee. She wakes up happy or at least mostly so every day and never thinks about the bad things that happen to good people or any of the world's injustices. She knows better because that kind of thinking only leads to unhappiness. And Lisa has no room in her life for unhappiness. Furthermore, Lisa has never knowingly physically harmed anyone, been a party to a international incident, invented anything, solved any mystery nor won any big jackpot or major award. She has never driven in a NASCAR race, ran for office, found Jesus, developed a method for helping herself, interviewed a wildly famous person, slept with anyone of note, or climbed the Eiffel Tower wearing a Spiderman costume. She's usually on time for things and has not starred in any production of anything. She's never jumped out of an airplane, rescued anyone or run any kind of marathon. She hasn't cured, created nor destroyed anything. She is not a spy. Her life has been remarkable in its absolute mediocrity, steadfast adherence to all society's mores and a belief that average and safe is everything it's cracked up to be. She is the epitome of never doing anything that would make the neighbors talk.

What? You're waiting for the "but," aren't you? You're expecting the dust jacket text to finally tell you where the story really starts. Yeah, yeah, Lisa is living this happy life and all is well. But..... but nothing. That's it. That's all there is to the story. There is no "but."

Would you buy or borrow that book? Hell, you wouldn't even steal it. Not even to use to even out the legs on a wobbly table.

See - the story is the but. The story isn't the ho hum drum of a perfectly ordinary life. The story is what happens that makes it different - not good or bad, but different.

Now, does this mean I'm recommending adultery, selfishness and a serious lack of impulse control to anyone? Of course not. Is Powell self-absorbed and self-serving, hell yeah. But, frankly, who isn't on some level? Even the most altruistic people get some sort of satisfaction from giving without any expectation of receiving.

Powell's book, well-written in my estimation (that means easy to read, the prose not too overworked), is a memoir. It's not a bloody how to, although there are some recipes scattered throughout. I understand from some of the reviews that there a sort of travelogue in the last third of the book. I'm not there yet, but I'll bet you dollars to donuts that it will make me seethe with jealousy that Powell had both the financial resources and the familial freedom to just up and travel and I'll probably start hating on her, too. Only I'll hate on her for her success, not her moral "failings."

So far, though, here's what I'm getting from the book: It's the story of a flawed woman who is honest enough to write about it and who can make me both laugh and want to strangle her because I see myself in her. As she describes both her relationship with her husband and her (former) lover, I am struck by how very close to the bone she gets. (No pun intended.)

I keep reading because I want to see how Powell might or might not resolve things with her husband. I want to see if and how she figures out how to banish her lover from her head. Although her situation is far more flexible than mine (she now has some financial freedom due to the sale of her first book Julie and Julia and there are no children involved), I want to see how she uses the crazy in her life to move forward or not.

As I've been reading in fits and starts (kind of like my writing these days), I can tell you that it's clear that Powell is not making this shit up. There are some passages that make me worry that she's used some crazy military-grade tapping system to see inside my psyche and memory banks. Her flaws and predilections are so much like my own, I have to put the book down sometimes to clear my head.

To be continued tomorrow.....

A Writer Writes Always....

Quiz: Who can tell me the name of the movie that line comes from?
Here's a hint.

Okay, so here's what I'm learning so far about this "writing for a living" thing. Well, okay, perhaps calling it "writing for a living" is putting the cart three miles before the horse, but a girl can dream, yo.

Lessons learned thus far:

1. When the words hit me, I am sometimes not in a position to stop everything and write. For example, a kid's chorus concert, riding in the car to run some errand, in the middle of a classic film, or when my hands are covered in flour because the baking bug has bitten me. I do, as suggested by The Cracker Queen, carry around writing implements and a notebook to capture lines, ideas, whatnot for later, but damn it all, it does irritate me when all the sudden I feel inspired or need to write and I can't.

2. The story comes to me in fits and starts, but the best part is when I am writing it with a general idea, but the details start flowing and dots start connecting as I write and I don't feel like I actually planned it out, but it works.

3. I am still not sure if the novel is two stories or one. It's semi-autobiographical and I wonder if I should pull some pieces out for some kind of nonfiction work later. It's making me a little crazier than usual and sometimes I just have to set it aside and think. And that's just dangerous.

MathMan has continued to encourage me to finish it first, then tinker. I agree. As I near the end, I find the self-doubt more troublesome, but not insurmountable.

4. I am often more in the mood to read than write. Carol of Kimonomomo had the pleasure of meeting the author Julie Powell a couple of weeks ago. She went to a reading and book signing for Ms. Powell's newest book Cleaving. I was touched when she sent me the book with high praise. "I thought of you immediately." I think is pretty much what she said. Now, I am torn, torn, torn because I want to finish my novel and I want to read Cleaving straight through.

Ah, to be troubled by such trivial matters when the world is exploding around us.....

TMI Thursday: Uterus in Revolt

Click the picture for more TMI.

TMI = Too Much Information. As the photo above says "you've been warned."

Contrary to my most ardent desires, I am not getting any younger. Whether I wish to or not, I will eventually experience "the change." Menopause, I know, will have its rewards, but I'm just not looking forward to it any more than I looked forward to starting my period when I was a kid.

"I'd just rather not," I remember telling one of my friends. She was rather aghast because her head had been filled with all sorts of "becoming a woman" nonsense. Even back then, I knew the whole reproductive thing was just a ruse for making sex more complicated for women.

Over the summer, I had one of my parts replaced. It was time for my IUD to get some new retreads. For those of you unfamiliar with walking around with one of these microscopic devices clinging for dear life into the lining of your uterus, when it's changed out, there's usually some mild cramping and spotting. After your uterus settles back into its status as an inhospitable environment for fertilized eggs, you might get lucky and stop having periods altogether. This is what I've been used to for the last five years or so. No wonder it's party, party, party all the time around here....

Where was I? Oh, right, so this last time, I kept having these little mini-periods. It was weird. All the sudden, right out of the blue, I'd be popping a squat, give a quick wipe using the prescribed front to back method, and bam! there would be a bit of uterine lining where it should not be.

This did not please me altogether that much.

I wondered if it had to do with the fact that Chloe kept coming home from school, dragging her dirty laundry and hormones with her. Was she causing havoc with my system? Then I wondered if, perhaps, I'd simply forgotten that it took me a good six months to stop having uterine weirdness the first time I got an IUD. Perhaps. Then I remembered that when some of my friends started the perimenopause stage, their periods went haywire.

Anything is possible, I suppose. Be that as it may, it's a drag to have random periods, but what I really dread are the hot flashes. I mean, when I'm sitting here in my house, at my desk trying to pull myself into myself because it's so cold, the idea of some hot flashes has definite appeal. But I know it's folly to make light.

The truth is, I like being a girl/woman best when the whole period part of being female is relegated to a distant memory like it's been for the last five years. Too bad there isn't something I can jam into my uterine lining that would help quell those hormonal changes until I've passed through to the other side when I can have all the sex I want without having to worry about anything but hurt feelings, a bit of soreness because I've never done that before and the occasional STD.

And thus concludes this episode of TMI Thursday: Uterus in Revolt.

In a Mood

Oh, she's got a bug up her ass. A burr under her saddle. A bee in her bonnet. She's been thinking again. It's a bad habit she really ought to break before she loses her some friends or gets her teeth knocked down her throat.

- Someone during/after reading this post

I've been thinking about all the people I'd like to hear shut up. I've been developing a mental list of the people from whom I'd enjoy nothing more than some pure, unadulterated silence. Not a peep. Not a sound. As a teacher at an elementary school said this morning "Your bottom lip should be touching your upper lip."

Like that.

Here's my list, along with some commentary because goodness knows I don't know how to be still. Hell, I'm struggling with being concise. Quiet is problematic. Silence? Wholly unachievable. Hear me shout it now. I am a hypocrite.

Labels aside, I still want to go days, weeks, months, years without hearing from or about the following:

Sarah Palin. Please. Tick a lock. It's embarrassing to see someone who just isn't that intelligent pontificate about things and suffer from a complete lack of self-awareness. Don't make us pity you. It diminishes us all. Have some respect for this nation and its people. Stop telling them that it's cool and awesome to be small-minded, mean-spirited and exclusionary. They believe you and that is not healthy. You - mouth - closed.

(Stop looking at me like that and put down that mirror. I'm very self-aware. My therapist says so.)

Anyone still joking or reporting about Tiger Woods' sex life. Sorry people, but cheap shots? It's been done to death. Sex scandals are funny? Maybe if you're in the seventh grade. Listen up - sex scandals are only truly funny when the person involved has been a sanctimonious twat about (drumroll) S-E-X involving other people. It's when the faux-moralists fall that the real humor begins. Then, by all means, laugh yourselves silly. I do.

As for the media that has jizzed itself exhausted over this? Time to wipe up and shut it. Story over.

My son. When he is on the xBox live, his mouth runs nonstop. And negatory. I will NOT come to the cold basement to listen to the French kids and attempt to translate.

Joe Lieberman. (Seriously, people of Connecticut, why?)

Anyone who doesn't think we need universal, single payer health care. Yeah, yeah, England, yeah, yeah, socialism, yeah, yeah, I got mine - screw you. Here's what I wish for you - a terrible illness - not deadly, only bad enough to make you wish you were dead. Follow that up quickly with the form-letter bad news that you can't afford the care or the cure because your private health insurance won't pay for it. Then let's hear you tell us again how having yours and fucking everyone else is so spectacular.

People who don't "believe" in climate change or that we greedy, resource gobbling humans don't have anything to do with it. Oh, really? I invite you, then, to come stand with me next to the big black candy mountain that fuels Plant Bowen. Watch as the baby-shit brown ribbon of noxious gasses forms and coagulates so that it can float south toward Atlanta. So you don't see the point in cleaning up our ways? Well, here, open wide. Let me stick this hunk of coal in your gaping maw so you can shut up and think about that.

The voices in my head. I hear you - failure, death, destruction, naked snow boarding, sex, drugs, rock and roll, chocolate, debt, pain, self-loathing, guilt, sedimentary rocks, Mad Magazine, and cookies. I hear you. If you don't clamp it, I will seek pharmaceutical duct tape for your mouths.

Sheeple of any stripe. Please. Close your mouth and try to use some critical thinking skills. You can't talk and think at the same time, obviously.

MathMan. Every time he tells me it's time to go the gym, I want him to shut up. What does he not understand about the fact that once I'm in and done for the day, that means I am done. Except, of course, he does run with his cute butt on the treadmill in front of me, so ...... nah, I still want him to shut up.

Whichever cat it is who continues to repeat meow at me even though I am in the process of putting the food right in front of their faces. I get it. You're hungry. Here's the food, now shut up and eat.

I have oh so many more, but MathMan is sitting here right now not shutting up and telling me it's time to go to the gym. I better go, because now I hear him muttering under his breath about cattle prod purchases.

Please feel free to tell me who you'd like to hear shut up. And you'd better not say me because (1) I will hunt you down and probe you ungently with MathMan's new cattleprod; and (2) Clearly, that's not true or you wouldn't come here and read this nonsense, silly.

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.

Unemployment Diary: Day Three A Retrospective

Well, it isn't taking me long to get used to this. I mean, honestly, I'm already too used to it. Now we need four semi trucks stuffed with hundred dollar bills to pull up in front of the house and I'll never have to go back to work. I chose four because five just seems greedy.

Now I'm playing catch up because Friday got away from me.

Chloe asked me to ride over with her to her school and at first I declined because normally the thought of giving away five more hours to riding in the car is not something I'd relish. But since all I have is time, I turned it around and thought "Hey! An opportunity to hang out with my kid without the din of sibling rivalry making me wish I'd tied them into sacks and tossed them into the river! Why not?"

Turns out, it was a lovely drive. We discussed deep issues like how are kids going to learn classical music these days if they're not exposed to it during the copious viewing of classic cartoons? We followed that discussion with a hummed duet of the chorus from Carmen. Talk about generational differences. When I hear that piece, I think of Gilligan's Island. When she hears it, she thinks of Hey, Arnold!

My father in law, may he rest in peace, just snapped his conducting baton in half wherever he is.

A Moment of Seriousness

Regular readers know that the only way I deal with stuff is through humor. I'm pretty transparent. If I can't laugh about something, it's possible that it will eat me alive. So I hoot and guffaw my way through the crazy stuff that happens because it is my one true coping mechanism. In other words, I'd rather laugh than cry.

However, there is one thing that I've been incredibly lucky to avoid and that's anything resembling a tragedy when it comes to my kids. No matter how much I joke and complain about them, I think you guys know that if something bad happened to any one of them, I would likely never recover. That would be the one thing that would finally push me over the precipice on which I shimmy and shake most of the time. To be honest with you, I don't even let myself think about the bad things that could happen to them.

Well, the other day, my friend Buelahman emailed me and asked if I'd post about a young couple who have gone missing. The young woman is the daughter of one of Beulahman's friends. How could I not want to help? Of course, I responded. Of course!

So please, my friends, click this link, look at those young faces, read the short narrative and pass it on. The more eyeballs that roll over the photo, the greater the chance that someone might recognize these young people.

For the record, were this one of my children, well, nevermind. I can't even wrap my mind around the horror of having a missing child. I just can't.

Do your part, whatever that is. Click the link, study the faces for a few seconds, pass it on if you can. As MathMan is always telling me - it's a numbers thing. In this case, more is better.

Thank you, people of the internets.

And the Winner Is!

Thank you for all the comments yesterday. Some of you think it's cool if I just hang out for a bit and get my bearings. I needed to hear that. Others of you are pro-routine and I appreciate that, too, because, I am someone who needs routine. Others of you are all about the prize and I totally get that, as well. Who doesn't like free stuff?

Because I said I would, I wrote down each commenter's name on a little sheet of paper and put them into a nifty antique flower pot. Sophia, my lovely assistant drew a name out of the bowl and the winner is.............

Bill Stankus!!!!!!

Congratulations, Bill. If you'll email me your mailing address, I have a prize to send you. I've selected it especially for you.

Thanks to everyone who left their wise and funny words! Watch for next week's prize giveaway!

Oh, and don't miss yesterday's bonus post: Say Cheese.

And, of course, stay tuned for today's Unemployment Diary post. It'll be up later, after I return from a jaunt to Brenau with Chloe.

Finally, here's a little of what we've got up to so far.......still no routine, but lots of lipsyncing action!


Chloe Golden doing All I Want for Christmas...

Say Cheese

The Backstory
Before I met MathMan, I was in love with a tall, handsome and driven guy. We met, quickly fell in love, and lived together briefly until he left to go to another school. Eventually, our immaturity and the physical distance rubbed the luster away from the relationship and we were left with something not so nice. He chose to pursue his dreams and I was no longer a part of them.

He was far more driven than I was. He believed in himself and his talents while I was still just treading water, unsure about my future and quite convinced that there was nothing special about me. He'd know for much of his life what he wanted to be and he did, eventually become that. No, that's not right. He always was that. His gift is part of who he is.

I'd forgotten until recently, that he'd also encouraged me to pursue my dreams. I didn't believe that I had any talent so the notion that I could actually follow a career into writing seemed like so much fluff. It was pie, sky, not something this girl could do.

When he left to go to art school, he gave me a journal covered in red fabric. It's one of my life's treasures like the kid's newborn hospital bracelets and the shattered remains of the glass MathMan stomped to the joyous cries of Mazel Tov at the end of our wedding. On the first page, he wrote me a message that ended with this postscript: Remember - all good writers keep journals, too! Even as he moved on to follow his destiny, he was nudging me toward mine.

It only took me twenty-four years to figure out what he was telling me. Write - you want to be a writer - so write.

So that's my friend. I still love him. It's not the desperate, clutching, crazy love of a twenty year old, but it's the love you have for old friends who shared special times with you. He was key in my discovery of that world outside my little Midwestern existence. Over time, we lost touch. Life got busy and his first ex-wife didn't like me and who knows what else makes friendships fade into the background. Last year, we reconnected and have developed a zany kinship that provides us with the chance to enjoy each others company without all the sexual tension and angst of youth.

And Now....
As life would have it, things did not turn out so well for him in his marriages and he is now is a state of flux. While he waits out his particular situation, he's discovered that he had some unfulfilled needs. I'm not sure why - having been burned twice or because I'm off the market - he doesn't seem to desire a long term relationship, but he'd like some help polishing his apple. When he first shared with me the length of his sexual drought, I refrained from teasing him too much and instead dove head first into a discussion about procuring some professional help for his needs.

What began as a joke eventually became a reality. I think he was afraid to tell me at first. He wrote me to tell me that his drought was over and I responded with the appropriate level of hells yeah!!!! Was it good? because I'm pretty much a guy when it comes to things like this. I stopped short of asking for details. We do have some barriers, no matter how weak they are.

After he got over the fact that I wasn't going to mock him for having used the services of a professional, he suggested that I help him seek out his next carnal encounter. Because neither of us know when to stop the joke, this led to me looking at escort sites last night as my children slept and MathMan watched the beginning of Orson Welle's The Third Man. Can I just tell you that is quite the experience to go shopping for a date? Sure, sure, I know some of you are wondering how I could take part in the selling of the flesh, but let's not debate that here. I could tell you that not one of those presumably educated women appeared to be under any duress to do what they do for a living.

Before I went to work on my search for just the right woman to make my friend's weekend a little less, um, lonely, I did have a phone conversation with him to learn how things went with his first date. No, I didn't ask for or receive details about sex acts performed, but I did inquire about the process. What I learned was rather sweet with just the hint of piquant commercialism. The outcome was, after all, a given. As my friend noted "None of what I did really mattered, I was going to get laid anyway."

True enough, but at least both adults involved went to the trouble of behaving as if this were a date instead of a financial transaction. First he described how he directed his "date" to his location, where he lives alone. The rest of the conversation went like this:

Him: I even vacuumed the apartment and changed the sheets.
Me: Well, that's saying something!
Him: I know, right? It's more than I do for myself.
Me: Okay, then what?
Him: Well, I went out and bought three different kinds of champagne.
Me: Very nice!
Him: Thanks.
Me: Anything else?
Him: Yes. I put out a cheese plate.
Me: A cheese plate?
Him: Yes, I offered her a variety of cheeses.

A variety of cheeses? Dear lord, he prepped for his "date" just like my mother prepares to host a Home Ec Club meeting.

I finally stopped laughing long enough to take notes. You never know when you're going to need story material, you know?

Unemployment Diary: Day Two

Well, Day One was mostly a success. However, there are some changes that I'll likely implement because it can't be chaos, mouth breathing and laughing at the crazy things people post on Youtube all the time.

For example, I really must shower. Sure, yesterday I conserved water, but that kind of sloth is unsustainable. I just had this conversation with CDP when she called me on Tuesday evening (thanks, C, for the call). The truth is, I don't function well until the blast of the shower whacks me in the face, so this business of not showering cannot be a long-term strategy for productivity. Note to self: shower, use that fancy body wash that makes you smell like a sugar cookie.

I'm also going to have to re-establish some boundaries with the children. At the moment, things are pre-holiday hectic, Chloe is home from school and there are all sorts of mini-intrusions that make me both cranky and guilt-ridden because no matter what I do, it never seems to be enough.

Having Chloe hang around the house is just too much of an incentive to goof off. She's a terrible influence. Yesterday, I made her breakfast and later, she made me hot chocolate. We fussed over how adorable the cats are. We sprayed adorable, but bad, cats in the face with water to teach them (again) that they are not supposed to be on the kitchen table. We watched David after the Dentist and its many spoofs. We laughed at this video. I did bake a chocolate chess pie and start dinner, which I soon abandoned to go chat with a friend who is in the middle of some personal issues, but honestly, I didn't write much and the laundry basket sat overflowing and ignored all day.

I was hausfrau FAIL and writer FAIL. I don't do anything small, do I?

I finally retreated to my office to attempt to get some work done on my book (that's code for fooling around on Facebook and reading blogs). Before I could shut my door and post the "writing" sign, Chloe had followed me in and lay on the floor. I mumbled something to her as I continued to stare at my monitor. A few minutes later, I asked her what she was doing and she replied simply, "Just lying on your floor." A few minutes passed and I heard her sigh. "Did you need something? Are you okay?" I asked.

"Nope, I'm just lying on your floor and sighing." Okay.

Another few minutes ticked by and she stood up in one fluid motion. I bothered to turn and look in her direction. "I guess I'll go back down to the sofa and breathe through my mouth in front of HGTV," she said and headed toward the door.

Some maternal instinct kicked in. "Chloe," I said to her retreating back "I don't mean to ignore you. Did you want something? Did you wish to talk?"

She paused in the doorway and looked at me with a crooked smile. "Nope, I'm fine."

I want blathering on. "Should I be more emotionally available and open to you? I'm so sorry that I'm such a self-involved and distant mother!" I held my arms out to her, palms up. See! See! I am here for you! See!

She cocked one eyebrow at me and and waved me off. "Me. Going downstairs. Mouthbreathing. HGTV. That's all."

"Yes, but are you sure?" I whined at her.

She gave me a frightened look and fled down the stairs.

When the other two kids got home, I provided similar motherly love and attention. Later, through their attorneys, they issued statements requesting that I knock it off.

So back to this being out of work stuff....to make all this productivity happen, I'm going to require a schedule. I need to know what I'm going to do most of each day, otherwise, it's an embarrassing free for all. I suppose I'll spend a good chunk of today working out such a device and plan. If you have suggestions, please leave them in comments. I'd appreciate it very much.

In fact, I've got a little prize for one randomly selected commenter today. To make it easy, leave a comment on this post and I'll put your name in a bowl and draw from the winner from it tomorrow. Comments must be received by midnight tonight (December 10, 2009). I'll notify the winner via another post about nothing and by email so if your email isn't connected to your blog profile, please check back tomorrow.

And, please do come back later when I tell you how the escort screening went! People of the internets, I have lived such a sheltered life, I tell you what.....

Until later,

Lisa

Unemployment Diary Day One

I know, actually it's day two, but yesterday was my running around the house naked, bookmarking porn and playing any song I could find that contained the word free, so I'm considering this as my first real day off.

It's now 12:53 p.m. and I've managed to do some things and yet, I still have a long list of things to accomplish. Yesterday, I did administrative things like finding out the particulars of our Chapter 13 deductions from my vanished paycheck (refile or self pay? Answer = self pay with lots of pain), what I must do with my severance, updated my linkedin, updated a couple of online job seeker sites and even decluttered some space in the house. All that was crammed into twelve minutes and thirty-nine seconds because the rest of the time was all that naked, porn and music stuff. I am left with some carryover items to finish today.

For example, have you ever tried to screen potential escorts for an old boyfriend? Challenging stuff. It's taking me longer than I expected. I mean, I know what he likes and I have a general sense of his timeline (he screamed at me in an email that I had to get off my ass because Friday is coming up fast!) But he's not helping when I ask him if I should seek out a blond, a brunette or a redhead and he responds with "Yes." Bless his heart, though, at least he went far enough to say that he'd be fine with all three at the same time.

The deal is that I will receive a finder's fee of 20%. I'm not just doing this out of the kindness of my heart, you know. I may be the world's best (former) girlfriend, but come on. I have my limits. I assume we mean 20% of whatever he's paying her, so, naturally, I'm not looking at the fuck for a buck sites. Oh, no. We're dealing only in highly cultured and educated women. In fact, it makes me a little annoyed that I gave it away for free and worse, let my body go to hell. What a shame. I could be looking at a whole new career had it not all gone to pot.

In addition to providing escort screening services, I must write. Draft one of my novel is nearly complete. When I've written the ending, I will start the process of editing and searching for a literary agent. I can't tell you what a pleasure it will be to finally be at that stage. I mean it. For my whole life I've wanted to be a writer and now I finally am. To be able to paste the word PUBLISHED on to that will be one of the most amazing moments of my life.

The other carryover item from yesterday was mopping the kitchen floor. Either Chloe will do it, or I'm going to skate through the kitchen in some tuna covered socks. The cats will lick it clean enough.

It ain't all fun and games around here, you know.

It's all just dizzying, these changes. Before I go, I want to share with you two things that happened yesterday. They don't convey any profound or grand meaning, but I think they illustrate something that's been missing around here - me.

Thing #1
Sophia got into the car after her Chorus rehearsals and asked if her packet from the 4H office had arrived. I motioned to her that it was on the floor. She beamed with pleasure as she picked it up and looked at it. Then she remembered that it was also the day when we could snag a time for her to be a Bell Ringer. "Say no more," I chirped at her. "I already took care of it."

"Wow, Mom, you're like a real stay at home mom, but less you know," she said in all seriousness. Honestly, I don't know what she meant or how she gets these crazy ideas, but I just savored the moment of being ahead of the curve, not running behind and hoping that I hadn't blown some Mom thing again. Some of you make this look so easy, you know that? And it's really not.

She ruined it by telling me that she'd volunteered me to help out with the class party next Friday. Wait - what?

Thing #2
I had to fetch MathMan from school yesterday evening. It was miserable out. Windy, rainy, just nasty. When he walked out to the car, I had a huge smile on my face. He got in and said that I looked happier than I have in a long, long time.

That, my friends, considering that it seems like we've been in some weird sort of phase that just keeps heaping and heaping and piling on the bad stuff, was really nice to hear.

And then did he ruin it? Of course not. He may have been crazy enough to stick with me all these years, but he's not stupid.

The Box

Yesterday I was fired from my job.

Oh, sure there are euphemisms for it. Laid off. Let go. Downsized. Rightsized. Whatever. The fact is, when I got up yesterday and muttered "Man, I wish I didn't have to go to work..." I had no idea how quickly my wish would be granted.

When I turned into the parking lot at the office at 7:59 a.m. and saw the vehicle of an extra colleague in the lot, I had an inkling. I'd heard the story of how this fellow was brought in to sit and observe when our boss - now my former boss - had fired another employee. That happened before I was hired, but the story stuck with me, perhaps because it foreshadowed of my own release from the organization. The first thing I thought when I saw that white SUV was uh oh.

Obviously, being fired wasn't a complete surprise. I mean, I wasn't expecting it, mind you, but the sad reality is that our industry, which is tied to housing construction, is really struggling. I suppose you could say that I am victim number seventeen billion sixty two of this messed up economy. The ripple effect finally reached me, that's all.

My intuition was correct. I could feel it in the air as soon as I walked in to the office. My boss, looking wan and nervous in his green sweater behaved just like our cat, the secret out-of-litter-box pooper, behaves when he knows he's about to be busted for leaving his leavings next to the box instead of inside it. The extra colleague, the one brought in for The Firing wouldn't make eye contact with me. Ah, yes, okay.

I'd just put my things down in my office when my boss barely paused midstride by my door and said, "Come in my office, let's talk."

I smiled, said something like "Okay, should I bring something to take notes?" There was the way, way, way outside chance that we'd be discussing the Board meeting coming up later in the week, but I knew. Oh, I knew.

The boss (not The Boss, because why bring Bruce into this) hesitated for a split second. His hesitation told me all I needed to know. "You can....," he said with false cheer. I picked up a legal pad, my favorite uni-ball pen and willed my face to remain serene.

So I sat and listened to my boss tell me the terms and I was amazingly calm. I figured that there was no point in getting upset. I've been wanting to get out of that line of work for quite some time and voila! You know, I could never have quit such a job, especially in this economy and in our personal circumstances, but having it forced upon me seemed to be something I could accept with an uncharacteristic Zenlike quality.

After learning about my severance package, I went back to my office and did the best I could to clear some things off the computer and then set about organizing some files and things that I'd been in the middle of. I tried not to giggle too much when I realized that the big, boring project that would never end had finally ended. For me, at least.

My boss stopped in to say goodbye and complimented me on my professionalism for the way I was handling things and for taking care to leave things in a way that would make it easy for someone to pick up where I'd left off. It was nice of him to say, but it made me wonder what he'd expected from me. Crap! Had I missed an opportunity for drama?

I didn't send out any poison pen emails. I let one contact know that she should send the hotel contract directly to my boss and let another know that I could be reached at another email address. I had no interest in burning bridges because goodness knows, very little good comes from that. My friend came into my office and we had a bit of a cry, then promised that we'd stay in touch.

I packed up my things and carried them out to my car. It was not lost on me that this ritual carrying out of the box is something that many other people have experienced in these hard economic times. This was the first time I'd ever been laid off and, strangely, I felt a little glad to now know what that felt like. Okay, maybe glad isn't the right word here, but at least I sensed that I was part of something bigger than myself. Shoot, that sounds ridiculous, too. I guess I figured it was my turn and just like the statistical case for dying in a plane crash or winning the lottery, I decided that now that this had happened and I'd survived and hadn't used the word fuck even once, well, I was off the hook existentially. At least as far as firings go. For the next eight weeks, at least. Unless, of course, MathMan and the kids decide to fire me and then you can bet the word fuck will be used and with vigor. As in fuck yeah! see ya!!!!

I started to think how I could use this time to finish my first novel and start to find an agent who can help me get it published. I thought about how I could go to the gym in the middle of the day and how I could do a lot of things that I hadn't had time for because of work. Ultimately, I decided that this was the gift of time that I would have never given myself and I wasn't going to let money worries crowd that good feeling. Not yet. I pushed the money worries to the back of mind because there will be plenty of time for that fretting later and when there is alcohol available.

The rest of the day would be spent trying to figure out what to do first and coming up with a long list of want to, have to and like hell I will things.

I gave my friend a hug and walked out to my car. A favorite song was on the radio when I turned it on. I backed the car out of my spot and drove away singing.....

Bonus Friday OR

Come Next Wednesday, I'm Gonna Wish I Saved This*
(Originally posted on my Facebook. Yes, the two worlds do collide, overlap and swirl together in the most fantastic ways.)

Splotchy started this. Fran continued it. Something about guilt and long-standing tradition, something, something. It's been a bit of blogger thing. Yeah, we're nerds. We embrace it.

I've been tagged, and so by the laws vested in Fran by the State of Confusion and a little broom closet on the second floor of the Vatican, I have to answer all these questions HONESTLY.

As if.

At the end, I'm supposed to choose at least 12 people to be tagged. Plus I'm supposed to tag Fran. I don't know about you, but that seems like an awful lot of effort for something that will result in neither sexual gratification nor cold hard cash. It's not likely that I'll get through all the answers, much less honestly, so the chances that I'll bother tagging anyone are slim to none. If you have the misfortune to stumble upon this and feel the need to participate, please, by all means - feel free. Just leave me out of it.

1. What was the last thing you put in your mouth?
Well, what MathMan wants me to say is so inappropriate. The truth is a cheese stick. Not a euphemism.

2. Where was your profile picture taken?
Front Street, Rising Sun, Indiana circa 1983

3. Can you play Guitar Hero?
Not well. But I'm aces at Rock Band. Just don't ask me to play an instrument.

4. Name someone who made you laugh today?
Nick Hornby

5. How late did you stay up last night and why?
11ish. I was watching reruns of Britcoms because I am so lame.

6. If you could move somewhere else, would you?
In a heartbeat. No - quicker than that.

7. Ever been kissed under fireworks?
Yes. Wow, hadn't thought of that in AGES.

8. Which of your FB friends lives closest to you?
Family? Doug, Sophia, Nate. Non-Family? Kim Wilson and Gail Johnson

9. Do you believe exes can be friends?
Sure, as long as both put away their weapons.

10. How do you feel about Mountain Dew?
On a scale of 1 - 10 with 1 being "I'd rather drink my own urine" and 10 being Wine? Mountain Dew is a solid 5.

11. When was the last time you cried really hard?
Really hard? As in snot bubbles? About two weeks ago. (Stop looking at me, MathMan.)

12. Who took your profile picture?
I do not remember. My mom?

13. Who was the last person you took a picture of?
Does a cat count? (If you aren't a FB friend, you don't know the fun you're missing. I post pussy pictures almost daily.)

14. Was yesterday better than today?
NO. Decidedly NO.

15. Can you live a day without TV?
Yes, but only a day. At the 24 hour plus a second mark, I would turn in to a raving lunatic. How could you tell? Trust me. You'd know.

16. Are you upset about anything?
Define upset.

17. Do you think relationships are ever really worth it?
Yes. But they'd be much better managed with a whip and a chair. And meds. For me.

18. Are you a bad influence?
I suspect there are some who might have thought that at one time. But no. I'm just not that influential, darlin'

19. Night out or night in?
Depends on the company.

20. What items could you not go without during the day?
A pony-tail holder - you should have seen the pouting I did at the gym last night when I forgot one.

21. Who was the last person you visited in the hospital?
I don't remember.

22. What does the last text message in your inbox say?
You have been poked by Doug Golden on Facebook. Quelle surprise.

23. How do you feel about your life right now?
I should say something positive right? Okay. It could be worse. Much worse, actually. Oh, hell, now I feel guilty for whining about things. I hope you're happy now.

24. Do you hate anyone?
Hate? No. Dislike? Oh yeah.

25. If we were to look in your facebook inbox, what would we find?
Treasured items. Dates to remember. An email from an old friend. Ants. A half a stick of chewing gum, that thing you thought you lost, and my secret decoder ring.

26. Say you were given a drug test right now, would you pass?
Without a doubt. I am so clean, I squeak when I walk.

27. Has anyone ever called you perfect before?
A perfect ass. Not as in has a, but is a....

28. What song is stuck in your head?
Jason Mraz's I'm Yours. And I may have to blow my brains out as a result.

29. Someone knocks on your window at 2:00 a.m., who do you want it to be?
The more money than you can ever spend or give away fairy.

30.Wanna have grandkids by the time your 50?
I really don't care if I'm ever a grandparent. That's up to my kids, not me.

31. What do you have to do tomorrow?
I have to go to the office, pick up MathMan after a basketball game, celebrate his birthday with the kids and maybe get the car back with its new clutch. See - this honesty thing is damn dull.

32. Do you think too much or too little?
I think too much. I was diagnosed with that affliction just today.

33. Do you smile a lot?
Indeed I do. Even when I probably shouldn't. But it beats assault charges.

34. What hour were you born?
Really? Do you think my mother would have remembered or told me that? Please. Now, ask me what time of day MY kids were born (she shot back smugly and with the kind of sanctimony that makes you want to smack her.)

That's it, kids. It's time for me to see what's not changed on some Britcom I've already seen twenty-seven times. Don't envy me, too much. Not everyone can handle this kind of excitement.

(Thanks, Fran. I owe you one.)

Here's the referred to profile pic because yes I do like to remember that I was once slim, cute, tanned and had it all before me.....

Oh what this chick didn't know she didn't know....

Instant Karma's Gonna Get You

###########

She was writing a novel and hit a wall. The story just stopped.

"Is that okay? Is it okay for the story to just stop? Because the lives the story is about or rather, based upon, continue. They haven't ended. The story isn't over. So maybe this isn't a good story at all." She was babbling. First she said it to herself. Later, she repeated this to her husband.

"What do you mean? Of course it's a good story. And no, stories don't have to have neat little endings," he was trying to drive and cope with a needy wife. These aren't always fun things to do simultaneously. On the other hand, one (the driving) can provide a jolly good excuse for ignoring the other (the needy wife).

She gnawed on her thumbnail and stared out the window. "Did you feel that? That rowr, rowr thing the car is doing?"

Her husband had that look. His forehead was furrowed, his eyebrows coming together. "It's revving. Yes. I guess you'd better take it in sooner rather than later. You'll have time?"

"I figured as much and already took a vacation day tomorrow so I can take it in. God, I hope it's nothing expensive," she resumed chewing on her nail distractedly. The story was driving her crazy. She just wanted to finish it, but it seemed too busy. It seemed like too many stories happening at once. It occurred to her that she'd have to go back to it and pull it apart. Oh hell.

Her husband ticked off a number of things that could be causing the car to behave the way it was. Neither of them wanted to name the big, horribly expensive thing that could be going wrong. She recognized it from the time she was driving their daughter's car over the summer. They'd just been getting ready to take a little combo trip - her company's annual conference with the family joining her to enjoy the resort for free. She was on her way home from the office when she stopped for some shredded cheese at a local convenience store. When she pulled out of the parking lot, the car bucked and revved and then just quit. The clutch had gone out.

Two days ago, when she was driving home from the office, she noticed a similar feel to this car. She was on the entrance ramp to I85 and when the car kept going, she told herself that she was imagining things.

Her husband was still talking. As usual, she was only half-listening. "Well, whatever it costs, it's money we don't have," he said somberly.

"Fabulous."

**************

The nice Toyota man looked a little worried. "Okay, so it's the clutch. Eleven hundred dollars parts and service. I'll have to order the parts, though, don't have 'em in. Ya got someone to pick you up? Because your car isn't safe to drive."

She stood frozen on the spot, opening and closing her mouth, not quite able to respond. Yeah, this was the perfect morning to give up coffee. Again.

"Um. Uh. No. This is our only car. I don't....." she managed.

"Okay. That's okay. I've got another Corolla you can borrow. I'll get someone to bring it around. Tina here will get you all set up. You should have your car back tomorrow, maybe Friday." And with that he was gone.

Tina smiled sympathetically at her and slid a triplicate sheet of paper her direction. "Just sign here. And you'll need these keys."

********

She got into the car. It was familiar, pretty much just like the Corolla she and her husband drove, except this one was an automatic. She got into the car, adjusted the seat, turned on the lights and wipers because the rain was still coming down in sheets and pulled through the large, glass door that had magically lifted up for her exit.

"But I don't have eleven hundred dollars," she finally said aloud.

The drive home was just enough time for her to replay, once again, all the financial mistakes she and her husband had made over the twenty plus years they'd been together.

Uncharacteristically, she went chronologically. She started with the student loan money she'd sent to her boyfriend in France in 1987, clicked through the stupid student loans, her husband's expensive periodontal surgery paid for by credit card in 1990, the stupidity and short-sightedness of quitting jobs when she was first out of college, leaving the best job she ever had because she listened to her mother who was convinced that life would be better in the hometown, agreeing to her husband's adding on to his already massive student loans so that he could be a teacher and make not a lot of money, the financial strain of having children, and her favorite - always, always being a bad negotiator and not getting what she was really worth in the workplace.

She pulled the loaner car into the garage, still wondering how in the world they were going to come up with eleven hundred dollars. The lottery was a seriously long shot. She could unwrap the holiday gifts, find the receipts and begin returning things. She could just leave the car running and stay in the garage. She was worth at least her life insurance policy, right? But then, there's that pesky suicide clause that she's never been sure about. Is that true or not? And besides, how long would that take? No, that was no good.

She went upstairs and did what she always does. She cleaned up after he kids who are old enough to clean up after themselves. She checked her email and Facebook and then sat staring out the window at the rain. A kitten wandered in, merped at her and then jumped into her lap to receive lavish love and kisses on its white belly.

A few minutes later, the kitten jumped down, making her think again that it needed to have its claws addressed. She considered going to the kitchen for a bite to eat - this morning's apple had made only a small dent in her hunger. Instead, she turned back to her computer and opened up the file with her story in it.

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