Silent Movie Reel

A hard to describe situation.

Filling that role. 

A long drive ahead of us.

But first a visit.

Details, please.

There and back, there and back.

Keeping a lid on it.

Tamping it down.

Don't light the fire.

You're good at that.

Washing, hanging, stretching, folding.

Writing under your breath.

You should make a note of that.

Mowing leaves in sunshine.

While Other People dig out.

Rap. Tango. Thrash. Grunge. Fast forward. Pause.

No time, no time, no time.

A chewed thumb nail.

Were the pork chops okay?

Nothing sucks. Broken boyfriend.

His belt won't stay up, his brush won't roll.

You need a new lover.

Sleep with dreams that made you

Angry and worried.

Fuck, that can't be true.

One is real. 

You know down in your knowing bone.

It doesn't matter. Hasn't for a long time.

The other cauchemar c'est impossible!

Impossible. Right?

Navy shower, find and edit. Don't drag your feet.

You always do.

Make a list.

Go, go, go.

Look for a fix. Hope it's quick and easy.

Oh, shit. See the signs.

He left with a cup of hot water.

More coffee for you.

Bonus jitters.

I know. It's not my typical offering. It's Monday after a busy weekend. It's gray. It's kindoftensearoundhererightnow. Look in your crystal ball. What do you see for the coming week?

I've gotten used to the space I'm occupying

There are some things I cannot imagine living without. For example, music and books (click that link for a book review I've posted at buy-her).

For a long time, reading was a deferred passion. I didn't read adult books for fun while I was busy with the business of working full time and raising a family and commuting and being annoying to my inlaws, but now that my days are differently constructed (how's that for bullshit), I'm reading whatever I dang well want.

I try to follow the trends, but my tastes won't always cooperate. I got to maybe Chapter 8 of Jonathan Franzen's Freedom before I made an obnoxious sound and tossed the book aside. Patty Bergland needed meds. I'm sure of it. You know what's weird, Patty? You.

Um, sorry about that. I don't usually get that hostile about characters with whom I don't connect.

Other books grab me and I torture MathMan by telling him plot details and if he's really lucky, by reading passages to him. He's a good facial liar. His features say I'm listening, but I know the Einstein-haired brain squirrels are doing complex equations on a white board inside his cranium even while I'm speaking. It's okay. I don't quiz him to see if he was listening. I mostly talk to hear my own voice anyway.

Music, on the other hand, has never lost its place in my life. From being a little kid listening to Melanie's Brand New Key on a transistor radio to today when I heard a new song I really liked by Plan B, music is always there.

Recently, I lost my itunes in a computer crash so I've been rebuilding my music library and creating new playlists. It's time consuming, but it's hardly a chore. I've enjoyed rediscovering songs I'd forgotten we had.

After the desktop computer had to be restored, I switched over to an old laptop we thought was dead (just the battery was dead).  Score! There's an old itunes library with even more music and a couple of old playlists that were once the soundtrack of my days. Those days were so different, it's hard to believe that was my life. From the distance of two or three years, it seems like that was someone else driving all those miles, doing that work, juggling those projects and negotiating her way through egos and budgets and the Big Ideas of other people.

Even so, I can listen to some of the music from back in the day when I actually wore panty hose to meetings and I'm transported.

Can't you hear the screaming?

What are you listening to? What are you reading? Did you click the link and read the review? Don't make me come over there!

All those heartfelt conversations

Thank you for all the wonderful comments. My father is amazed that people around the globe have wished him a happy birthday. He thinks I'm making you guys up. You're like my imaginary friend Cindy. She used to do mean things to my brother and color on closet walls and melt those fat crayons in my sister's Easy Bake Oven. That chick was a pill. Issues, you know.

But no, I tell him. These people are real. Just ask Denise or David. I think they read the blog sometimes. They'll tell you.

So what if he feels like that time I insisted he ask Cindy if she'd like a red popsicle or an orange one, the thing is that he says Thank You.  Too bad for him he never figured out that Cindy liked the purple best.

S our phone call went well. Better than expected. We talked about the birds that are visiting his feeders these days. I do identification for him because, you know, looking it up in a bird book just isn't as much fun as our semi-lucid conversations.

"I've got this bird, but I'm not sure what it is. Maybe a finch?"
"Is it reddish? Brown stripey? Could be a female. Yellow?"
"I'd know a Goldfinch, I think."
"Right. Right. What color is it?"
"It likes thistle."
"Pointy beak?"
"It goes upside down."
"Oh! It's a nuthatch!"
"Whadjoo call me?"
"Pointy beak? Sharp?"
"Yes. It walks up and down the pole."
"Nuthatch. It's a nuthatch. What color is it?"
"Which one?"
"Nevermind. Any bluejays?"
"A few."
"That's nice."

We talked about the weather. They still have snow. We don't.

I even hollered at my mother. 

(That means said hello and a bunch of other stuff, but there wasn't really any shouting.)

And the subject of my very short commute didn't come up at all.

It's almost as if they'd read the blog. But of course that would be silly.

If my mom read this blog, I wouldn't be typing this.

I'd be tweeting frantically for someone to come bust me out of my room where I've been grounded.

At the end of the call, I told Dad about you guys and he made that funny noise he makes when he thinks I'm kidding around with him. And I was like No, really! They say happy birthday. And then he asked me to thank you and he whispered something to Mom that sounded like golf ball.

Seriously, thank you for the birthday wishes and all the comments - funny, warm, kind, interesting, intelligent. Thank you for coming around here so I can stand on my head and show you my panties.  Except that's not really me. That's Cindy.

It's Wednesday, right? What have you done with your week besides make an oldish man happy?

You cast your line and hope you get a bite

Then.

Our roles ares fluid. I'm the parent, I'm the child. Today is my father's birthday so for a few minutes, I'll be the child when I call to wish him a very happy day.

I'm reading Mary Karr's Liars' Club which features wonderful segments of writing about her father. I marvel at how she captures the details of the man who played such a large role in how she views herself and the world. Without making the connection to today, I found myself wondering just yesterday how I would write about my father. While he undoubtedly helped shape me and my views, his type of guy doesn't show up in the memoirs I read. He didn't drink or fight or beat us. He's not an artist, musician, diplomat or secret agent.

He worked, kept our vehicles spotless, delivered goofy one-liners, fished, made fabulous homemade ice cream and slept in his recliner.  Except for working, he still does all those things.

I once had a therapist who urged me to dig deep so I could hand her some juicy slug of wickedness with his name on it (how else to explain my approach to men and relationships?). I found nothing. Not that I'm so good at digging deep, but there was no abuse, no repressed memories. He's just my dad. He's not one to lavish affection or words on us, but I never felt unloved or unwanted. Did I feel like a nuisance, a disappointment, a drain? What kid doesn't? As a parent, did I do things differently? What parent doesn't?

My father was famous among the neighborhood kids for his suggestion that we "Go outside and play in the traffic." But we knew he was kidding. Mostly. Our street wasn't that busy anyway.

While the best I can do is a Crayola stick figure of a guy with a badly drawn truck and a fishing pole, Mary Karr's writing about her daddy is a masterpiece. She paints him as rough-hewn, of mixed origins that showed in his face, a poor kid from a timber camp in East Texas, a fighter, a labor unionist.

They had that in common, our daddies. They both did manual labor for middle class wages for related industries. Her father worked for Union Oil, mine for Monsanto. I know. Don't have a heart attack.We had good enough, not fancy, but good enough.  Vacations, an above ground swimming pool in the back yard. Cable TV when it first came out. Always two cars in the driveway - used, but still. I held my hand out and batted my lashes, murmuring something about movies or the mall and a twenty dollar bill floated down into it.

We didn't question where the money came from. Dad worked in a factory, he wasn't in the mob or anything. It was the 60s, 70s, 80s. We didn't know that Monsanto was altering our agricultural landscape in dangerous ways.We just knew that Dad came home smelling of chemicals and Vitalis with chewed Tums on his breath, put his black rectangular lunchbox covered in Dole and Chiquita banana stickers on the counter and looked tired. When he worked four-to-twelve, we had to keep it down during the day, but it seems like he didn't get much sleep and operated that way for years. From what I've seen when I visit my parents, he's making up for it now.

Dad was just the guy who drove the forklift, moving foam core, walking the concrete floors of the plant there in Addiston, on that bend of the Ohio River along Highway 50. He earned a living, took care of his family, put money in the bank, played by the rules, and didn't take risks. Even with his good union job, he found ways to make side money. Helping on Grandpa's little tobacco farm. Collecting old bottles and glass from dump sites in hollows, cleaning them up and selling them long before ebay was a twinkle in some wunderkind's eye. Pumping gas at the Sunoco. Unearthing antique milk cans, painting them and adding decals before selling them as home decor pieces.

I was wrong. He is an artist.

He assumed his kids would continue the upward trajectory that began with him, having grown up poor and the recipient of occasional charity when Grandpa's delivery job didn't cover the necessities. As a kid, Dad had a paper route and did odd jobs. I picture him always working, working.

Which brings me to today. I'll call, but I'm dreading it. The last time I spoke to my parents, I got off the phone and MathMan could tell with one look that I was bent in six different ways. I know they don't mean to ride my ass about finding a job, they're just worried. They didn't send me to college so I could be a housewife. They can't understand why I can't find any job.

"Just apply to McDonalds." That's become the fall back suggestion. I refrain from pointing out that they didn't send me to college to work at McDonald's either.

The sad reality is that I have filled out online applications for every fast food and mid-range restaurant. Grocery stores, retail, cell phone, cable, satellite, coffee, greeting cards companies. Community colleges, administrative work in offices large and small. Doctors' and dentists' offices. The nursing home. The rare job in my field that pops up. Jobs like my old ones, but in Chicago and D.C.

The silence from potential employers is deafening.

It's hard to explain to my parents who still live in a world where you walk in anywhere and ask for a job if you need one. I tried that a couple of months ago. I was in a small shop downtown and mentioned to the owner that I was looking for work. Did she know anyone who was hiring? No, came the answer. Most of the places there in the downtown area were just hanging on. Her smile was sympathetic though.

My parents don't use computers so they don't understand the process. Once you fill out the online application, you can't create new ones. You return again and again to click new Apply for this position boxes. And hope. I guess that's the emotion. It's hard to identify. Sometimes it feels like when the guy behind the counter slides the lottery ticket toward you and you say a little Please Let This Be A Winner prayer even though you don't believe anyone is there to take the call.

I can't tell if my parents think I'm lying about looking for a job or if they suspect I think I'm too good for certain kinds of work. Thinking you're too good for something is one of the Seven Deadly Sins where I come from. It replaces Gluttony because who needs that guilt when you're chowing down on a Big Boy and Fries?

I started to whine to MathMan about my trepidation, but stopped mid-sentence. At least I can call my father even if I have to deal with the dreaded unemployment question. He's been without a father for far too long.

I whined to Chloe instead when she called this morning. "Maybe they won't be there and I can leave a message on the answering machine," I moaned.

"That's practical."

Talk about shifting roles. Chloe called about her job and ended up talking me down off the ledge. I was nearly in tears because Sophie informed me this morning that she didn't want to go to school because now that I'd chewed out the girls at the party, she didn't have any friends. "I swear, I am the worst mother," I choked out.

"Oh, please." Chloe's a woman of few words. "Stop it. She'll get over it. Now, aren't you glad I was anti-social?"

I sniffed. "Yes."

"And don't forget - it's middle school. Not a pretty time."

She had a point. By the time we got off the phone, I felt better and had a plan for that call to my father.

If the question comes up, I'm prepared. Even if each parent is on an extension doing that double-team thing they do.
Did you get a job?
Why, yes, I did.
Really? Where? What are you doing?
I'm doing domestic work for a family here in town.
Oh?
Uh huh.
Does it pay well?
Not really, but it's a job.
I see. Are you still looking for something better?
Always, always.
Good.
There will be an awkward pause, then I'll say Did you want to talk bout the weather? It's pretty bleak here, but I hear it's going to get better.....

Now-ish.

Adventures in Real Parenting: The Birthday Party

Micro Version: On Friday we finally had Sophie's twice postponed birthday party. If I ever mention that we're doing an overnight party that isn't Adults Only (safe words optional), please stop me. Whatever it takes, stop me.

Short Version: On Friday we had Sophie's twice postponed birthday party. The girls were every bit twelve years old. One minute they were laughing and goofing around like kids. The next minute they were verbally cutting up someone who wasn't there.

Girls deal in whispers, careful glances over their shoulders, common bonds of insecurity and false confidence, loud bursts of laughter, increasing decibels to be heard, shrill calls to hold my place, I'm next to tell my story, Has anyone seen my phone?

Who's in, who's left? Sometimes labels fit. The Queen Bee, Her Second(s), Miss Bossy, The Observer, Troubled, The Fringe, The Independent, The Bookworm, The Freakshow.

I was outnumbered. Eleven to one. I don't recommend it. And for party planning purposes of this nature, don't try to blend girls from different social avenues unless you have a very tight timeframe. Two hours or less. And planned activities. If I ever host an event like this again, it will end by 10p.m. Six hours is plenty long for the arc of the party to climb, peak and descend. If you've shooed them from your home by ten, you may finish before tears flow. Yours or theirs. Does it matter? Perhaps the party should end at 8:30 just to be safe.

Other things I learned:
1. Precocious and quirky becomes annoying and weird in the span of two hours. Please, parents, encourage individuality, but balance it with some social skills. I'm not talking socially awkward (I see that in the mirror every day). I'm talking about the kid who touches everything in the kitchen, thinks every word she says is funny and clever and believes being a picky eater makes her interesting. It does not.
2. There is never enough soda to satisfy kids.
3. When one kid accidentally drops her cake and ice cream on the floor, someone else is likely to do the same while laughing at the first kid.
4. Whatever you say about black people, gay people, and/or hoping that the President of the United States won't live to see a second term in office will be repeated by your children.
5. No matter how hard one tries to ensure that upon departing, everyone has accounted for everything they brought with them, the host or hostess will still find a pair of some kid's balled up socks stuffed between the sofa cushions a day or two after the party.

The long version:  Is written. And ripening. And might never see the light of day. But holy cats, did it feel good to write it.

Adventures in Real Parenting: And Feed Them On Your Dreams

Last night I got a lesson on what we protect our children from and what we give to them. No surprise that this lesson came in the form of language.

We finally had Sophie's twice postponed birthday party. First - if I ever write here again that we're doing an overnight party that isn't for adults only and requires a safe words, please email me and remind me of this post. I am so not cut out for this mother gig. 

A side lesson I picked up - precocious and quirky becomes annoying and weird in the span of two hours. Please, parents, encourage individuality, but balance it with some social skills. I'm not talking socially awkward (I  see that every day in the mirror). I'm talking about the kid who touches everything in the kitchen, thinks every word she says is funny and clever and believes being a picky eater makes her interesting.

When my kids have friends over, I try to stay out of the way, but since there were so many of them (eleven) and I was the only adult and the cats were locked in my bedroom to avoid being traumatized by too much attention, I stayed in the dining room and kitchen where I could keep on ear on things. This meant I heard some of the gossip and my heart sank when my own kid participated. I pulled her aside and told her so. "Be better than that."

Somehow the word prostitute came up and the precocious girl asked what that meant. One of the girls started to explain, but Sophie interrupted. "No. You don't need to know." The subject dropped. A little later Sophie sidled up to me and mentioned that her friend was sheltered and maybe this wasn't such a good idea. I agreed.

As it turned out, this was a blending of two different sets of girls from two different social avenues in Sophie's life. I don't advise this for future party-planning purposes. Not surprisingly, this led to a divergence of activities. One set put on their matching tops and plaid pajama bottoms and decided it was time to do some dance routines they knew from cheerleading. A couple of non-cheerleaders, my own included, went along with it.  The other set of girls fled to another corner of the house and then eventually came and hung around me in the dining room. One of them said she thought I was nice. I doubt she felt that way when she left this morning.

When we were alone in the kitchen the Precocious Girl told me that she doesn't like it that people know so much more stuff than she does. "They just know different things," I said.

"Yeah, but it makes me...." she paused. I think she wanted to say different. Bad different. I made a quick comparison in my head about how we'd raised our kids versus parents who shield their children from so much. We could do better and they could lighten up a little and all of our children would be fine. 

I had my back turned when Precocious Girl opened the pantry door and yelled "What is that doing there?"

She pointed at the bottles of liquor I'd stashed in the pantry so that The Inspecting Mother wouldn't wonder why I leave alcohol out in the open in a house full of kids. (Answer: My kids are used to it being there and have never shown any interest in it and I never even think about it except I did yesterday as I got ready for the party in anticipation of having to pass Inspecting Mom's test.)

"Those are drinks for adults."

"It's alcohol! You have alcohol in your house!" Was she serious or goofing around?

"My parents don't drink! We've never had alcohol in our house. I once saw my daddy drinking a beer at a barbecue and it made me so upset!" Okay, so she was serious.

"Many people choose not to drink. Drinking is a personal choice. And it's never wise to drink too much."

"You drink?"

"Occasionally, yes."

She squinted her eyes and surveyed me before moving to the refrigerator to see what might be interesting there. She examined the things cluttering the front and sides of it.  "Ooooh. You have a bad word on your fridge."

"Huh?"

"A bad word! Here!" She put her finger on the magnet that reads You Say I'm a Bitch Like It's a Bad Thing. "We don't use words like that at our house."

This drew the attention of a couple of girls who now joined us in the kitchen.  "A bad word?" They were shocked that someone would have such a word in their house. I swear, the way they behaved, you'd think they'd never heard swear words. And maybe they hadn't. "Ooooh."

Precocious Girl continued, her lip curling. "Why is that here?" She slapped her hand over the magnet MathMan brought back from President Obama's Inauguration.

Girlish voices announced their hate to the world.

"I hate Obama! He's ruined this country! My parents voted for McCain!"

"My parents hate Obama!"

"My daddy says he won't live to see a second term."

"Black people voted for Obama because they want a black President!"

I looked at these young faces spewing so much hatred. I mentally fast-forwarded and was searching for a place to live in Chicago and packing our things and moving somewhere where at least the haters are interspersed and not so concentrated.

Precocious Girl spoke again. "I don't know any white people who voted for Obama."

I smiled, "Now you do."

Blink, blink. Her cleverness had left her.

"And I'd appreciate it if you'd all stop talking shit about our President in my house."

There was a collective gasp.

Precocious Girl recovered. "You said a bad word!" I swear the color drained from her face.

I spent wasted the next five minutes explaining the absurdity of her freaking out over my use of the word shit when she'd announced that she hated someone she'd never met and her father had predicted his death.

It's funny what we teach our kids. By funny, I mean inconsistent, contradictory and downright odd. Over the course of the evening, I learned that we teach them it's okay to be disrespectful to adults, to go into other people's houses and act like it's yours, helping yourself to whatever's in the refrigerator and fruit bowl, taking a  pear or an apple, chewing a bite or two and leaving the rest to rot on a side table. 

We teach them they can say anything judgmental as long as they preface it by saying "I don't like to judge but....," We teach them it's okay to say they hate this person or that person or this group or that group, but the words shit and bitch make them freak the fuck out?

A while later, another girl was telling me how she'd seen something disgusting in a Ripley's Believe or Not book.  "What was that?" I asked, amused and expecting something like a two headed calf or that photo of the guy with the fingernails so long they curled. That used to skeeve me out.

She leaned in to share. "Gay people, bisexuals and those transwhatevers. They actually have a parade every year."

How fun would it be to wear a badge that reads bisexual? 

I leaned it, too. "Why did that disgust you?"

"They're going to hell. Why do they need a parade?"

"I think the question you might want to consider is why does this get your attention. And how does their parade effect you?"

"It doesn't. I mean, I hate to judge, but.."

I cut her off.  "Well, then, save your disgust for disgusting things like injustice and cruelty. And you know, if you hear yourself starting a sentence with 'I hate to judge, but...' it's probably best to stop talking because whatever you're about to say will be some kind of judgment."

I'd had enough of them and I'm sure they'd had enough of me. I counted the minutes until MathMan would get home.

The girls congregated one last time in the dining room for snacks. One of them pointed out that she lived in the house across the street until a couple of years ago when her family moved to the nice neighborhood across the Etowah River. "We still own the house because my daddy says we can't get what the house is worth if we sell it now since," she paused and looked at me. Yes, I was paying attention. Apparently, the lecture about how President Obama hadn't wrecked the economy had gotten around.

She continued. "The people who live there now are renters. You have to keep your eye on them. Daddy wasn't happy that they still have their Christmas lights up."

I glanced at Sophie who rolled her eyes. She's friends with the girl who lives there. 

Interesting, Nice Neighborhood's Daddy said almost the exact same thing when he dropped off his daughter and introduced himself to me for the third time in about that many weeks. Maybe my ponytail threw him, but you've gotta love a guy who notices a small row of unlit clear lights on the eaves of a house at dusk, but can't remember having met you twice before. He even said the same line about having to keep your eye on renters.

Maybe my badge should read Bisexual/Renter.

And then during a discussion about which movie to watch, Sophie was taken to task by one of the girls because she never went to the movies. "I've seen all these," the girl sneered. "My family goes to the movies all the time. Don't you guys ever go?"

When Sophie made a decision that didn't suit Movie Girl, she declared the choice lame and swanned off to the basement trailing a few followers and the whiff of asshole behind her.

Economic snobbery. Racism. Hate. Death. Bad Manners. Remembering to say yes, m'am and no, m'am and going to church twice or three times a week doesn't temper this kind mental poison. In some cases, it seems to enhance it. Kids learn this stuff somewhere.

Right before MathMan got home, Sophie and I were alone in the kitchen. She'd decided she'd teach those girls who went to the basement. The girls who stayed to watch the movie were going to have popsicles.

I understood her motivation, but I couldn't condone it. "Hey, don't be a jerk. If anyone comes upstairs, offer them one. Immediately."

"I will."

"You better. I mean it." A harsh whisper.

"I will." Through gritted teeth.

"Sophie? I'm sorry if I embarrassed you tonight. I wish I'd kept my mouth shut. It's not my place to tell these kids what to think."

She shrugged.

"Really. I'm sorry. I don't want to you to be embarrassed by me."

"I'm not. I get so tired of hearing them say stuff they don't know anything about. I was glad you told them off. I try to sometimes, but they don't listen to me. I know they listened to you." She took the handful of popsicles and left the kitchen.

They may have listened to me, but I doubt they heard me.

Gout. Look it up.

Source 

Have you ever noticed that when you get back to something - school, work, your gym routine - Day 1 goes well. You are on it and everything clicks. And you know that clicking and you think Maybe this time will be different. And then Day 2 goes sideways. And upside down. And sticky.

I knew I shouldn't have answered the phone yesterday morning, but it was the middle school. Someone didn't want to be there (we've gone through this every January since this child was dumped in daycare by a heartless mother).  "She threw up," said the nurse. We're on a first name basis at this point.

Damn it. Vomiting. There's no turning back, no bargaining. "I'll be right there."

The sudden need for popsicles and chicken soup, required a trip to the grocery. I don't drive the several miles into town on a whim so if I was going, I intended to get all the groceries in that trip. As if one can get all the groceries. Ever.

At the store, I frightened a stranger. I'd unloaded the cart and stood chatting with Savannah, the bagger, and Julia, the cashier, while groceries traveled the long stretch of conveyor belt. A woman with the most interesting mullet I've ever seen surveyed my purchases as she waited for enough space to clear so she could put her items on the belt.

"Was another snowstorm predicted?" Her eyes were wide.

Julia, the cashier, laughed. I'd just mentioned that we'd run out of everything during the last snow.

"No," I smiled at the worried woman. "We were out of everything and I came in for a side of beef and a buttload of Buy One Get One Free things."

She didn't even flinch at my use of the term buttload. "Oh, phew!" She drew her hand across her forehead. "I am so over the snow."

Me, too. I'm also over hearing how there's no food in the house and why can't we have more meat because we're starving and need real meals, blah, blah, blah. Listen, I'd have to rustle a steer, marry a chicken farmer and have a hog farmer on the side to keep enough meat in this house now that Nate is working out with the baseball team.

It's something to watch your son transform from boy to man with muscles and hairy armpits and a new chiseled effect to his jawline, but damn, it's like feeding lions at the zoo. I remember my brother David at this stage. He and his friend, the other David, would eat a box of PopTarts and drink a 2 liter of Mountain Dew each.

MathMan and Nate are working out every night after school doing core exercises with names like The Bus Driver, The Hindu, Russian Twists and  other offensive things. Their bodies are screaming for protein. Shakes and Clif Bars are fine substitutes, but Hans and Franz want meat. MEAT.

There is now meat in the house. I am going to stuff these people so full of dead animal that Nate will never again ask what gout is. He'll look at his big toe and remember.

Obviously, I'm sensitive to criticism of this sort. I'm working on it, but when a cat offers feedback about breakfast by depositing undigested Purina One swimming in Friskie's Mariner's Catch on the carpet, my mood plummets. That is the final insult. Someone is going to pay.

Punishment takes many forms. Some days, it's messing with the cats' heads by placing stuff in the exact spot on the bed where they usually spend the hours between 8:08 a.m. and 10:45 a.m. Their time share arrangements get turned around and I take sadistic pleasure in their discombobulation. They fuss with each other and mope and try to work out a new schedule, but there's always that one guy. You know how it is.

Today, I was more aggressive about the punishment. Since no one stepped forward on all four paws, all the cats had to suffer, not just the puking perp. I forced them to endure my version of Naked Eyes' Always Something There to Remind Me. As soon as I finished cleaning up that pile of puke, that's exactly what I did. Twice. With hand gestures.

What's your favorite form of punishment? Go nuts, people.

Paying Attention Because There Is A Story Here

“We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.” — Thornton Wilder

If you've been visiting here any length of time, you know that our family is adjusting to a new financial paradigm. I just used the word paradigm. Someone please slap me. I wanted to stay away from the prevalent phrase "New Normal" because after reading through some blog archives, it's clear that there is nothing new about this. It's been our normal for a while now except that it's gotten worse.

It's a case of Once You're In It, It's Hard to Get Out of It. Like the mafia or a gym contract.

With the loss of my job last December, we received that apocryphal blow most of the American Middle Class fears. It was that one last thing that would flick us off the edge and tumbling into the precipice of the financial unknown.

I want to tell you all the things we've learned along the way. I want to show you how we've changed and grown. I want to reassure those of you living paycheck to paycheck and in terror of that one disaster that could send you and your family into the financial soup that you will survive. You will be different, but you will get through it. But my first wish for you is that you never find yourself here in the first place.

But there will time for that later.

Some days I'm reluctant to share with you the daily ups and downs of this financial recalibration because it seems like so much whining. I have to preface things with phrases like We brought this on ourselves or We should have done this differently.... I'm forever balancing the reality with my distaste for victimhood. I mine these events for humor because there are so many of us living through this - whether we want to talk about it or not (much less put it in writing) and if I can contribute anything to the conversation, I want it to maybe make people feel a little better instead of worse.

This period of our lives has taught me many things, but one of the most wonderful gifts I've received is the experience of gratitude. When you're the giver, the caregiver, the donor, the contributor, you do so for a lot of reasons. Those reasons are as varied as the people involved. I've not always been good at receiving thanks. I dismiss it, wave it off, minimize my contribution. It was nothing. Don't mention it. I didn't see through the other person's eyes that whatever I'd done - whether big or small - mattered.

When you are the recipient of care and kindness and generosity, your role is simple. Say thank you.

Yesterday, I received an email that left me speechless. A group of people had provided a gift to our family that will help us bridge the wasteland that is January. The writer of the email did what I do when I'm the contributor. She minimized the significance of the gift. When I regained my composure and my ability to mangle the English language, I wrote to tell her how much the gift mattered and how the timing could not have been better. And to please pass our family's gratitude on to the others who'd contributed, as well.

And in case any of them are here, I want to say those important words.

Thank you. 

What I give to you is just what I'm going through

Tuesday. Thank goodness. I'd become even more unbearable than usual. I'm the worst teenager in the house. A solid week of forced togetherness had worn The Goldens down to the nubs. By last night, I resorted to threatening nudity to chase Nathan from the bedroom.

"Time for you to clear out. I want to change into my pajamas."
"Hang on, I'm watching this. Mama, you love World War II in Color." This is true, but I saw this for the diversion it was.
"5:30 is going to come very quickly tomorrow morning. I need to get some sleep."
"Your laptop is still on, I don't believe you." I hate the back talk. I hate that he was right even more.
"Nate, go now. I want some alone time with Dad."
"Oh, gawd. I'm staying.You guys don't need alone time." He made air quotes with his fingers.
"You better scram. I'm taking off my pants." I did, too.
He covered his eyes.
"Now I'm going to take off this bra."
"Mom, no!"
"And I'm going to throw it at you. It'll probably burn your skin." I reached behind me to unhook my bra.
"I'm going."
"You can throw that bra here." MathMan is never far from the action when breasts are involved.

So they finally got out of the house today and I stood at the kitchen counter sipping coffee and listening to the quiet house. All around me chores begged for attention. Cat hair fringing the edge of something sticky on the kitchen floor tried to convince me to mop. Dirty clothes already sorted whispered Come on, baby to me when I passed by the laundry room door. My ever-trusty vacuum stood in the corner of the dining room. I swear it winked at me when I stopped in there to get something from the file cabinet. Fresh.

Resist, I told myself.
I'll just wash up these dishes. It'll only take a moment.
No! Resist! Walk away! Go work. Go workout. Go have a shower. Eat something! Be that person you said you wanted to be.

I hate when I make declarative statements to MathMan when my conscience is listening. Caught in the middle of whining about interruptions yesterday (and probably every day since January 1) I corrected myself by saying that I wanted to be that person who got up, got her family out the door, worked out, had breakfast, a shower and got busy writing. No internet until after 1pm when the job search would take priority each day.  Disciplined, focused, driven. That's who I want to be.

Time to stop blaming the kids and MathMan for my inability to finish anything.

I'll just do these dishes, then I'll work out, have some breakfast, a shower and then I'll be ready to work. Except why does the water pressure in this sink seem weak? Maybe I should take the aerator off and check it. Will pliers get it off? I'll get the pliers. On my way, I'll toss in a load of laundry.

I left the kitchen and fetched the pliers then went downstairs to the laundry room. Everything was going so smoothly. I'd get it all done and have time to work.While I wrestled with the pliers and the aerator, I talked to myself some more.Why do I treat writing like dessert? It's the best part of my day, but I save it for last, when I'm tired, distracted and likely to be interrupted.

I have a girlfriend who has always been thin despite her raging sweet tooth. She eats dessert first whenever she feels like it. Which is often.

I won't beat you silly with that epiphany. I put the pliers back and transformed into that person I said I wanted to be. I pulled out the manuscript that I've been revising since 1946 and didn't stop working until two hours later when I stopped to feed the cats who were using the youngest among them as a battering ram against my bedroom door, I think. She appeared dazed when I opened the door.

"Okay, guys. Let's go," I said to the cats as we moved en masse toward the kitchen where I didn't notice the spots on the floor, the wonky faucet or the dishes in the drainer.

There's a war going on for your mind

When last we met I was referring to myself in the third person and worrying about unemployment benefits.  Family members were all up in each other's business as we got through Snowbound Day2 and the cats took to dark corners of closets for fear they may become stew.  Or casserole.  Who cares?

That's my prevailing attitude. Not only was Wednesday cancelled, but so were Thursday and Friday. A long weekend.  It's the winter break that never ends.

Does my voice sound strangled?  I feel strangled. I miss my alone time.  I've gotten some writing done, but it's been chaotic with kids darting in and out of the house bringing cold air and the metallic smell of snow with them.  I'd get started on a good writing jag and someone inevitably needed something.

I'm hungry. Have you seen my gloves? When do I get a turn on XBox? I left my phone charger at my friends, can I get a ride back over there? Can I mix this with this? Who took my last piece of gum?  The container of pudding in the fridge is mine, I may or may not have spat in it.  Who did that?  That's not one of mine.  Why do you have your purse, Mom? Are you going somewhere?

I'm not going anywhere.  I'm fleeing.

I did get the unemployment issue sorted on Wednesday afternoon.  A representative explained that my year was up and they had to see me in person to re-certify.  Nevermind that I was just there on December 28th.  So I'm back on the dole, sucking up the resources the rich so desperately need and clicking through the jobs websites and whimpering at the paucity of openings.

I looked for any excuse to nor sit down and focus on writing. I usually found one, too.

One afternoon, MathMan, sick of my whining about not having the peace and quiet to write, duct taped decorative pillows over my ears and motioned to me to sit down and start typing before he left the room, slamming the door behind him. That was some slam. I could hear it through the pillows.

Another morning, he watched me from the back door as I shoveled snow.  When I came to the door, he opened it and announced, It's nineteen degrees. When we move back north, I assume you won't complain about the cold. You just shoveled snow in your pajamas and slippers. No coat, no gloves, no boots, no hat.

I was wearing gloves.  I showed him my hands.  He made that face.  I bet his students are familiar with it.

I didn't feel like typing, but felt compelled to use my hands. To do things that required tools, that could be easily completed. That I could point to and say, "I did that and it is done and it is good."  Except for blog posts, I'm not getting that from writing at the moment so I sought substitutes.

"You know, I love Naked Lisa, but Naked Lisa with a screwdriver peaks my curiosity," I didn't realize he was paying attention. He'd been deep in the development of a Calculus Powerpoint.

"The drain is clogged. I thought I'd take care of it before I got dressed instead of getting my clothes wet."

"I'm coming in to see your plumber's crack."

I assume the Phillip's head will leave a star-shaped scar.

Reduced, it would appear we were either rocking each other's socks off or snarling and circling each other with our marital, I know your weak spots knives drawn.  But mostly we just shared the space of our bedroom which doubles as an office, he doing his mathy things and me getting into word mischief.  Him snoring softly to some video while I stayed up til the wee hours reading.

It wasn't all wasted time and minor stabbings.

I learned how hard it is to photograph birds close up.  I lured some to the deck with birdseed so I slunk down the steps into the daylight basement and dropped to the floor so I could crawl commando style across the floor.  I reached the door, raised the camera to the window and watched through the viewfinder as the finches took flight in every direction.

A cat sat on the window sill a few feet away looking at me like I was an idiot.  I mean, more so than usual.

They say a snow year's a good year

Inspired ever so loosely by the wonderful, historical lighthouse keeper posts of Ranger Bob.

Covered Bridge Springs, Euharlee
January 11, 2011 or 1/11/11 or 11/1/11 or 6th of Sh'vat, 5771 on the Hebrew calender

We're nearing sunset of Snowbound Day 2 with overcast skies and temperatures that topped out at the thirty-six degree (F) mark. Tomorrow has already been cancelled. Yes.  The whole day. Cancelled. The Keeper and his wife have been drinking since 3:30p.m.

With characteristic bad timing, DISH Network finally gave up demanding their money and reduced us to the deadbeat channels made up mostly of shopping channels and the estrogen-driven variety:  Oxygen and Hallmark.  Were she with her family instead of snowbound in the sorority house at school, the Keeper's oldest child Chloe would be lying face down on the sofa staring blankly at a marathon of It's MY Wedding and I'll Be Dreadful If I Want To!  The rest of those trapped in domo with few televisual options are reacting with varying levels of frustration.

The Keeper, not really a TV watcher, is fucking around (you heard me) with iTunes and asking rhetorical questions like "How did Styx's Babe get into my Martinis in the Evening playlist?"

The Keeper's wife, only a teensy bit annoyed to miss her new TV boyfriend Dylan Ratigan, is alternately writing, reading Hector and The Search for Happiness and stomping around the house plucking wet clothing from the floor and ceiling fans and reminding the children to put their wet clothes in the laundry room when they come in from playing in the snow.

The children are keeping themselves busy with brief intervals of making nuisances of themselves.

Nathan, fearing for his testosterone levels, has vowed to stay away from television, opting instead to watch Seinfeld DVDs and whatever is free on Hulu.  In moments of pituitary security, he's also expanded his abilities in the kitchen, having mastered baking a cake and perfected his sloppy joe and pork chop recipes.  Please just don't spread that around.

The youngest child, Sophia, has been playing risky games of petulance as her boredom reaches peaks and valleys.  The Keeper and his wife are hoping that this is the 7th Grade Terrors come early.  Threats to cancel rather than postpone her birthday party have proven to be only minimally effective. She'll be introduced to the Buddy Sorrell method of child rearing if she doesn't change her ways quickly.  The Keeper's Wife doubts that Sophie will like that rap in the mouth.

Mealtimes have been chaotic and fraught with drama because the person who stockpiles provisions didn't fall for the dire predictions of bad weather, much to her chagrin.  Ignoring the meteorologists/domestic advisers throaty commands to get thee to the grocery, she scoffed at the morons standing in long lines with carts full of milk, bread and eggs and chose not to make the panicked trip for the essentials.

As a result, there is no vodka, half & half, rice or hamburger buns. And the family has learned that of the two choices (1) dry or (2) with kool-aid, cereal is best eaten dry.  MathMan swears that Cap'n Crunch goes great with beer, but since this is not Spring Break nor is it 1986, no one else is willing to test his hypothesis.

Besides, there's no Cap'n Crunch. There's Uncle Sam Cereal, Frosted Mini Wheats, Lucky Charms and Cinnamon Toast Crunch.  All poor substitutes for the Cap'n and his corny, slice the roof of your mouth open, sugary goodness.

The cats are making themselves somewhat scarce, not sure if The Keeper's Wife's jokes about Kitty Casserole were actually jokes or not.  They don't realize that if things get truly dire, there's a frozen birthday cake and a bag of Bugles stashed away for the birthday party, but available in the case of emergency.  The birthday party reserve of frozen pizzas has dwindled from four to two, but not everyone in the house eats lentil soup so there's been the necessary concession to prevent the Keeper's Wife from beginning a sentence with "For fuck's sake, you're not hungry. You're bored...."  Because she is not preparing meals for people who are simply bored and out of sorts because their sleep schedule is in total disarray.

Meanwhile, The Keeper's Wife is reminded once again that nothing creates a craving for this or that like the inability to go out and fetch it.

It is now 6:45p.m. and the Keeper's Wife is wondering if the Department of Labor will deign to open their offices tomorrow since they have not done so for two days already this week.

Because worrying changes nothing, she may as well have another cocktail and see if The Keeper wants to end the day the same way it started:  rediscovering long forgotten, but pleasing ways to create warmth through friction.

How is your week going?  Have you skated on Peachtree? Sledded down the hill with no pants on? Tipped a snowman? Kissed a girl? Jumped the shark?

Unemployment Diary: Uncle!!!

"It's snowing still," said Eeyore gloomily.
"So it is."
"And freezing."
"Is it?"
"Yes," said Eeyore.
"However," he said, brightening up a little, "we haven't had an earthquake lately."

I'll be honest with you. I considered not writing because how much more can I say on this subject without sprouting long ears and a pinned tail from my backside?

This is distressing because I never identified with Eeyore before.  I see myself as a charming melange of Tigger's exuberance and Pooh's steady cheerfulness with dashes of equal parts Piglet's anxieties and Rabbit's control issues and clenched anus.

The word dash is subject to interpretation.  The word anus is not.

But now, I need a bow for my tail because I am Eeyore.

As Monday comes to a close, I should be writing to tell you how things were resolved regarding the unemployment issue, but resolution is postponed.  What couldn't be addressed over the phone on Friday because of "privacy" issues, couldn't be dealt with today because of five inches of snow otherwise known as a weather emergency here in Georgia.

School closings were announced last night in anticipation of inclement weather.

Inclement weather sounds like your kindly great uncle with those owlish glasses and loose dentures.  This was more like a weather rave with a light show, thumping music and confetti falling into your hair and making it hard to see. The snow started lightly around 9:00, and by midnight, everything was sparkling white.  The brightest lightening I've ever seen streaked across the sky seconds before thunder rumbled around us causing the house to shake.

Georgia is not prepared for this kind of weather.  We don't experience it often enough to invest in snow removal equipment and material.  The way the economy is now, the state can't even afford to mow the sides of the road or pick up debris so when snow that wouldn't be considered significant in other places, better prepared places, falls here, we know what comes next.

Snow day!!!!

Although in this case, it means snow days.  Plural.  School has already been cancelled for tomorrow, as well.  And while this is fabulous news from the Yay, we can sleep in and do snowy things and drink hot chocolate standpoint, it caused me nail-chewing anxiety this morning as I phoned the Department of Labor to find out if the office was open.

You can guess the rest.

In the grand scheme of things, however, it's only money.  It's not life or death.  The world is full of horrors and tragedy. This is not a horror or tragedy.  It's snow and inconvenience and stress that will pass and be replaced with a good day followed by other good days and occasional bad days.

And every one of those days is a chance to be better, to be Pooh and Tigger and yes, Piglet and Rabbit.

"No Give and Take. No Exchange of Thought. It gets you nowhere, particularly if the other person's tail is only just in sight for the second half of the conversation."

Eeyore from "The House at Pooh Corner" by A. A. Milne

How do you pull yourself out of the tailspin?  Do you make up backstories for well-known characters?  You know.  Like Pooh smoked weed,   Tigger's energy came from a raging coke habit that he supported by bouncing in alleys for money,  Piglet popped Xanax like candy, Rabbit was a gambler and occasional huffer of cleaning supplies and Eeyore?  A total wino. Of course. 

Unemployment Diary: Cum on Feel the Zen, Part Deux

I'll take the big box, please.

Well, that's what I get for leaving out a very important part of yesterday's post. While I was being all zen and I can handle this, I consciously neglected to tell you that during my conversation with MathMan I fussed about how much I hate Januaries.  Every January brings its own fresh hell, Dorothy Parker.

Starting in November when education people get their monthly paychecks early so they can blow them on restoratives like alcohol and at the mall on Black Friday, it's a domino effect until you land ass first in January, living on Ramen Noodles, stale oyster crackers, left over candy canes and those creamer thingies you steal from Waffle House. Meanwhile you're heating your house with the grill and some seven year old Martha Stewart for KMart hardwood charcoal you found in the bottom of a Rubbermaid container in the shed.  Good thing you were out there moving shit around to put away the holiday decorations, after all.

Okay, I exaggerate.  It's not that bad.  If you're lucky, you've managed to pay most of the bills so you still have electricity and the porn subscriptions are paid up.  God knows you've seen all the free stuff enough times. You've got your priorities.

So yes, I whined about how I hate Januaries.  And right before I drifted like a feather onto the fainting chaise, I dramatized the issue by noting that if I ever commit suicide, you can bet it will happen in January.

MathMan was unpreturbed.  "Please don't."

I lifted my hand from my forehead, still clutching my tear-stained hankie.  "Of course not. I'm just being silly."

I've had better moments.  Hell, I've had better meltdowns.  The suicide clause doesn't fly much anymore. MathMan's lack of response should tell you something.  He's not a fan of the drama queen and has learned that his best reaction is to not react at all.  Besides, I am officially no longer worth more dead than alive.  These people actually need my meager contributions so I'm not going anywhere by my own hand.

So now I've come clean.  Oh, I think overall I still get a B+ for how I dealt with things, but today leaves me wondering what on earth I did in my past life because this is surely some kind of karma working.  And worse is the fact that it's not just me who is feeling its effects.

The Department of Labor remains unhelpful. I called first thing yesterday morning and received the same response.  "You have to come in to the office. We can't address these things over the phone due to privacy...."  The person on the phone sounded like she wanted to help, but her hands were tied.  We played cat and mouse through hypothetical conversation for a couple of moments, but it became clear we were getting nowhere. She couldn't give me what I wanted.

I made a last ditch effort. "I don't suppose whining about not having a car to get there today will get me anywhere?"

"Sorry no.  We get lots worse than whining.  We can take it." So they're unhelpful, unmoved by my plight and snarky.

"I figured as much. I'll see you on Monday then. I'll be the woman with the haunted look who is chewing her hair."

"That's not  much to go on considering.  Better wear a carnation so I can pick you out. We open at 7:30. Try not to worry too much."

I snorted a line of confectioners sugar before getting back to work. Around 1pm, I realized I'd better vacuum and get the basement ready for the Justin Bieber fans set to descend upon the house.  I was removing the now broken belt from the vacuum when my phone buzzed.

It was the school nurse.  Sophie was in her office with a headache and a fever of 101.

I put on a bra, tugged on some jeans, grabbed my iPod and set out for the school.  As I tried to figure out which rapper was coming through my Shuffle earbuds, I congratulated myself for squeezing in a two mile walk.  I'd written off my work out for the day.  Then I congratulated myself for finding some silver lining.

When I got to the school, I thanked the front office secretary for letting Sophie's friends know that the party was postponed.  Some of them were going to take the bus home with Sophie. Thankfully, alternative rides home were easy to secure.

Poor Sophie.  Her cheeks were flushed with fever.  Her first slumber party wasn't going to happen.  And she had to walk a mile home with her mother who wasn't wearing a stitch of makeup.  Not even lipstick. Some birthday.

Once Sophie was settled onto the sofa with something to drink and some Ibuprofin, I sent a text to MathMan to let him know that the party would be postponed until the following Friday.

"Something to look forward to," he responded.  Funny as ever.

Later he called me.  "If you hear anything about our school being on lock down, don't panic."  He opened with that.  Now, I don't know about you, but when someone tells me to not panic, I find my adrenaline responding no matter how many deep breaths I intend to take.

"Lockdown?"

"Yes.  Someone had a gun at the school.  I'm not there, I'm on the bus with the basketball team on the way to our game.  Nate is still at school. "

Deep breath.  "Nate's at the school where someone has a gun?"

"Yes, but I've heard from him.  He's fine. They had the police S.W.A.T. team searching the halls with rifles, but they gave the all clear. I didn't want you to hear it on the news and freak out."

Me? Freak out?  I'm Madame Zen.  I'm the perfectly raked circles in the gravel, the gentle sound of water flowing over smooth rocks, a breeze lightly scented with sandlewood.  I don't freak out.

"Thank you. You're sure Nate is fine?"

"Yes.

Here's where that perspective thing comes right through the door and stands with its hands on its hips, tapping its toe. Hello, Perspective.  I'm glad you're back because I was about to spend the remainder of the afternoon coping by getting high sniffing the Mr. Sketchy scented markers.

"Mom, can we finish decorating my birthday cake?"  Sophie stood at the door still flushed.

"Of course."  The distraction would be good for me.

I wrote her name and the number twelve and she dotted the top of the cake with purple frosting flowers, a smiley face and a Peace sign from the Wilton tube I'd purchased as a back up plan in case my homemade frosting didn't turn out well.  Good thing I did, too.  I realized too late that I was out of food coloring.

She handed the tube of frosting back to me and stood back to admire her handiwork.

"Soph, it's lovely," I said.  I felt so bad for her.  Stupid fever.

"Thanks.  I hate it that I feel so sad right now."

"It's okay. This is a bummer of a situation.  We'll have your party next Friday.  When you're feeling better, we'll make new invitations so you can give them out on Monday."

She nodded.

"I was sick on one of my birthdays.  It was a drag so I understand why you're sad. Want to hang out in my room with me?"

She followed me upstairs and lay on the bed flipping through the TV channels while I sat at my desk and tried to remember what I was doing before MathMan called.  I should know not to ask, but I let myself wonder if anything else could go sideways.  

Ask and ye shall receive.

I checked the bank account to see if Chloe's text book payment went through.  Two more things were boing boinging across the financial moonscape.  I forgot about the two automatic payments that come out on the 8th.  How splendid that the vendors came for the money early instead of on Monday.  $99 in NSF fees.  So far.

I felt that pounding in my ears, the blood rushing around trying to make something go, to fix something, to fight or fly.  My fingers fumbled around searching for something while I stared blindly at the red numbers in parentheses on the computer screen.  Finally, I found it and wrapped my fingers around its cylindrical body.

Sophie sat up on the bed looking puzzled.  "Mom?  What are you doing with that marker?"

Unemployment Diary: Cum on Feel the Zen

Yesterday somewhere in Northwest Georgia

5:00 p.m:. Sophie's birthday cake is cooling on a wire rack in the kitchen.
5:20, 5:30, 5:45...you get the picture:  Sophie asks when we can frost the cake.
6:00:  I check the cake. It has a small crack in the center. Damn. I should have cut off the hump on top before turning it over.
6:43:  Email from Barnes and Noble that Chloe's text book order can't be processed because the bank won't approve the charge.  Wonderful.
6:44 Check bank account online to see what's going on.  In the a.m. rec'd an NSF notice via email, but bank website hadn't been updated. Assumed the rent check was cashed before the unemployment deposit went in a day later than usual because of holiday.  Crap.  Account still not updated online.  UI deposit still not showing.
6:45 Do online inquiry with Dept. of Labor to see when money went in.
6:46  Inquiry comes back saying payment wasn't processed. I must report to the local Dept. of Labor. Well, that's not very helpful. What could be wrong?  I got a letter saying that I'd been put on 2nd tier benefits.  They'd deposited the money last week, including retroactive payment.  I checked in with the office on the 28th and there was no indication that a problem existed.  When I did the online certification on Sunday everything appeared to be fine.  There were no messages about a problem.
6:47  Dirty words, dirty words, curses and an oath said to the computer screen.  Yes, I know I shouldn't write checks until the money is in the account, but the system has always worked before.  How did I get to be such a fucking failure?
6:48  Text to MathMan  "Unemp. money not in. Bounced rent check, other problems.  Fuck."
6:49 Text from MathMan.  "What happened?"
6:50  Text to MathMan "Don't know. Call me later."
6:55  Sophie reports crack in cake via text message to me.  "Can u cum here? Cake cracked."  I reply.
"I know.  It's fixable.  Give me a second."
6:57  Yelling across the house now.  Me:  Phia, when you text, don't spell come C-U-M; Her:  Why not?  Me: Because that's not how you spell it. That means something else.  Her: What are you talking about?  Me: C-U-M means something different!  Her:  What does it mean?  Me: I don't want to say!  Her:  Oh mom!  Me:  Fine! It means like when a person ejaculates.  Do you know what that means?  Her:  I don't know.  Me:  It means jizz!  Do you know that word?  Her:  Gross, Mom! I can't believe you said jizz to your daughter who is about to turn twelve.  Me:  Well, you obviously know what that means.
7:01  Go to kitchen.  Cake now looks like the plates of the earth's surface.  Africa has completely separated from Europe."It's fixable!" I chirp as I grab the frosting.
7:20  The cake, devils food with cream cheese frosting. It's what Sophie wanted. Me:  We'll do a second coat of frosting before we decorate it. Hopefully, it will cover up this mess.  Her:  Okay. It's fine.  It's just a cake. Can I write my name in frosting on it later?  Me:  Sure.

Still fixable!

7:30  Dish Network flashes the Pay or Else message on the screen.  Fabulous. I'm going to have a houseful of girls from 4pm Friday until noon the next day and no cable.
7:31  If there's no Dish, we have DVDs, I remind myself.
Me:  Sophie, you know how to work the DVD player, right?
Sophie:  (eye roll) Of course.  Why?
Me:  Just wondering.
8:00ish Call from MathMan.  We discuss the unemployment issue.
Him:  Do you need my car tomorrow to get to the Dept. of Labor?  There's a basketball game so you'll have to pick up Nate and me late.
Me:  Thanks, but I can't do that. I'm going to have about eight twelve year old girls at the house for Sophie's sleepover.  I can't leave them alone.  I'll just have to call the DoL and hope that it can be resolved over the phone.  Plus I've got one mom who doesn't know me who is planning on stopping by to make sure we're a safe place for her daughter to hang out. Dang it, I knew I should have driven Chloe back to school and kept her car. But then we'd have a gasoline issue. There's no money for gas.
Him:  Oh. Yikes.
Me:  I don't blame her - the mom I mean, I just hope she doesn't want to stay too long.  She might not want to watch me get drunk.  Plus I was planning on having my boyfriends over since you weren't going to be home. Lars got his new bondage kit, you know. And get this.  When the mom asked my name and I told her, she said it sounded familiar, but we couldn't come up with how she might know me.
Him:  Let's hope she doesn't read your blog.
Me:  No shit, funny man.

And even after all that, I didn't turn to drink (the wine was gone), I didn't break anything, I didn't kick a cat, grind my teeth, call my mom, cry, swear, consume twice my weight in sugar or clean anything.  Instead I read blogs, took photos of cats, committed acts of jackassery on Facebook and even did some writing/revising.

How did I do it? You ask.

I reminded myself that twelve years ago I was in labor, shoveling out from a blizzard and looked like this...

Perspective, my friends, my darlings, my comrades, is a very powerful tool.