Adventures in Real Parenting: Into the Blue Again After The Money's Gone

Chloe is trying to figure out her next ten years.

I'm listening and offering guidance where it's appropriate and comfortable.  I've pride myself on not being a helicopter mom or, when Chloe was dancing, one of those stage mothers who referred to their daughters in tandem.  "We have rehearsals...."  Had I been dancing and performing then 'we' would have been correct.  Since my role was primarily to drive the car, pay the bills, pick up the tights at Center Stage and volunteer usher at performances, saying 'we' had rehearsals would have made me feel ridiculous.  And the sound of Chloe's eyes rolling in teenage disdain would have left me deaf.

And let us not forget - I am the founder of the school commonly referred to around here as Parenting by Benign Neglect.

One thing my kids have always known is that I've got their back, but they have to let me know when they want me to step in.  I don't need to know everything (speculating is more fun most of the time anyway) and if I make all their decisions, what will they gain?  As painful and frustrating as it may be, making mistakes is a valuable part of the learning process.

So Chloe and I spent a few hours together in the car the other day and she discussed her future.  Where she might go to grad school (!), summer school at Cambridge (!!!), career options, intern ideas, the general uncertainty of any job market and how to weigh your passions against your desired lifestyle in the context of the way the world works and the economy.

As we chatted, I had a tiny epiphany.  I'm writing now.  I wrote when I was a kid, a teen and a young adult.  It never occurred to me to major in creative writing or English while in school.  A career in writing never crossed my mind.  Even though I loved to write, I would have felt ridiculous calling myself a writer.

I didn't seek out other writers or anyone who could have guided me in that regard.  My parents thought I had two options - nurse or teacher.  I rejected both to get a degree in French because I was good at languages and I liked pastry.

I had no idea what I'd do after I earned that degree. I had no plan or vision.  I just knew I'd graduate from I.U. and get a job.  My though process stopped right there.

I fell into association management because I liked the International College of Surgeons better than the insurance company that jerked me around during the interview process.  Et voila!  Career path chosen with no more consideration than I might have applied to choosing a pair of pants or which drink to go with my Happy Meal.

My career wasn't bad.  My limited ambition allowed me to go from a secretarial job to being part of the leadership team of the AARP Illinois State Office. That was significant.  I eventually ended up running small organizations.  I had a fancy title:  Executive Director, but was underpaid.  I SUCK at negotiating my salary.

Twenty years later, I have nothing to show for it.  No savings or retirement (I also SUCKED at negotiating benefits, opting to keep long-term staff instead of firing them so that I could make more money.)  Now the skills I honed are more liability than asset.  I'm told I'm overqualified for the jobs that are available.

So I was thinking, if it had occurred to me to write, would I have talked myself out of it by using the same unidealistic and unromantic arguments employed by my parents when they tried to convince me to just go study nursing and know that I'd have a secure job for the rest of my miserable life?

Because, I assure you, you would not want me as your nurse.  The first time you moaned in pain, I'd click my tongue and sigh at you and tell you how I had three babies with not even the teenist tiniest amount of pain medication so stop your groaning already!  You barf?  I barf.  Unless I'm related to you in which case I grab a bucket and insist in my most stringent and least patient hiss that you better not miss that bucket.  Shots?  Here's the hypodermic, do it yourself.  I'd probably be just fine taking your blood pressure and weighing you, even commiserating with you when you've put on a pound or two, assisting by subtracting four pounds for your clothes because when it comes to weight issues, I feel your pain.

Just don't tell me you have a headache.  I'll diagnose you with a brain tumor before you've had a chance to describe the other symptoms that clearly point to a sinus infection.

Oh, and whatever you do, don't tell me about the color of your snots.  I once had an AARP volunteer blow her nose into a hanky and then proceed to show it to me. "Would you look at that?"  she growled.  She was a growly type. Jowly, too.

For some still unexplained reason, I did.  I looked.  I gagged.  I still have nightmares about it.  Not even the photos of WWI wounded soldiers that I looked at last night have banished that yellow green gelatinous vision from my mind.

Wait. I think I'm a writer?  

But really - what if?  What if?  What if?

It's the question with which we can make ourselves slowly and yet profoundly mad.

I'd like to think that I wouldn't have talked myself out of writing. Oh sure, I might have said, "You'll always be broke."  or "Money will always be a struggle."  or "What if you never get published?"  or "What if you don't have any talent?"  or "What if you turn 45 and you've done all this work and you find that you have nothing to show for it?"

Ah.

And so, I could have done what I might have been good at, what would have undoubtedly given me a different set of life experiences, what might have even proven to be a wise career choice because it turned out that I was successful in it.

It's something we'll never know, but after I thought all this, I thought I should share it with Chloe.  "Just think things through, weigh your priorities, consider your passions.  Think about how if you want to do something that isn't going to pay a lot, how you can set your life up now so you won't be saddled with debt, try to think like an entrepreneur because depending on others for a job is sketchy.  But don't talk yourself out of anything or into anything based on fear.  Fear is the worst possible reason to do or not do anything."

Movie script trite, I know.  But it doesn't make the idea any less true or valuable.

I read this post and the referenced essay by Laura Maylene Walter and thought "So there's the other side of this issue."  Because as she describes, Laura had success at a young age and has spent the following years building on that.  The trouble is, early success is no guarantee for future success either.

So how do I advise my child in any meaningful way?  I mean, if she's asking for advice because heaven forbid I offer any unsolicited words of wisdom.

Well, it just so happens that I turn into my mother-in-law.  She died in 1992 before the internet became a household item, but I like to think of her having evolved her old habit of keeping stacks and stacks of newspapers from which she would tear relevant articles.  Each of her children had their pile of articles that she'd selected especially for them.  When we visited her, she'd get hand MathMan's pile to him and say something like,"Here, Douglas.  I'm sure you'll find something useful in this."

Had she lived longer, I can imagine her forwarding emails of articles from education websites or Huffington Post, librarian news, The Rumpus or The Chicago Tribune.

Yesterday I sent Chloe links of two very different job types. I know she's not ready to look for a job.  Graduation is two years away and  she's threatening to not come back from Cambridge at the end of the summer (shades of her mother's 1987 call from Dijon to announce she was staying in France?)  But I thought it was important for Chloe to see the broad spectrum of jobs for people with her interests and skills.  To know that there are jobs available for writers with Think Progress.  And producers for Democracy TV with Amy Goodman.  Both seem like very cool jobs to me.

I hesitated before sending the links.  Did this cross into helicopter mom territory?  Would I one day say "Oh, Chloe is going to be reporting on the Republican nomination for Think Progress.  We're going to be at the Republican Convention on Saturday...."

Instead, I wrote a quick note.  "Just wanted you to see what kinds of things are out there.  Look at this Democracy TV news producer job.  You could be like Mary Tyler Moore!  Love, Mom."

Same as it ever was.... same as it ever was.....

How did you decide what you'd be when you grew up?  Did you decide?  Did you grow up? Heh. me neither.

Adventures in Real Parenting: You May Find Yourself Living In A Shotgun Shack

Sophie likes to remind me that her birthday is coming up.  I think it's because with a birthday on January 7th, she's always worried that her special day will be lost in the downdraft of the holidays - Hanukkah, Christmas, New Years.  Come January 7th, it's true, we're suffering celebration fatigue and as a teacher's family living on that once-a-month paycheck that comes early in November and then again early in December, January is typically a month with little cash flow, sapped energy, the grumples due to a return to the routine after a long break and the general grayness that is January.

She's right to worry.

At the age of 12, I felt I knew the month of January, too.  In my journal, I wrote on January 14, 1978 "God, I hate this month.  It's like an entire month of Mondays.  I am ready for it to be February already.  No, actually, I'm ready for it to be June.  I'm sick of this cold weather and I'm sick of school."

What I wouldn't give to go back and tell that 12 year old kid to stop wishing her life away.  And to apply herself in school and listen to her instincts more. And to stop whining about the cold.  Just wait until she stood on a train platform in Rosemont, Illinois at 5:30a.m. with the temperature hovering around -4 Fahrenheit and a north wind spanking her ass with icy fingers.  That's when she'd know real cold.  Dog-sledding across the frozen tundra cold.  Fallen through the weak ice into the freezing water cold.  Watching the warm people in their cars drive by in a blur cold.  The damn it, I can't feel my fingers or my toes cold.

So last night my own soon-to-be-twelve-year-old reminded me that in January of 2012, she'd be thirteen.  "How does it feel to know that your last child will be a teenager in less than two years?" she chirped.  "Old?"

I looked at her across the room as she sat swiveling in my office chair.  My laptop and pile of books and I decided earlier in the day to not leave the bed.  "Actually no.  I don't feel old at all.  I feel quite young.  Like a kid," I answered truthfully.

"But?"  She didn't know where to go with this.  "I feel old sometimes," she blurted out.

"Really?  When?  And why?"

She spun around in the chair, a definite sign of rapid aging.  "Oh, you know.  When I think about how I'm done with elementary school already.  Or when I see kids who are in, like, the third grade and they seem so young."  She gave herself another spin.

"So in relation to other people you feel old?"

"Yeah, I guess so."

"When I was your age, I thought I was pretty old, too.  I was even complaining about the cold like some grumpy old woman.  But you know what?  I had no idea how much of my life was ahead of me.  I had no clue that one day I'd be my age..."

"Forty-five," she cut me off to ensure my accuracy, the little tart.

"....right.  Forty-five.  I couldn't imagine being forty-five and having three kids and living in Georgia or that I'd be married to some guy from Chicago and all the rest of it."

"No one knows what their future will be."  Ah, wise words from the child with fingers still bearing smudges from oil pastels.

"Exactly right."

"So what's your point, Mother?"

"No point.  No point whatsoever.  But when you ask me if I feel old and I look at myself with my hair tumbling down my back and skinnier than I've been in years and, except for my sore neck and shoulder, not feeling any older than I did when I was your age, I realize that I still don't know what my future holds.  And the thing is, I can plan and I can work toward something, but I'm still not going to know.  So why not just live?"

"You're getting philosophical on me."

"I am."

She gave me the one-eyebrow raise, the look that says so much with just a few small movements of facial muscle.  "You know that hair tumbling down your back is silver, right?"

I gave her the one-eyebrow raise right back.  "I'm aware.  And guess what?  No birthday party for you."

Get into the time machine and go back to your young self.  What would you say to that kid?  Do you remember being twelve?  Are you feeling old?  What's new?

And Then Some Shock Treatment Takes Place

Source

Just as memes work their way through the blogosphere, we tag each other with things on Facebook.  Sometimes I play along and other times I think Favorites?  Have these people not figured out that I can't make up my mind about what to eat for lunch and they expect me to sort out my fifteen favorite authors in the Steampunk genre?

I was tagged with a couple of games.  Why not do them here and then they'll link over to Facebook?  And yes, this is me doing a bit of lazy blogging.  I'm behind on my NaNoWriMo word count and have to use my energy worrying about writing my work in progress.

So this came from Holly.  The rules (rules?) are thus:

Don't take too long to think about it. Fifteen fictional characters (television, films, plays, books) who've influenced you and who will always stick with you. List the first fifteen you can recall in no more than fifteen minutes. Tag at least fifteen friends, including me, because I'm interested in seeing what characters my friends choose. 

Ready?

1.  Hawkeye Pierce from M*A*S*H, probably more from the TV show than the movie. I loved how he played with words, pretty much thought the establishment could go fuck itself and walked around in his robe with boots.  Me.  Totally.

2.  Lucy Honeychurch from A Room with a View.  I still picture her played by Helena Bonham Carter with her pouty lips and long, flowing dark curls.  My favorite line of hers "Mother doesn't like me playing Beethoven.  She says I'm always peevish afterward..."  But truly the memorable character in E.M. Forster's novel is George Emerson.  I would have given up my Baedeker for a kiss from him in the field.  (Okay, so I may have made out with the hot Italian after George died, too, but that's neither here nor there, is it?  Life is for living, yo.)

3.  Hermione Granger from Harry Potter.  I love her.  She gets on my last nerve, but I adore her. I want to be her and be friends with her and, well, corrupt her a little.

4.  Sam Stewart from Foyle's War.  She's Mr. Foyle's driver.  I love her curiosity and how humanly flawed and funny and sweet and kind she is.

5.  Donna Reed.  I mean, come on. Of course!

6.  Elaine Benes from Seinfeld.  I have been Elaine on a number of occasions and it could be argued that I still am the Elaine to a photographer in Amsterdam and a college professor in Dijon.  I am international Elaine.

7.  Rhoda from Mary Tyler Moore.  Funny. Jewish.  Always fighting her weight.  Although I am not Jewish, I'd love to be.  Considering I was raised by Midwestern Protestants of a mostly Scots-Irish background, I'm pretty danged close.  Plus I used to imagine living in her cool attic apartment.

8.  Scarlet O'Hara.  Because as Bob is my witness.  No wait.  Because tomorrow is another day, baby. If I had a dime for every time I've repeated that line to myself, I wouldn't be sweating the unemployment thing.

9.  Anais Nin.  I mean, I realize she's not really a character, or was she?

10.  Daisy Buchanan from The Great Gatsby.  What an idiot.

11.  Harry, Alan Rickman's character in Love Actually.  Another dillhole who made Emma Thompson cry to some Joni Mitchell.  Although I speak more like the Annie character and dance more like the Prime Minister.

12.  Emma from the Jane Austen novel of the same name.  I lack her confidence and those nifty empire waist dresses, but I understand her desire to hook people up.  We're Noah standing at the foot of the Ark's gangplank pairing up the creatures so that they might live on.......or I'm just an incurable romantic and matchmaker.

13.  Geraldine Granger from The Vicar of Dibley.   I'm not a vicar nor do I play one on TV, but I've worked in a situation like hers, with a cast of characters like that.  Except they weren't as funny or interesting or British.  However, the rest of us were certain that one of us was indeed diddling farm animals.

14.  Bella from Twilight.  I know what it's like to love an Edward.  Bella needs a good therapist.

15.  Hercule Poirot.  Everytime he gets his OCD freak on by straightening a picture on a wall or lining up the items on a desk, a table or a mantle, I think "Oh, yes.  Right there.  Mmmmmm."

Your turn.  What fifteen characters have stayed with you?

Avec Gratitude

Dinner courtesy of some wonderful people.

Before we had dinner, I suggested to the family that we go around the table and state for the record what we are thankful for.  They glanced at each other over the rims of their root beer mugs and waited for my temporary insanity to pass.

You'd think we'd be more talkative around here, wouldn't you?  Well, we're not really that expressive when it comes to the positive stuff.  We're aces at pulling each other apart, at dissecting the foibles and tics and pointing and laughing when one of us stumbles.  I should be ashamed, but I'm not.

That's something to be thankful for.  We may not be soft and snuggly and Hallmark Channel fuzzy wuzzies, but I don't think there's a single person in this house who doesn't feel loved.  Right down to the last wretched cat. Hang on a second.  Let me see...

Okay, I just checked.  I asked each of them (the humans, not the cats) if they felt loved.  Here's how that went:

MathMan:  Yeah, who said I didn't?
Nate:  Yeah (with accompanying eyebrow raise)
Sophie:  I don't know.  Can I have a hug first?
Chloe:  Um....yes?

So there we are.  Love.  It is probably the greatest thing ever.  And we have it in spades.

And for that we truly are grateful.  Whether some of us are able to express it or not without a gun to our heads.

Here are some other things I'm thankful for:

RennRatt and her wonderful family who provided us with an authentic and delicious Thanksgiving dinner - Friends near and far - Family near and far - Laughter - Music - The moment right after I take off my bra - Good health - Shared memories - The gorgeous weather we're having - MathMan's job which pays the bills and gives him the chance to save the world - Books - Words - A hot shower - Remembering - Forgetting - Working out - Quiet - My trusty old laptop circa 2007 - The fact that Nate really loves going to school now - My digital camera that allows me to capture life as it happens - The silly cats - Movies that make me laugh or think or cry (as long as I'm alone) - The light and color at sundown when the trees are shadows against the palette of pinks, mauves, purples and blues - Hollyhocks on their tall stems - Art Deco Architecture - Still being able to recite Goodnight Moon - Chloe's happiness at school - The entire Art Nouveau movement - Edward Gorey - Anthony K. and his sock - My active imagination - Catching sight of a hawk on a wire or post alongside the road - When the car starts - The roof over our heads - Dry pavement - The cartoons and reruns I watched as a kid - Comfortable clothes - Major appliances that work - PBS - Agatha Christie and her memorable characters - High count cotton sheets - Lotion - Skype - My wooden back scratcher - The internet - Homemade fabric softener - Ibuprofin - Red wine - Billy Nye the Science Guy - British TV - Edward Hopper's art - Time - Sugar - How Sophie enjoys playing her clarinet - Dogwoods announcing the spring - When we get a little snow - Chocolate - Art created by my friends - A whole mess of other stuff - And you.  I'm grateful for you.

I hope you've had a good day wherever you are.  Tomorrow we'll get back to the pointing and the laughing.

The rack is full and so are we, of laughing gas and ennui

Well, that's what one of my snit fits looks like.  I'm sorry you had to see that.  I really do try to repress as much as possible, but that stuff was leaking out of my ears.   Please keep your eyes peeled for my gratitude post tomorrow.  No really.  I have a long list of things I'm grateful for even in the midst of my midlife meltdown.

Okay, so now I am over it.  This is me letting go of the traditional idea of work.  Once those benefits are gone, I'm going to be one of those people who simply stops looking for work.  If I can't get paid to suck it, fuck it, flash my tits at it, wear it and then sell it on ebay, tweet it, bake it, youtube it or write it, I'm not worrying about it.

We will adjust further.  Priorities will be rent, utilities, food and gasoline.  The doctor, dentist and other small business people who normally enjoy a few dollars from us each month, well, sorry.  The big guys get their money.  Georgia Gas, Georgia Power, AT&T, Progressive Insurance, the water company, the oil company selling the least expensive gasoline.

I still taste the bitter.  Dang it.

Anyway, today has been interesting.  I paid what is likely my last visit to the Department of Labor.  They were holding a farewell party for some of us long-termers.  They even provided party hats and noisemakers.  And cake.  Three kinds.  There was chocolate for the transplants, red velvet for the real Southerners, and a carrot cake for the hippies.  It sat forlornly on the edge of the table next to the cruditees, mostly ignored while we gluttonous slackers attacked the hot wings and store brand potato chips with gusto.

I never did find the alleged cooler holding the beer, but while I was surfing the job search website, the guy at the computer next to me offered me some moonshine in a flask.  I typically don't drink after people, not even MathMan or the kids, but since we're talking serious alcohol here, I figured whatever crud that guy had left on the rim of that flask wouldn't do me any damage.  Plus, I'm pretty good at the waterfall move.  (Just don't mention backwash, please.)

I had to be furtive though.  The security guard was there performing his normal duties - holding up the wall next to the check-in and pushing in chairs after ill-mannered clients get up and lumber after their counselors into the cubicle maze without taking a moment to shove in their chairs.  A couple of clients asked him if he'd give us all a patdown so we could pretend we were going somewhere for the holidays.  He told them to pipe down and have some raw vegetables because that might be the last fresh veggies they see for a while.

I saw some folks pocketing food.  Sometimes you just have to look away.  Or at least don't make eye contact. We all deserve a little dignity, right?

I high-fived the counselor on my way out.  He wished me bobspeed and told me to let him know when my book gets published.  I felt propelled by his confidence.  So much so that I skipped across the street to where MathMan sat in the middle of total chaos at the pediatric dentist's office where he waited with Nate for a 10:45 a.m. appointment.

I sat reading Laura Munson's This Is Not the Story You Think It Is (psst, read this book) while MathMan graphed stuff on a calculator.  He is so hot when he does mathy stuff in public.  I leaned over and licked his ear. Around us a herd of preschoolers thundered about, shrieking and running, climbing into the playhouse in the corner.

The most talked about kid in the waiting room was named The Rattlesnake.  The rest of the kids hollered The Rattlesnake! The Rattlesnake! over and over while I tried to focus on the book and MathMan tried to recover from being licked in front of twenty-seven other adults who lined the room, staring up the TVs showing Food Network and wishing they were anywhere else but in that noisy room with the floofloovers and the tartookas, the whohoopers and gardookas.....

Nate was finally called back for his cleaning at noon.  I was feeling grateful for the guy and his flask of moonshine...

Thanks to all of you who left comments, sent jokes and emails and who contacted MathMan to make sure I hadn't leaped from the top of garage and broken my blogging fingers.  You guys are the best.  I love you all.

xoxoxox,

Lisa

P.S.  What are you reading? watching? doing over the long weekend?  Do you know anyone named The Rattlesnake?

Unemployment Diary: The Unemployed Just Need to Get a Job and Stop Being So Lazy

Crude drawing by Lisa Golden

Greetings from the Pit of Despair!  The gameshow where we put the long-term unemployed through the paces of looking for work.  Winners will be rewarded with a job.  Some lucky winners will even receive full-time permanent work!  And one lucky winner will receive the grand prize - full-time permanent work with benefits!

(The crowd goes wild.)

This week's contestants will be vying against an average of four people for each job opening.  Remember - those are just averages. For each opening, we'll have at least four contestants competing for the grand prize.

So let's get started, shall we?

Meet Contestant Number 1.  This rugged fellow in his flannel shirt, trucker's hat and worn blue jeans has worked construction for fifteen years.  He still has his steel-toed boots and equipment so he's ready to go.  He just needs a job.  He's going to have to compete with forty other people for one job today.  And to make it even more interesting, he's going up against a lot of guys who are willing to work for employers who are seeking ways around labor laws, if you know what I mean (nudge, nudge, wink, wink).  Oh, those rascally employers know how to get things done.  Keep those employee rolls under fifty and those pesky labor regulations disappear like shit through a goose!

Here's Contestant Number 2!  Don't let that gray hair fool you.  She's still young at 45!  She comes with twenty years of administrative experience and her last job had some kind of Vice President title.  Since there's nothing open in her obscure field, she's going to run the gauntlet of online applications that require her to put in her salary information.  But here's the tricky part - she's going to be applying for jobs offering one quarter of her old salary.  So will she lie about her salary or will she lie on the affidavit that states she's answered all the questions truthfully?

Contestant Number 3 has B.A. in computer science that he's still paying for.  He's going to be filling out the USAjobs application for a federal job, but his only previous experience is having worked at the local Chilis as a busboy and then a server.  He's going to have to do some serious wordsmithing, isn't he?

And finally, we have Contest Number 4.  This lovely young woman has a two year old and a husband serving in Iraq.  Look at her, she's already stumped by the online application for the retail store. Hoo boy, that 114 question psychological test can be a bear!  And no, this isn't like Who Wants to Be A Millionaire.  You can't call your lifeline or get the audience's opinion.

Every contestant is on their own.  

********

As some of you might have guessed from my previous posting, I've kind of reached the end of my optimism.  When I'm not applying for jobs or writing, I'm scanning the horizon for tall buildings.  And hoping that something good - I really have to qualify that these days - will happen for us.  Something good would be nice, we've had enough of the other kind of stuff.

Meanwhile, applying for jobs and that has turned into a great source of, um, humor? despair? Aren't they just two sides of the same coin anyway?

So far this week, I've been told by the Department of Labor that since I don't have three months of custodial experience on my resume, they cannot refer me to an employer to be a janitor.  "But have you seen my house?  It's spotless," I sigh at the drab DoL email.

The email doesn't care.  Nor does the person I call in an effort to appeal their decision.  "The employer's minimum requirements are set in stone," she says.

"I understand that, but the people on TV who've bothered to stop talking about Bristol Palin on Dancing with the Stars or those TSA pat downs to discuss the plight of the unemployed, they say that all we need to do is to just get out there and get a job," I whined.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Golden.  We can't refer people without the minimum requirements.  Those are the rules." She's giving me the firm voice.  I get it. I used to have to enforce rules, too.

"But I can clean.  I've been cleaning since I was a kid and my mother would have the Home Ec Club ladies at the house and we had to scrub the baseboards in case any of them decided to do the white glove test at the point where the wall met the floor."

"We've already referred a number of people with qualifying experience for that position and there's only one opening."  She wanted to get off the call.

I didn't want to harass her anymore. She was just doing her job.  "Okay."

When I get bored of driving my Cadillac from the spa, to the hair weave place or the Korean place where I get my weekly mani-pedis, I sit down with my $8 latte and apply for jobs with the federal government, a large coffee company, a large telecommunications company, a greeting card company, three retailers, an auto parts chain, a homeless shelter, a community college, a dentist's office and a museum.  Although there are no job openings in my field here in Georgia, I did apply for a great job in Chicago.  Fingers crossed.  But it's a long shot.  They were very specific about there being no relocation expenses.  I was undeterred and wrote in my cover letter that I would pay my own moving expenses, if hired.  I'm sure they'll be impressed by my pluck and can do attitude.

Oh for the days when I would send out my resume and get a call within 24 hours.  I didn't know how good I had it.

But all I have is time, right? So QYB, Lisa.  Turns out if you're not already a federal employee with a level, it can take half a day to complete the USA jobs application as you write and rewrite your experience along with dates, project names and outcomes to support your assertion that you're qualified to be an administrative assistant in some agency.  And good luck to you if want to be any level higher and don't possess a Masters degree.  I've asked the Department of Labor if they offer any specific help in navigating the federal system, but to date, I've been met with blank stares.

Even more time consuming and mind-numbing are the online applications for large retailers, telecom companies, coffee pushers, and grocery stores.  They require you to complete psychological questionnaires containing 114 or so questions all to determine if you're a thief or a liar or some kind of hard-driving, tattle-tale, manager-bashing nuisance.

I've reached the point where I can't tell just exactly which psychological disorders they're trying to weed out.  At one point, I tried to just put the link to this blog into a field.  "Just read my blog and you'll see the color of my character," I typed into the field.

Rejected.  Such a common theme.

Yesterday as I pushed the grocery cart dejectedly through the Ingles (another place that hasn't called me for an interview), I ran into an acquaintance of mine.  Her husband has been out of work for a while now, too. We discussed how they're managing.  He's looking, too, but he's in road construction and even with some of the stimulus money that has flowed to Georgia, he's been unable to find anything.  They're managing on his unemployment which runs out the second week of January and the money she makes substitute teaching.  While she and her husband go without health insurance, at least their boys have Medicaid.  Good thing - their son has food allergies and severe asthma.

So perspective, Lisa.  There's always someone worse off than you.  I suggested she look into the food stamp program.  MathMan makes too much, I've already checked.  But I doubt they do.  And they certainly won't after her husband's unemployment insurance runs out.  After working and paying taxes all these decades, they should use the services available.

"Don't go hungry, okay?"  I said to her, glancing into her cart which didn't hold much.  There was no turkey, just some staples.

"We won't," she sighed, her eyes traveling to my cart.  I had the buy one get one free bacon, a loaf of bread and a bag of potatoes.

"Remember when we used to go out for margaritas and chips?" she asked suddenly.

I laughed.  "Yeah.  Our high-flying days.  Come over and see me, okay?  I'll read you outtakes from my stories and you can mock me.  Instead of restaurant chips and margaritas, we'll have cheap beer and pork rinds."

It was her turn to laugh.  "I will."

But I know she won't.  She's tired and depressed and her kind of misery doesn't really want company.

I know because I'd rather not see people either.  I'm closing off.  I deactivated my Facebook account.  And I'm not opening Tweetdeck.  I can't take all the holiday and shopping talk.  And I can't stomach the political bullshit either.  I'm a little astounded at the whining by people who have the luxury of flying.  Here's an idea - you stay here and enjoy our Kraft Dinner for the holidays and we'll take your plane tickets and go see family.  I won't even bitch about annoying security measure.  Hell, I'll fly naked and solve that particular problem.  Just to get away would be nice.

I'm typically not such a delicate creature, but right now, I'm walking the razor's edge.  The less noise I allow into the brainpan, the better.

Just get out there and get a job, you lazy ass.

So now I've taken to looking at which states have the lowest unemployment rates and trying to picture us living in North Dakota.....

So how about you keep me off the rooftops.  Make me laugh. Please. 


Hello, you're not making me laugh so I'm shutting off comments.

Time to Fly

Traitorous Cats and Poisonous Cough Drops

Photo source

Someone asked me where I find the inspiration to write here day after bloody day.

I wouldn't call it inspiration so much as an exercising* of demons. Or perhaps it's the manifestation of the internal Keystone Cops reel that plays through my head to the soundtrack of Khachaturian's Sabre Dance, the circus march and Britannica Spearsorelli's Oops, I Did It Again.

You might be surprised at the number of these posts that come to me as I scoop clumps and tootsie rolls from litter boxes.  Then again, maybe surprise isn't what you're feeling at all.

Mostly, things just come to me and I run them through the bloggability filter which is, admittedly, full of holes.   I pretty much go with whatever nonsense has shaken itself loose from the folds of my brain.

Take, for example, yesterday morning.  I awoke with a sales pitch for some unknown gadget looping inside my head.  It appeared between the time the alarm went off and the time I finally shoved MathMan's leg off me and stumbled to the bathroom.

"It will protect you from your spouse's wrath, the grating whines of your children, your mother's icy glare, your father's indifference, natural disasters, grizzly bear attacks, the plague and the mind numbing effects of reality TV.  In fact, the only thing it won't protect you from is a great sale's pitch!  And Sarah Palin.  Which might actually be the same thing."

And we wonder how things like ShamWow! happen.

Having the cats around provides some inspiration, too.  Did I tell you that they read the advance copy of former President George W. Bush's memoir Decision Points and decided that they like him now?  Yeah.  They think he is hysterical with all that joking about his father's black testicles and spoofs on torture. Traitorous felines.

Since it's far easier to organize against a common enemy than it is to organize for something, even something as noble as Peace, they've disbanded the Pussies for Peace.  Instead of discussing the horrors of war, they submit requests for TV time to watch the former President in all those hilarious interviews.

Still, they are cats.  Aside from a small number of things they can agree on - the fact that they are always hungry and never fed enough, for example, and their new affection for W. - they remain ever catlike in their lack of cooperation.

You should have heard the ruckus as they tried to organize a reenactment of a Brat Pack movie.  First, they couldn't decide which movie and scene to do.  Some of them advocated for the Sitting Around in a Circle and Spilling Our Guts scene from The Breakfast Club.  Another faction wanted to do the Demi Moore Rocking Herself in the Empty Room with the Creepy Clown Head and Gossamer Curtains Blowing in that Crazy Georgetown Wind scene from St. Elmo's Fire.

Some of them were concerned that our wind machine wouldn't do the Demi Moore scene justice.  They tried to drag me into it by asking my opinion, but my voice was drowned out when things got physical after one of them threatened to boycott the whole Brat Pack idea if he couldn't play Frank Sinatra's part.

On the other hand, being sick wasn't such an inspiration.  When I wasn't whining to myself and poking lethargically at my keyboard as I shopped online to invest the last bits of my unemployment insurance on things like the Bradford Exchange's anticipated Prince William and Kate Middleton commemorative wedding plate and making donations to political candidates, I lay in bed counting the bumps on the flocked ceiling until I got to that one bump that sticks out more than the rest of them.  I always get hung up there and have to start over.

It wasn't a complete waste of time.  I entertained deep thoughts, as well.  Like how are we going to become energy independent?  What are we going to do about campaign finance reform, job creation, energy and the environment, ending the war, equality for everyone, doing away with those horrible "free" trade agreements that have been ruinous to our economy, and rebuilding the nation's infrastructure.   If you take a step back, you realize that they are all related.  So where does one begin?

I toyed with the idea that we could innovate our energy production by converting snot, a renewable and widely distributed resource, into green energy. No pun intended so stop looking at me that way.  Maybe sucking on cough drops that I found at the back of the medicine cabinet wasn't such a good idea.  They were in their wrappers inside the bag.  Those expiration dates aren't real, are they?  exp. 11/2001 is just a "framework" for freshness, right?  They more or less worked.  Instead of sounding like an eighty year old consumptive, I sound like a forty-five year old consumptive.

Small steps to improvement.

Have a wonderful, healthy weekend, gang. 

*I meant that.

We Discuss Current Events

Thank you all for your encouraging comments yesterday when I shared with you the email I sent to my Senators asking them to vote for an extension of unemployment insurance.  Thanks to those who've blogged about it, linked and tweeted it, as well.

Predictably, both responded with form letters thanking me for contacting them, expressing sympathy for those of us out of work and explaining that they could only support the extension if it is budget neutral and does not add to the deficit.

I'm still trying to craft an appropriate response.  I thought about calling my mother, The Big R, for advice, but I already know what she would say.  While it's apparently fine for her to say politically incorrect things about Kentucky Senator Mitch McConnell and his lipless, chinless, marionette-lined face and his cat who swallowed the canary smile, it is not okay for me to embarrass The Big R by shouting in an email written in all caps.

According to her, it's fine to treat politics like sports when one is safely walled off from prying eyes and ears, cocooned in front of the TV inside one's domicile, shouting "Get your head out of your ass!" at Chris Matthews when he fails to ask some obfuscating political operative an obvious follow up question.

However, opening your response to a Senator who essentially told you (once again) to get stuffed with "You've got to be fucking kidding me!" is not okay.

So I'm thinking over my response to both Senators - one a hard right conservative and the other more moderate - who support the ongoing massive spending on warfare and making permanent tax cuts for the wealthiest two percent of Americans, a move that is projected to increase the budget deficit by $700 billion plus and has not created a single net job in ten years, but want to draw a line in the spending sand when it comes to putting money into the hands of people who need it and who will put it into the economy immediately by spending it on essentials.  Let's just say keeping a measured and respectful tone is going to take some real effort.

Come to think of it, in the course of any given day, I do some really stupid stuff.  Trying to apply logic to politics and how our government "works" is probably some of the stupidest stuff I do.

Setting:  MathMan and I are sort of watching Countdown with Keef Overman's segment on the airport "security" full body scanners and TSA latex-gloved diddlings.

Me:  I get the whole privacy/effectiveness thing, but really?  I've got more pressing worries at the moment.
MathMan:  Yeah, well look at the unit on that guy.
Me:  What? Shit! I missed it! Worth a rewind?
MathMan:  Yeah, go ahead.  Rewind.
Me:  Wow. That guy on the right is hung.
MathMan:  That wouldn't have, by any chance....
Me:  My darling, I'm exhibiting symptoms of a severe upper respiratory infection and have had a fever off and on all day.  It would take a whole lot more than an x-ray showing the outline of some guy's low-slung manhood to arouse me.

Except I didn't say it quite like that.

Do you do stupid stuff?  How much would you love a government that really works for the people?  Do you think maybe I could get a job with the TSA feeling people up?  I'd be gentle.  I'll even rub my hands together first to warm them up.  Can we just toss the whole thing out and start over?  Which whole thing?  You decide.

Unemployment Diary: I Write Letters

Below is the letter I sent to both my Senators regarding the November 30 expiration of extended unemployment benefits.  If you'd like to help the millions of us out of work, please write or phone your Senators right away. (Please see resources below.) (Paragraph 2 was edited for my 2nd Senator to reflect that I visited his office a number of times as part of a lobbying delegation, not shown)

Dear Senator:

I'm writing today to urge you to vote to extend unemployment insurance. Like many, I have been out of work for over twenty-six weeks.  While I continue to search for work, the benefits that I receive are critical to the health of my family.

A few years ago, we met while I was the Executive Director of the (redacted).  (Redacted) and I came to your office to present you with (name redacted)'s Legislator of the Year award.  You were very gracious, as was your staff, and we enjoyed the opportunity to chat with you about your views regarding (redacted).

Since then, I moved to a position with the (name redacted), a trade organization made up of (redacted) in Georgia and Alabama.  Unfortunately, many of the (redacted) had to leave the association as the real estate and construction industries collapsed and they struggled to keep their businesses afloat.  As a result, the Association's budget was cut and my job was eliminated.

I've been laid off since December 2009.

While I've used a number of resources to seek new employment, I have had no success to date.  The (redacted) market in Georgia has shrunk, reflecting the overall health of the economy and business.  I've applied for all types of job from entry level to management and I continue to seek work both in and outside of my field.  

The reality is that there are too many of us seeking work.  Moving out of Georgia isn't a viable option at this time.  My husband and I have children in schools in (redacted) and (redacted) Counties and our oldest daughter is a sophomore at (redacted), attending on an academic scholarship and working two campus jobs to cover expenses.

My husband's job, while relatively stable, is stretched to the limit of its ability to support us.  He teaches for (redacted) County.  To make extra money, he is the Math Department Chair at his high school and coaches three sports.

We have cut our expenses to the bone.  We have depleted our savings.  The unemployment insurance buys our groceries and gasoline and helps pay our utilities.  Over the course of 10 months, we've learned what it is like to have our electricity, our water, our phones and our gas cut off.  Thankfully, those things didn't happen simultaneously.  But each month, we basically rob Peter to pay Paul and when we get caught short, we end up having to pay extra fees to have services restored.  This results in yet another shortfall the following month.

The most important part of this long email is this  - our family is not alone in this crisis.  There are many of us out here desperate for jobs.  While we look for work, the unemployment benefits keep the lights on and keep our families from going hungry.

Thank you for your time and attention to this message.  On behalf of the long-term unemployed in Georgia and across the nation, I urge you to vote to extend unemployment insurance right away.

Best regards, 

Lisa Golden

P.S. If, by chance, you've been considering the addition of a token liberal to your staff, my resume is attached.  Thank you.

Contact info for Senators
Sign the petition to extend unemployment benefits

And if you think that this is a slam dunk because Congress is going to be oozing some trumped up concern about upcoming holidays, I give you this.

Thank you.

Black Magpie Theory: Libertyland Part 1

So what if we agree to disagree

And draw lines in the sand

That become lines on a map

And then borders between

Our vision and theirs.

I'm writing a serial fiction at Black Magpie Theory.  I hope you'll join me there for part one.

(I've contracted the plague.  I'll see you guys in a day or two.)

Just See a Thing or Two in Me

As part of the series where I introduce or reintroduce the members of my family, I'd like to give you MathMan.  Not literally, of course.  He's the glue that holds the rest of together.  I'd say he's the most important piece of the puzzle because without him, there would be no us.

But what can I say about the person who has shared over half my life, alternately loving me and wishing a painful death upon my sorry ass?  Okay, here's a perfect example of a MathManism. Just now he wanted to know why I was snickering as I typed (lord, I snicker at my own writing, how embarrassing) so I read him the line.  His response?  "That's passion, honey.  You may not think we're passionate about each other, but you'd be wrong."

Over the years, I've written many posts either about or including MathMan.  He's a gift, a source of material both poignant and humorous.  I'm sorry I can't link to the old Unglued blog because those were times to try this couple's soul and MathMan's light really shined that summer of 2008.  Lately, we get along so well, it seems almost like the calm before a storm, but the truth is, we're in the eye of the storm.  Thankfully, we've learned to use the other as both anchor and launch.  It's a lot easier to take risks when you've got a safe place to return to.

I did a little research into my own scholarly writings on love, marriage, and friendship and found a few posts that would best illustrate this man I met in August 1987, hooked up with on October 1, 1987, began cohabiting with in November 1987, married in August 1988, lived apart from August 1997 - November 1997, separated from in October 2000, was served divorce papers by in December 2000, reconciled with in February 2001, treated badly January 2008 - May 2008, ran away from for a day May 19, 2008 and returned to bruised and broken, but smarter May 20, 2008.

The rest has been smooth sailing ... if you like a wild ride, that is.  Why he puts up with the drama will probably always be a mystery to me, but I'm fortunate that he does.

I've thought a lot about what it means to love and be loved.  The main male character in my first manuscript is based on MathMan.  While working on that book, I've had a chance to really dissect what it is that I like about him, what I love, what I find perplexing and what I wish were different.  In so many ways, that piece of writing has been a labor of love.

There's so much I want to say, but then so much has already been said.  So let's take a look...

The Many Faces of MathMan, not a poem
He's the man who pulled the poo cork.
Who texts me from the bathroom to let me know he's peeing. (True story)
He's the driver for the Commute Chat video series
He's a math guy and so much more.
The father of my children, Big Daddy to the cats.
He's my muse, my erotic inspiration, the person who tells me to get my butt in the chair and write and stop whining about it.
He makes me laugh. And laugh some more.

One of his hallmarks is the ability to say a lot using a minimum of words.  This morning I sat in bed reading Betsy Lerner's The Forest for the Trees and read the following to MathMan:

"Most writers appear neurotic; the truth is, we don't know the half of it.....What's useful about neurotic behavior is that they lend a shapeless day structure.  If you must use yellow paper, if you must drink a double espresso before starting, if you can only write for three hours in the morning, then at least you have parameters...."

MathMan rolled his eyes.  "That's because you're all Special Ed."

He went on to say that he'd learned a few years ago in a training that if someone said the characters moved on the paper, try giving them colored paper to use.  He has a whole bag of tricks for helping learners cope with their unique styles.

He also noted that he's always known that I'm a little crazy.  This was said without apology or derision, a statement of fact like 2 + 2 = 4.

I'd be a liar if I tried to contradict him.

Circa 1988. A great year for love, for hair? Not so much.

Shiny Happy People

Quick hits from the homefront...

MathMan My World

Wednesday evening I was writing another sex scene and hit a snag.  I wasn't sure if it rang true.  MathMan was stretched across the bed checking Facebook or writing a Calculus quiz.  Does it matter? (no).  I swiveled in my chair to face him and gave him the one eyebrow raise. He smiled invitingly.  After spending half your life with someone, words aren't always necessary.

Without telling him what I was up to, I coaxed him into position so I could test the authenticity of the scene.  Actually, coaxed is probably too strong a word.  The fun part (besides the obvious) was that this was something different for us.  It's not something we usually do.  While hyper-efficient communication can be a happy result of being together for a long time, the downside is that sex can become routine and more about efficiency than wild abandon, romance a casualty of time. 

In case you're wondering, with just a bit of tweaking the scene works.  

Moi

Yesterday, I got bogged down by my growing addiction to political TV and became frustrated.  As a result, I hit the wall of writer's block.  And I think it made my cheek break out again.  It could be political TV, it could be the fact that I messed with my hormones when I had my Mirena IUD removed, it could be my rosacea roaring back due to stress.  Whatever the cause, it's annoying as hell to have wrinkles and an angry red blemish on my cheek.  I can't even hide it under my bangs.

Idiotically, I thought flipping through TV channels would solve that.  Instead I got caught in the beam of watching war movies.  Sink the Bismarck, to be specific.  (That happens to be the movie MathMan mentioned the other day that resulted in my out of control craving and the consumption of two donuts last weekend.)

I texted MathMan to let him know that I was watching the movie.  Then I decided to just start typing (damn it!) to see if I could get around the stupid block.  (Turns out that's a very effective tool for breaking writer's block.) Before I could get back to typing, I had to read the last two paragraphs to remember where I'd been when I left off the night before.  I was a few words in before I realized that I was reading aloud using my Winston Churchill voice.  A sex scene read as Churchill.  Try it.

Chloe

Poor Chloe.  The parenting doesn't stop just because she's nineteeen and living away from home.  She called yesterday morning because she was sick. Being sick is not only gross and painful, it's inconvenient.  She shares the bathroom with several other girls in the sorority house which makes it also embarrassing and horrifying.)  As I listened, I realized that this was the first time she'd been sick like that away from the relative comforts of home.  Last year while living in the dorm, she'd been lucky enough to avoid getting any kind of stomach or intestinal bugs.

While I tried to be sympathetic and offer words of comfort across the miles, I couldn't help but think that if Chloe were the kind of kid who went out and got ridiculously, don't remember what you did last night drunk once in a while, this wouldn't have been the first time she'd been puking in a strange place.

Although I'm sure that keen observation would have sounded hilarious delivered in my Churchill voice, I refrained.  Sometimes you've just gotta hold back. 

So what are you holding back?  Who do you do impressions of?  What do you do when you have writer's block?  Who do you call and cry to when you're sick?

Tell It

As I worked on my first manuscript, I studied World War II to a depth I never had before.  As I've read the personal stories of the people who fought and, in some cases, gave their lives, I've been struck by the very human responses to the sacrifices asked for and given.

One of the most poignant stories I've heard was actually told to me many years ago when I worked for AARP.  At that time, I was working with the volunteers in Minnesota and I became close with the lead volunteer and her husband Woody.  Woody was a World War II veteran.

One night over dinner I asked Woody about his service.  I don't remember anymore what prompted me to ask, but he started talking.  He talked about being on the ground in Europe for a very short time before being captured by the Germans, he told us about his time in the prisoner of war camp, the interactions with his Nazi captors, the relationships that formed among the prisoners.  He was eighteen years old.

Finally, Woody excused himself and left the table.  His wife, the woman he'd shared the last fifty plus years with, turned to me and said,"I've never heard those stories.  He never talked about it."  Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears.

I think it's important that veterans tell their stories.  When they do, they bring the reality home to us.  Most of us have no idea what it's like to serve.  Most of us have no clue what it's like to be in the middle of war.

I'm grateful for the information I'm able to research, the personal stories that put a face on what now amounts to national legend.  When we study history in school, we receive the facts - the dates, the timelines, the historians' perspectives.  We learn the collective opinions on what happened, why it happened and how it happened.

The personal stories tell us how war effected people.  They seem less filtered.  They're less of a compilation or aggregation of experiences and more anecdotal, better able to illustrate those moments of daily life, the events large and small, that woven together tell the real story because while nations wage war, it's people who fight it.

As our nation wages two wars right now, most of us are unaffected, going through our lives without thinking about the sacrifices being made on our behalf in those faraway places and here at home by both the troops and their families.

Today it's easy to remember.  Let's try to remember every other day, too.  http://iava.org/

A Palate Cleanser: It Could Be Worse, It Could Be Raining

Source: Moonlitkitchen

Thank you all for the comments yesterday.  I know that it can be difficult to read that kind of post, but as several of you pointed out - it's important to put a human face on this process. I wanted to tell the stories of the other people we encountered that day because while our situations were different, there was a common thread. Your compassionate responses speak well of you.  I'm honored that you come here and read.

Today I'm in the mood for a palate cleanser.  Something a bit lighter.  Once again, the internet comes to the rescue. Let us tumble down the rabbit hole.....

One of the most egregious results of how our media now operates is the gross oversimplification of very important information.  When your basic formula consists of three minutes to present a complex issue and get the spin from both sides of the political spectrum, it's a wonder we haven't devolved into a group of people who use a series of points and grunts to convey our simple thoughts.

I'm not going to contradict this trend.  It's quite convenient for me actually.  I find pointing and grunting to have a satisfying caveperson quality that meshes well with my days of isolation, sitting in front of my computer tapping out words until they no longer have meaning.  Whimpering as I hit the job search websites again, like a mini-skirted hooker waving down a Yugo because the Mercedes-Benzites don't come to this neighborhood no more.

Good thing I daubbed some Eau de Desperation behind my ears before I logged on.

But it could be worse.  It could be raining.  Who wants to be a hooker standing in the rain squinting into headlights trying to figure out which one is a Mercedes and which one is the Yugo?  Well, maybe the meth addict whose last tooth just fell out of her head and rolled down the storm drain wouldn't mind the rain, but this plain old hooker has slightly higher expectations.  She's gaining seniority on this stretch of the road.  Show some respect, Dick.

Where did I just take you?  I blame the Wonka Gobstoppers.  Damn fruity candy.  This kind of thing doesn't happen when I stick to chocolate.

Gobstoppers are to chocolate what meth is to crack?  Let's move on before we all find our teeth rotting and our will to live slipping down that storm drain.

Oh, and while I'm pointing and grunting and being nouveau caveLisa, the cats pretend they are saber toothed tigers.  Except for the youngest one.  You know which one I mean.  The climber.  She's a pterodactyl floating gracelessly through the air and breaking things.  Or they decide to be dinosaurs.  The old Tortie Daisy is a lumbering brontosaurus.  The two gray siblings do rock paper scissors to decide who will be TRex and who will be the Triceratops.  The big fluffy tabby always has to be a woolly mammoth although he's not fond of the tusks I've fashioned out of bendy straws taped to a headband.

Inevitably, we fall into debating whether cavepeople lived at the same time as the dinosaurs. There are accusations about secret donations to the Creation Museum in Kentucky.  Because we are a passionate lot, tears are shed before cooler heads prevail and we agree to disagree.  While they go back to napping, I use google to find proof that the truth really lies in Greek myth.  We all sprang from Zeus's head.  I'm pretty sure it might involve kinky sex with a pomegranate in a boat crossing the River Styx resulting in George Washington wearing a long, flowing wig emerging from an oyster shell.  I can't decide what I believe, but I know those cats are wrong.  Dead wrong.

Speaking of google, let's get back to the oversimplification.  Last night, I looked at the search terms that bring people to this blog and found something interesting and definitely in need of oversimplification.  What did I discover?

Well, there are a lot of people who either wonder about their ability to care about humanity or who are fans of  the new Sherlock on PBS and were struck just like I was by the line "I'm a high functioning sociopath, do your research."  I loved that line in the first episode of the show.  I loved the idea that the sociopath, albeit self-identified and high-functioning, had enough self-awareness to deliver that line.

That's the kind of character I long to create.  I'm not there, but the characters in my new novel have come to life and I'm liking them. Okay, maybe I'm loving them, but I'm not loving them so much that I can't do horrible things to them. Their lives are about to turn upside down.  Like some sick god or maybe my younger self with Barbie and Ken or a high-functioning sociopath, I'm enjoying the lead up to the disaster that's about to befall my characters and make them wish they'd never been typed into existence.

As for those people who came looking for xhamster glory hols and unwraping private parts, well, they're going to be disappointed.  However, for research purposes, I'm noting that when people are looking for porn, they don't spell so well.

Or should I oversimplify it thus:  People who google for porn don't know how to spell.

Perhaps I won't disappoint those wondering about "was feeling bloated" fart gas, fat, fat the water rat and definitely that screeching in their ears.  For that I apologize.  My family has been begging me to stop causing that for years.

The simple conclusion I reach about the sociopath searches is this:  Watch your backs, people. Trust no one  and watch your backs.

Have you checked your stats lately?  I mean your blog stats, your business stats, your fantasy football team stats, your vital stats.  Have you found patterns - disturbing or otherwise?  Can you name the movies that are quoted here?  Would you like a Gobstopper? 

All things atrocious and shameless

Some of you may be under the impression that Golden Manor sits in the middle of Nowheresville.  You've developed that impression by reading this pack of lies and subterfuges, of course, but I'm not interested in blame at the moment.  Especially when blame rests with me.

Middle of Nowhere or not, we can travel to Rome by car.

There are no Spanish Steps or Fountain of Trevi, no Pantheon or Colosseum. There is, however, a Forum. The Bankruptcy Court of Northwest Georgia convenes in The Forum.  Sadly, it's not the formal affair you'd expect.  There's no robed judge (oh, how I would love a dour faced, robed judge with one of these barrister wigs!). There's no jury box full of disgruntled creditors gnashing their staplers or waving manila folders menacingly. There's no witness stand, no bible to swear upon, no bailiff.

There's just the friendly, but harried looking Trustee, a woman taking notes, your attorney, some cheap breakroom style tables and four or five short rows of hotel chairs upon which the people seeking debt relief sit fidgeting, worried and a little bit defeated.

People don't make much eye contact in that setting, if you know what I mean.

I didn't even bother to change out of my blue jeans this time.  When we went through this life-affirming event two years ago, I dressed professionally.  This time I didn't bother.  If dress slacks and a blouse seemed appropriate for a Chapter 13 hearing then a pair of jeans and a decent sweater would work for a Chapter 7.

It's probably an indication of where my head is.

MathMan and I were the first on the docket for 2pm, but because we're equally compulsive about never being late, we arrived at 1:10 to the great relief of our attorney.  He ushered us into the room, made sure we had our drivers' licenses and Social Security cards and told us to take a seat.  We'd be up at two.  In the meantime, we would watch the proceedings beginning at 1:30.

First up were a couple who seemed a bit younger than MathMan and me.  He worked two jobs and she was self-employed. Their house had lost about $30,000 in value since they'd purchased it so they were underwater. They'd gone through a nightmare of a refinance to get out of an Adjustable Rate Mortgage.  Nevertheless, they were going to try to hold on to the house, even with the upside down mortgage. They were also going to try to keep both their vehicles.

They nervously answered the Trustee's questions, looking at each other to decide who would answer each query.  The room was quiet, but we all became more still as the couple answered questions about the value of her wedding ring.  Was it insured? the Trustee had to ask.  Yes.

Insurance doesn't buy the peace of mind each of us sitting in that room crave.

A creditor showed up to seek the repossession of some items - an Xbox console and a lawn mower.  Were they still in good working order?  The creditor wanted to know.  Yes. My heart sank as the couple exchanged a look conveying anger and shame.  I know that look.

One of the questions the Trustee asks each petitioner is how they got into financial trouble.  For this couple the answer was that the man's work hours with a large freight shipping company had been cut. The woman's home-based business - a personal service - was suffering, too.  People with reduced disposable income and insecurity about the future stop spending money on things like haircuts, manicures and massages.

I chewed the inside of my cheek, a nasty nervous habit, and wondered why that freight shipping company is advertising for holiday help while cutting hours for its long-time employees.  I just applied for a job with them to help sort boxes and make deliveries.  No, they haven't called.

Next on the docket was a man who didn't speak much English.  The Trustee called a translation service that performs the service via speaker phone.  It was really quite interesting.  Mr. Rodriguez had already had his car and house trailer repossessed.  I wondered where he was living.  He was lean, compact. The time he'd spent in the sun had etched a map across his face.  He sat hunched over the table, his jacket seemed to swallow him up.

What had been the cause of his financial difficulty, the Trustee wanted to know.

No hay trabajo.

My background in French made that easy for me to understand.  Il n'y a pas de travail.

There is no work.

The Trustee called the names of other petitioners - the no shows, the unexplained.  I tried to imagine just not showing up, but I couldn't do it.

Finally, it was our turn.  We raised our right hands and swore to tell the truth and all that.  We answered the questions like the others who'd sat perspiring and trying to keep their nervous legs from jiggling before us.  Since we were moving from a Chapter 13 to a Chapter 7 Bankruptcy, our questions weren't so extensive.  We'd already surrendered our house and a car two years ago.  Our assets are nothing, as ordered by the court in 2008.

And what had caused us to no longer be able to pay back our debt per the Chapter 13 agreement? the Trustee wanted to know.

No hay trabajo.
Il n'y a pas de travail.
There is no work.

Does Anyone Else Hear That?

I am so sorry about the double post yesterday.  As if that post wasn't hot mess enough with all the typos and mistakes, I had to hit you with it twice?  I opted to not delete either post since both had comments so here they will stay forever and ever until some race of superbeings' children discover the internets in a dusty box tucked away in someone's galactic attic.  Once found, the internets will become a momentary interest before being lost again - this time for all eternity - after little BY5677 or whatever he's called, is chased by GR7689 across the attic.  He's carrying the internets in his six appendages, but since he's only .98 nanoseconds old, he's not so sure-footed.  Naturally, he trips and drops the internets and they go rolling into a black hole in the corner and (              )!!! Everything we've written here is gone in the blink of an eye. Or Six eyes, if you're little BY5677.

(       ) = the sound no one hears you make when you scream in space

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I should probably stop drinking what's left of those Billy Beers I found in the crawl space.

What are you sorry for today?  And could someone do something about that low rumbling sound I hear?  Thanks.

Candy Came From Out On The Island

This weekend has been wildly decadent.  Out of control.

She says, Hey babe.....

Yesterday I ate two donuts.  Cream-filled donuts.  I couldn't make up my mind between buttercream filled or custard so I ate both.  I put sugar in my coffee, too.


And the non-white girls go doo do doo do doo do do doo....

MathMan had the bad idea to buy a 50% off bag of Halloween candy.  It makes me wonder if he doesn't like me with a little more pushin' for the cushion.  Good thing the bag contained only Almond Joys and not Mounds, as well.  I would have hated to tax myself trying to decide if I felt like a nut or not.

After yesterday's disgusting food festival, I moved the bag of candy out of my reach.  I've spent today watching MathMan get exercise by walking back and forth between the bed and the bag of candy as he fetches tiny box of Milk Duds after tiny box of Milk Duds.

I said, Hey Joe.......

So it turns out I like writing sex scenes.  Shocking, I know.  This new book is at the 12,000 word mark and I've already got someone losing her virginity, a former boyfriend with a rapacious sexual appetite, and some married couple shower peeping.

I swear, this is not even erotica.  I mean, I don't think it is.  No, it's just me writing about how people really are.  At least people in my experience.  You'll have to take that for whatever it's worth.

Examples from just today:  MathMan suggested that I give him a hummer for his upcoming birthday and in exchange he'll give me a pearl necklace.  Somewhere deep in my Baptist DNA some part of me was disgusted.  I couldn't be bothered to react except to scratch and throw him a look of disdain.  It's Sunday, you sicko.

I've been trading thinly disguised sexual reference tweets with my old boyfriend Ethan.

My girlcrush Freida Bee is writing poetry and I'd pretend it's about me except my teeth are super straight.

My unfortunate clothing choice for this incredibly relaxed Sunday is a yoga top that's a bit too big now (yay!) and shows entirely too much of my cleavage.  This causes MathMan to crash into things as he goes back and forth between the bed and the Milk Duds.  It also causes the children to cover their eyes when they come into the bedroom where I sit tap tap tapping away on my laptop in an unmade bed.

This is kind of a good thing.  I'm not in the mood to deal much with the kids today.  They used up their Mom time on Friday as far as I'm concerned.  I took Nate to get his learner's permit.  Meanwhile, an indecisive Chloe was texting me as she tried to decide whether or not to go to Vanderbilt for a football game and girls' out weekend.  At the same time, Sophia was texting me from the middle school nurse's office.  She was dying apparently.  Or dry heaving as she tried to fake puke because I told her she can't just text me when she feels sick.  She has to go to the nurse's office and have her call me.

She missed the part about having the nurse call.  Well, the nurse finally called later after Sophie vomited.

"I'm so sorry," I apologized that the nurse was having to deal with Sophie because by the time she'd finally actually gotten sick, MathMan and I were on our way to the courthouse for our bankruptcy hearing.

"Don't worry," the really nice nurse said.  "She's got much better aim that most kids."

And now I'm writing this post because I really don't feel like driving Chloe back to school. Of course she decided to go to Vandy.  And now I have to drive four hours round trip and I still haven't had a shower.

I said, Hey babe.....

The clue to how out of control things are? The unmade bed.

Doo do doo do do doo do doo do do doo....

How do you define decadent?  Is it wrong to be thus on a Sunday?