We've always got Gosford Park

I'm sure I underestimate the amount of time I spend with the television, especially when I'm half watching while I do other things. There's no denying it. As I go through my day, the TV provides background noise more often then not. Even if I'm only using it for the music channels and not actually watching programs.

When I become acutely aware the television is when it goes away.

Yesterday smack in the middle of Morning Joe, Dishnetwork diminished our service. If you've never experienced an outage due to the an unpaid bill, here's how it works, for Dish, at least:  First they call sixty times a day. Then they start putting a message on your screen every couple of hours reminding you that your bill is late. Next they decrease your number of channels until finally they cut you off altogether and you're stuck watching the instructions on how to use your remote, whatever's on your DVR and that mess of DVDs you've recorded. Thank goodness for all those old Poirots you recorded on A&E. And how historically quaint are those Countrywide Mortgage commercials with the guy who looked like John Kerry?

Then they send you a box and tell you to send your fucking receiver back stat or they're going to send Fred over to yank it out and he won't be putting down the floor mats to keep from tracking mud into your house either!

Not that we've ever gotten to that stage.

Anyway, now we're in the diminished state. When this happens, it's a surprise. You never know exactly when it will happen or which channels they'll leave you with. It's different every time.

This time, we've got the Science Channel, NASA channel, a handful of Christian channels, Current to balance those out, I suppose; ESPN RedZone Preview, Tasty channel so I can learn of all the things I can do with Country Crock, a Spanish movie channel, American Movie Classics, The Military Channel, every shopping channel you can think of, Japanese news and two - count 'em TWO! - holiday music channels. The modern and the traditional. In case you don't want to hear G Love without his Special Sauce, you can listen to Bing croon about A White Christmas.

Because, you know, there's no chance I won't be hating Christmas music by Thanksgiving. I've already heard enough Burl Ives to make me want to build a snowman so I can kick him in his frosty balls and enough Mel Torme to make me demand a martini with a candy cane swizzle stick. The cats are working on the recipe right now. At least, based on the clinking of glasses and hiccuping, I think that's what they're doing.

Not to mention the fact that I find the whip crack sound in the Boston Pops' version of Sleigh Ride oddly arousing.

And what is the idea of keeping the shopping channels? I can't pay my bill, do they really want me buying that set of faux pearl handled vibrators?

But back to the TV. Naturally, none of those channels are my favorite. Even the one movie channel they gave us isn't my favorite. I prefer Turner Movie classics. No commercials.

Do you go through TV phases? Like in the days when my time was spent with young children, I watched PBS from morning til night. I would sing the Celery Bunch and the I Like Fudge songs and close out the day with Nature or Frontline.

Then we were getting ready to move to Georgia and I entered the HGTV days which dovetailed nicely with The Food Network era.

That came after the period when I watched a lot of VH1, catching up with the I Love series. I had no idea my youth was so interesting! Then the kids and I got into watching The N for the Degrassi series and I fell in love with Daria and wanted to be Jane. That coincided with when A&E and The Biography Channel had the wisdom to show the Poirots, Midsomer Murders and Sherlock Holmes with Jeremy Brett on Sundays.

And then there was the complete and utter devotion to BBC America. Sigh.

Some of you will remember the C-SPAN mornings that dragged on all day. Election time, you know.

So for now I'm stuck with the whirring sounds in my own noggin, Christmas music or The Military Channel which I can at least pretend is research for my novel. Thankfully, there's a DVR full of murders committed by people with charming accents. The kids have Netflix. And MathMan has Calculus.

My mother appears at my shoulder like one of those Angel/Devil apparitions and suggests I read a damn book. Yes, but I can't do that and be on the computer......(looks at the stack of books waiting to be read)..... oh.

What's your favorite channel? What's on your DVR or Tivo that you never delete?

Let the bowerbird do it

He won't be satisfied until he has everything just so.

susan on little distractions. Distractions abound. Large and small. susan's distraction sucked me in. I stayed awhile.

*********

I was having a bit of a moan about the tiresome lack of compliance the other inhabitants of this house have for my tiny requests that they help out by doing things like rinsing their dishes and putting them into the dishwasher and keeping doors closed so the cats won't nest in the clean laundry. Okay, maybe it was more than a bit of a moan. I'm fed up with their lack of respect for my time. Just because I'm here and able doesn't mean they shouldn't do the things they're capable of, the things they should do just because.

In other words, I'm not their fucking maid.

I'd probably have less anger about it if I were making record profits and getting government bailouts. I wouldn't even give two hoots if they moved their accounts to the smaller, friendlier, lived here all her life  housefrau down the street as long as I can continue to use my sweet piles of cash to buy legislative baubles.

I slumped into a chair and drew my bowl of fat free plain Greek yogurt* toward me. Nature was on PBS. The subject? Animal housekeeping.  As much as I wanted to be sour about it, I couldn't. The program is fascinating. Even if the honey badger doesn't make a cameo.

Watch The Animal House on PBS. See more from Nature.

*As if

Lisa Sing the Blues

Yesterday I tweeted that I was breaking up with TV because I can't take the bad news anymore. Why, in the span of twenty minutes, I was subjected to the news that Atlanta Mayor Kasim Reed had ordered the rousting of Occupy Atlanta, I ground my teeth while I listened to Senator Pat Toomey (R - PA) try to explain how Supply Side Economics would solve our problems by bringing down prices (which would be awesome if he means everything will be free because that's the only way people without jobs will be able to become consumers again), and then Arne Duncan came on the air to talk about how we need longer school days and more extracurricular activities for kids because all the activities the working classes can no longer afford to enroll their kids in aren't nearly enough.

At the end of that I was no longer grinding my teeth, I was stomping to the basement in search of ammunition.

The internet isn't much better, except for a few places that serve as doors into other worlds.

In a fit of pique, I hit my Tweetdeck with a hammer and threw eggs at the television. The cats were pleased. Their eyes gleamed as they lined up for a taste of that chirping Twitter bird and a couple of them went after the raw eggs. Not all of these cats are of the discerning taste variety. We have a couple with rather indiscriminate palates. If I don't keep the trash well sorted and the toilet lids shut, they think they're at a saloon with a buffet.

Alas, I wasn't finished. I also shot Facebook in the face because I'm so sick of the constant scroll of recycled photos with pithy sayings, the visual aids demonstrating just how fucking bad the economy is, and the links to the ever-increasing bad news.

I feel myself tumbling into the enormous chasm between the Haves and the Have Nots and wishing that we'd reach the place where violence becomes inevitable because I'm anxious to know the outcome of these dark times. I want to be through them already.

I hope you could follow that. You should see the size of the coffee cup I'm using.

Anyway, as an antidote, I'm spending more and more of my time escaping. While tugging clothes from the dryer and folding them into origami underwear swans is a great way to both stay away from the TV and to get make myself useful, I'd much rather disappear into new and different worlds - my own manuscript, books I'm reading, and especially into the labyrinth of online entertainment. Except for a few minutes of necessary relaxation to help me release my anxieties enough to get some work done, I'm actually talking about wholesome entertainment.

For example, short stories (follow the links to the story Paper Lanterns), and short films by new friends and then this by Nina Paley. In the Nina Paley film, my favorite parts are the cross talk between the narrators. (Click those links, people. I'm not kidding.)

Music is a must on my little island of I'm Ignoring You and You and You!. I bring with me all genres, but right now, I'm awash in jazz and the old standards and especially the old sappy love songs. A friend recently  sent me the 1929 CD by Annette Hanshaw who provides the soundtrack for Sita Sings the Blues.

I had an inkling of her work when I stumbled upon some of Hanshaw's music as I searched for a version Am I Blue to use in this post. It all fits so nicely since we seem to be enjoying economic good times just like in 1929.

Another friend and I were talking about how having certain survival skills might become necessity as things worsen. She pointed out that I might be glad I know how to grow food. I agreed, but I'd like better to be able to know how to grow trees that sprout Benjamins instead of leaves then I could start my own SuperPac. Talk about killing two legislative priorities with one big donation.

I think the thing that most irritates me about the state of the world is --- you know what, no. I can't even put my finger on the thing or even the things that most irritate me. We're in such a mess.

Enough with the gloom. I'm going to go round up the cats. We're working on our version of this. You know, just in case...

How are you escaping these days?

30 Day Photography Challenge - From a Distance

I have this friend who says, and rightly so, that Georgia is the Wild West of planning and zoning.

I wish I could distance myself from this, but I can't. It's everywhere begging for the symbolism of it to be recognized, named, called what it is. A crying shame? Criminal? The likely conclusion? The slow motion accident?

Spaces never leased.

Vultures and Herons gossip in the dry retention pond.

What symbolism?

It's their's now.

In or out?

Unfinished business.

Getting out while the gettin's good?

128 empty lots since 2008 or 2009

In my own neighborhood.

Foreclosed.

When we moved here in April of 2009, the guy who lived here rode his lawnmower like a stallion, a sense of lawn-related pride making his ruddy skin glow in the the afternoon sun.

Now it belongs to the bank. The bank has chosen to let Nature be the caretaker.

Yeah, I could use some distance from this. But with the Congressional shenanigans doing nothing to help the 99% of us not sitting on piles of growing money, the corporate media's complicity and the ability of those in the high offices looking down upon Zucotti Park to descend in their marble elevators to waiting cars that purr, I mean purr, when you turn the key in the ignition, and drive away having zero contact with the little people,  the impact we've felt so far will be fondly remembered as a feather light touch in days to come.

While those of us who continue to play by the rules because we're bereft of options and imagination and the gas and bail money to join The Revolution are wading into the muddy waters with stones in our pockets, those who made this mess and those who helped and those who refuse to acknowledge it and those who refuse to force some accountability on them all move further and further away into the distance.

Randal and his spooky noochies which aren't nearly as depressing.

UPDATED: Geoffrey takes us on a trip.

Unemployment Diary: Should Have Charged for Product Placement

My mother never really spent much time drilling the old Don't talk to strangers thing into our heads. For one thing, our town was so small, there weren't any strangers and for another, Mom had plenty of other things for us to be afraid of like Republicans winning elections and perceptions that we were anything less than solidly Middle Class.

So without this ingrained wariness of people I don't know, I'm apt to have forty-five minute long conversations about unemployment and wage stagnation with strangers in Staples or ten minute long convos in the frozen food section of Publix with a woman who offered me a coupon and ended up walking away with some frozen garlic bread and a coupon I gave her in exchange.

It's all in a day's work now that I'm accepting the fact that I might never have a traditional job again and I better jolly well figure out how we're going to manage in the future. As I've mentioned before, looking for a job has gotten so ridiculous, it is now sublime. But as any rule following collector of unemployment checks does, I continue the hunt like a technology-enhanced Elmer Fudd stalking Bugs Bunny. My gun is a laptop loaded with seventeen different mutations of my resume like interview-repelling viruses. Just like in the old Warner Brothers cartoons, the rabbit is winning and I'm still talking funny.

So despite the magical thinking of supply side economics, revenue numbers stay down, John Boehner, so what gets cut?

Again? My subconscious is skeptical. Haven't we gone through this already? We have. We've nailed down every fixed cost as best we can. While I continue to seek new income streams, we must get serious about cutting our variable costs even more.

As a result, I've been away from my usual corner of the blogosphere as I trolled the frugal living websites for ideas and attended a class (free, of course, at the library) on how to save using coupons. First, let me say that there is a wealth of information out there and second let me say that I've been feeling physically ill about how much money we've wasted over the years for the sake of convenience or due to sheer ignorance and laziness.

Implementing these money saving strategies has been time consuming because I'm either a slow learner or a perfectionist or both, but I assure you, they've been worth it. See, I'd assumed that cutting back equaled deprivation. Not so. Sure, you can buy an awful lot of convenience, but if you watch your pennies, you can have enough and the peace of mind that comes with not running out of stuff like food and toilet paper or money. Man, that sounds like ad copy for an infomercial, but bear with me, because there is a dark side to all this. And we're all about the dark side, aren't we?

For example, the couponing world is cut throat. Yesterday at the CVS, I had to settle for the Colgate Total (.75 off one coupon) instead of the Colgate Sensitive ($1 off one coupon) because some hoarder had cleared the shelves of the Sensitive. Same thing happened a couple of weeks ago at the Rite Aid. Some selfish hoarders had snatched up all the Prevacid 40ct. $24.99 with $10 +UP reward so I had to go across the street to the CVS and get the Prilosec 40ct $24.99 with $7 Extra Care Bucks instead. But that's okay. I got two boxes, used my $8 off 2 coupon and got a $24.99 rebate form to boot.  So those hoarders can suck it.

Which leads me to my second example - name calling. Now I haven't seen any verbal assaults at the store, but at home, they're calling me names behind my back. They still haven't figured out the Mom Bionic Hearing thing apparently.

"Have you seen the laundry room?" Nate and Sophie were in the living room watching TV and assumed I couldn't hear them from the dining room where I sat skimming SouthernSavers.com and printing coupons like a fiend.

"I know," Sophie said. "How many cans of diced tomatoes does one family need?" (They were buy one, get one free and I had four .50 off 2 coupons that Publix doubles plus two store coupons. That's called stacking.)

Nate aimed the remote at the TV and switched the channel to A&E. "And what? Does she think we'll be living on just cereal and soup?"

Sophie snorted. "Don't forget the olive oil. There's like seven bottles down there." (She exaggerates. There are four bottles down there. B1G1 with store and manufacturer coupons!) Her voice grew grave. "Hey, you don't think she's becoming one of those hoarders, do you?" Ah. There's that word. Hoarder. I prefer stockpiler.

Nate thought about it for a second. "Nah, she's too much of a neat freak to be a real hoarder. She's like a cross between a stockpiler and a homesteader.What's with her making her own laundry detergent?"

"I know," Sophie laughed. "I came home from school the other day and asked if the dryer was broken because she had wash hanging all over the place. Plus she cleans with vinegar and baking soda now instead of Windex and bleach. Weird."

"Next thing you know, she'll be sewing herself some long skirts and wearing bonnets like those homesteaders."

I'd heard enough. "Hey, you ingrates! The money I'm saving is how we can afford to get satellite so you even know the difference between a hoarder and a stockpiler."

They turned to look at me. I expected a little chagrin from them. Instead they burst out laughing.

"What's so funny?" I sputtered.

Nate pointed and I looked down at my shirt. A coupon dangled from my sweatered breast. Stupid static cling. I'd have to remember to add a bit more vinegar to the laundry rinse cycle until the Georgia humidity came back.

I admit, I'm experimenting with money saving ideas. Hang drying the clothes and using the dryer to fluff them for ten minutes or less will result in savings. Making my own laundry detergent is a no brainer. $10.99 for a big box of Surf or about $3.10 for the same amount of washes by mixing washing soda, borax and a bar of castile soap that I've grated. Even I can do that math.

Air drying the dishes in the dishwasher instead of using the heated dry setting = success. Turning off the high heat wash, not so much. It's trial and error. I'm still waiting to fall in love with Dr. Bronner and his amazing castile soaps, but if I remember my time in France correctly, that's where I learned that lots of lather = clean is an American notion and not necessarily true so I suspect Dr. B. and I will be BFFs soon.

Dialing the thermostat way down will be much easier to appreciate now that the worst of winter is behind us. Typing in gloves is a bitch, but typing with frozen fingers is an even bigger bitch.

Like any new interest, it's easy for me to go overboard. I start conversations with "Hey, did you see that Publix has Louis Jadot Beaujolais on sale for $10.99?" The cats don't care about Beaujolais. They want to know when I'm going to uncork the next can of Nine Lives (Box of 24 for $10.49 at Publix, still less per can than the box of 32 Friskies with a coupon).

I'd mentioned that this is time consuming. Preparing for the shopping trips is just the beginning. The trips themselves are an endurance exercise. It's as if my time is worth nothing which, according to most employers these days, is true. Yesterday, as I snailed my way through Publix calculating whether I should come back a second time so I could use my second $5 off any $30 bill (excluding the Beaujolais, naturally) an assistant manager approached me.

"I'm sorry, m'am, but we have a policy against loitering," she whispered.

I held up my hand as I finished counting the Pillsbury, Hunts, Green Giant and Progresso items in my basket (buy 20, save $5 with coupon of which I had two, but could use only one per trip hence the complicated math). "Loitering? I'm counting. And now I have to start over because I don't remember if I have six or eight cans of green beans. Say, while you're here, can you reach that jar of Mt. Olive sweet pickle relish that's on sale? Thank you."

She handed me the jar and as I placed it in the cart I said something about what a pain it is to be so short, but when I turned she was already rounding the aisle's end cap at a full run.

The grocery trips are long, too, because I inevitably end up chatting with other customers. It's funny what will spark a conversation. Like the woman who, like me, is new to using coupons in earnest. She gave me her extra Bertolli's and I gave her a New York brand garlic bread. Could I have used the extra fifty cents off another box of garlicky Texas Toast? Of course! But we're not savages,  you know. Give and take, people. Give and take.

I also find that I have to restrain myself from telling other shoppers to stop wasting their money, go home, get online and look at some Youtube videos about stockpiling and batch cooking, buy a few Sunday papers (be sure some hoarder hasn't swiped the coupon sections) and plan out their trips. They'll be amazed at what they save.

I've become such a convert. You know that line from A Christmas Story where Jean Shepard says "Some men are Baptists, others Catholics; my father was an Oldsmobile man." Well, I am now a Smart Source and Red Plum chick.

I will have to reign it in eventually. Chloe will be home for Spring Break in a couple of weeks and I don't think she'll appreciate having her room serve as a warehouse. There is a good chance that MathMan will clip my coupon wings before long.

Last night he called to let me know that he and Nate were on their way home from baseball practice. That's my cue to race around and make this house look like I've done something besides watch fetish videos and lie around watching movies with the cats. Yesterday was different. I was in the middle of creating inventory sheets for the small grocery store that's sprouted in the basement. I'd spent most of my day chasing deals all over Cartersville and was tired, but happy with my haul versus savings ratio.

Sophie was occupied so I decided I'd wait for MathMan in our bedroom and surprise him with the new homemade shampoo recipe I'd found online. I'd offer to help him unwind with a shower and well, you know. It would be a nice change from the boring old Hi, Honey, how was your day conversation we have every evening as I close window after window of Adult Friend Finder pop up ads. I got comfortable on the bed wearing the most alluring thing I had.

When he opened the door, you should have seen the look on his face.

"Well, this is a nice surprise," he smiled.

I did a Vanna White hand sweep along my naked thigh and gave him my best come on, baby smile. "You like?"

His eyebrows went up a fraction and he licked his lips. "You know I do. How nice to come home to a naked wife."

I blushed a little. "I thought we might have a shower." I'd save the shampoo surprise for after we were wet.

"Sounds wonderful." He moved closer and I closed my eyes, preparing to be kissed. "Hey," his voice was already taking on that husky tone. Nice.

I opened my eyes. "Yes?"

"What's this?" He fingered the thing I had draped around my neck. It snaked down along the length of my body.

"Oh, I thought you'd like this. It's something I got today." I closed my eyes again waiting for that kiss.

He leaned closer and I could smell the fresh air from the baseball field in his long hair. I was so ready for that kiss. He pulled back and I felt my new apparel slip away from my body as he tugged it. I opened my eyes again and looked at his handsome face which was now intent on examining the thing he held in his hands.

"Lisa, my darling, why are you wearing the Publix receipt?"

Please tell me you get absorbed and obsessed. What sucks you in and steals your time, your heart, your imagination? Confess to me or I'll make you clip coupons for me.

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.

Is That a Parable or a Very Subtle Joke

I'm just going to tell you this up front - I don't know how to make this funny.

Every week, and sometimes it feels like every day, I learn of another friend or acquaintance who has lost their job.

Yesterday I drove through an area not far from here that I can only describe as the "Place of Big Ideas, Lack of Financing."  Acres and acres of weeds threaded with ribbons of smooth, black roads with light blue pipes dotting the landscape like PVC stems bearing no flowers.

"Bank Owned Property - For Sale"

What a mess.  Where are the answers?  We grasp at what?   It feels like nothing.

I'm sorry for my friends and acquaintances who find themselves unemployed in this dismal economy.  It's not easy, this recalibration.  We bail out major corporations while those of us in these teeny life boats can't plug the holes fast enough. I asked MathMan the other day if he thought maybe this tipped ship of an economy was righting itself.  Maybe the next generations won't live in a society where it takes two incomes to maintain the illusion of a middle class life.

I hope they learn from our mistakes.  But as so many of them are already indenturing themselves through student loans and will be entering an unstable, uncertain and worker-unfriendly workplace, my confidence in their ability to do better shrinks with each bit of bad news.

Home sales are down.  Another bank in Georgia closes.

We know who to blame.  Or at least we have a pretty good idea. We just can't stop digging.  We'd rather fight over religion.

I'm not a believer, but I know plenty of people who are.  They pray.  I hope it helps.  No matter what, we all must draw together to weather this mess.

Don't be afraid to ask for help.  Don't be afraid to offer it.

This song is in my head. Maybe because it reminds me of happier times.  Times when I still had more of a future ahead of me.  Or maybe because it reminds me of how we all want answers.  From somewhere.

Still waiting...

Tell me your news.

Black Magpie Theory: Feeling Flush

I'm doing some creative accounting over at Blackmagpie Theory. 

Stay tuned for tomorrow's exciting episode:  What Happened During My Mammogram
Including the bonus feature 50 Ways to Use Those Left Over Nipple Stickers and Save the Planet

Black Magpie Theory: Anyone? Anyone?

I hear you, Ben Stein.  And I'm taking steps.  Over here.

Remember, if you want me to stop kicking puppies and adjusting my boobs in public, you'd better read all those other fabulous posts, too.  There's one a day and it's all good.

See you back here tomorrow, gang.

Black Magpie Theory: That Joke Isn't Funny Anymore

Oh, hello.  I'm not here today.  I'm over at Black Magpie Theory.  Panicking.  Not picnicking.  Panicking. Two different things, I assure you. Come to think of it, I'd rather be picnicking on the moors with Colin Firth, but we don't always get to choose, do we?

No, no we don't.  Damn it.

While you're there, check out the awesomeness of the other writers and don't forget to nab the rss feed so you never miss a thing.  I know how you hate to be left out.

See you here tomorrow, my darlings.

Unemployment Diary: The Day Has Come

Two assignments for you:

1.  My post at Black Magpie Theory

2. This

Adventures in Real Parenting: I Must Admit That Sometimes I Dislike Intensely My Children

Yesterday was MathMan's first day of the academic year with students. He shared with me his plans to discuss patterns as a math concept. Patterns are everywhere and in everything. Thankfully for his students, MathMan narrowed it down a bit to a manageable concept.

As we were discussing this, we noted the fact that each of our children have twenty letters in their very long names. (each has two middle names) This was an unplanned pattern that was brought to or attention this summer by which kid? I can't remember.

But that's not the only pattern we noticed regarding our children.We've noticed that they each have their ways for showing us they love us and many more ways to show their utter and complete disdain for us as thinking human beings.

The patterns, as I will outline below, seem to hold steady in nearly every situation. Each child has her or his own pattern and they stick to it with great regularity. MathMan and I have joked that being inconsistent is the only consistent way that we parent. Our children have turned that on its head and have become models of efficiency when it comes to getting their way and/or expressing themselves vis a vis subtle parental guidance and outright directives.

Let's dissect the techniques, shall we?
The oldest, The Dancer, employs what I like to think of as The Much Aggrieved.

Physical characteristics include:

• The pulling of a sour face or
• A poked out lower lip with sad eyes*
• Rolled eyes**
• A posture and overall attitude of "Are you through yet? Can we get real now?"
• The occasional laughingly-delivered "You must be joking!"

*The result depends on where she is in the monthly cycle of things.
**A well-delivered annoyance can result in both the sour face, followed by a quick shift into the pouty face verging on tears.

The conveyed meanings include, but are not limited to:

• I cannot believe you would say that to me!
• Oh, please, as if.....
• But surely, you're not addressing me. You must be thinking of one of your other children.
• How dare you!
• Do you see the shock that is registering on my face, for I am truly and most-assuredly shocked!
• Uh huh....
• Of course, you don't really mean that....
• Yeah, right!
• But I'm the best behaved child you have! This little thing shouldn't matter in the larger scope of things, right?
• I can never please you! I work my butt off at school and that is not enough! Now you expect me to clean up after myself, too? The nerve.
• Are you quite finished? Can we inject some reality into this situation now?

The Actor/Ninja - a mostly classic middle child, except for that bit about being a peacemaker - is a fan of what we refer to around here as The Righteous Indignation.

A spin-off, of sorts, from The Dancer's snorting and derisive eye-rolling and shaming approach, The Righteous Indignation is rather like watching a political operative trying to shout down an opponent on one of the cable infotainment channels. Volume is critical. Speed is critical. Being the first to attack and holding forth in an unrelenting, crescendo-building manner is essential.

Physical characteristics include:

• The afore-mentioned volume;
• The afore-mentioned speed in which one delivers one's defense or argument;
• The flailing about;
• Arm waving;
• Bulging eyes;
• Throbbing neck veins;
• The gnashing of teeth, or even more disturbing, the nibbling of thumbnail and spitting it out in disgust, while delivering some kind of abusive language;
• The repetition of the word "What? What? What? What?" much like Uncle Percy in the Jeeves and Wooster books by Wodehouse.
• Dashing dramatically from the room, slamming of doors, breaking of items, general mayhem;

Conveyed meanings are not difficult to construe and, in fact, hinge on one simple hypothesis:
I shall be horrible until I get my way and you cannot stop me!

I must tell you that The Actor/Ninja has employed this method nearly from day one. Even as a wee man about the house, he was known to flail and wail and create disturbances that we lovingly dubbed "Hitting the Dirt." He would throw himself face down on the floor to have his fits. He did it so often that we even shortened its references to "Dirt." He would wind up to do his thing and one of us would laugh "Dirt" to let the other know that a tantrum was in progress.

He doesn't spend much time of the floor at his age, but his actions are hardly less annoying.

Our youngest, Garbo, is probably the most frustrating of all because her predictable behavior leaves you wondering if she is daft or dangerous, even after so many years of demonstrating that she couldn't give a flying fig for what we really think. Her approach is one of quick admission and dismissal. I like to think of it in that lovely vernacular The Bum's Rush.

Borrowing from both The Dancer's The Much Aggrieved and The Actor/Ninja's Righteous Indignation, Garbo's aim is to finish with the offending, meddling parent as quickly as possible.

Physical characteristics vary depending on whether she is standing while addressed or lying on her floor wallowing about in her own filth, but in general one might see the following:

• A quick stand at attention;
• A marked shifting of the eyes from the television screen to the person addressing her, one eye wandering away again quickly to the television, indicating that she is quite through listening;
  
• The nodding of the head;
• A vacant smile;
• A phony salute and quick getaway;
• And if you have had the temerity to encroach upon her space to have a word, a dismissive wave of her hand to indicate that she's "heard" you and now you must leave her to it.

Except "it" never gets done. Or more precisely, "it" rarely gets done.

And when pressed for confirmation that she's received the information - if a directive is being issued - she can parrot back with the best of them. I do believe, however, that when she is paraphrasing the orders, the meaning behind the words flies immediately out of her head.

As I noted, she will, on occasion, swipe methodology from her elders - slamming doors, bringing on the tears, goggling her eyes and attempting to shout down her opponent, when necessary, meaning when playing the part of precious waif isn't working for her.

Conveyed meanings include, but are not limited to:

• Got it. Now go away quickly!
• Yeah, yeah, yeah, and when I don't do it, Mom will just come in and take care of it anyway...
• Leave me the hell alone! Can't you see I'm watching What Not to Wear?
• Lalalalalalala I can't hear you!
  
• Philistine!To you this may be a heap of toiletries. To me, it is art.
• Don't let this smiling facade fool you. I couldn't give a shit what you think of a clean house or how cluttered my room is....

Like all children whom I've known (including myself and my siblings), each of my children also possess an arsenal of denial, deflection and disdain for adults and their silly notions of cleanliness, order, responsibility, fairness and education.

In that arsenal, there are favorites, of course. For example:

• A Robert DeNiro-esque Who me? Are you talking to me?
• The Homer-Simpson-esque Don't Blame Me, I Didn't Do It!
• The Don't Let Your Lyin' Eyes Deceive You
• The Ignore Her and She'll Go Away

Parenting, as we all know, is not for sissies. It's time-consuming, inconvenient, sometimes maddening and often disheartening stuff. Of course it's rewarding, but I'm not writing about the happy, easy stuff today. I'm on about the idea that kids are a major pain in the ass and they will try to get away with whatever they can, using whatever methods they have at their disposal. They are wily, too. When they find something that works, they stick with it. Which brings me back to the idea of consistency.

Last night, MathMan and I sat with the children after supper and discussed how things could go more smoothly around here. To the children's dismay, the long commute together gives Mathman and me plenty of time to plot and scheme against them. In preparation, during dinner I announced that after clearing, each should return to the table before resuming activities that exercised their thumb muscles, involved the mixing of concoctions of tissue, glue, water, powder and shaving cream on an antique desk, or simply lying face down on the love seat, breathing through one's mouth while watching Tyra Banks tell women how to be the next top model. They groaned, predictably.

After dinner, as I took the lead in issuing our latest State of the Family and announcing our roll out plans for budget requests, after school rules and responsibilities, the meaning of my closed office door and a few other odds and ends about clothes getting into the hamper and cats who require sustenance and clean litter boxes, each child performed in their most predictable ways.

The Dancer clicked her tongue, rolled her eyes and interjected right before The Actor/Ninja exploded in a shower of indignation that we were to be reminded that she was moving out next week and we already have arrangements to deposit X number of dollars into her bank account each month and so this was all moot to her.

Like Old Faithful, The Actor/Ninja erupted like an adolescent geyser, his changing voice swinging from octave to octave with each gush of righteous indignation. And Garbo? Well, she was true to form, as well. The minute I half-jokingly suggested that someone take notes so that they could all have something to refer back to because they seem incapable of retaining and following simple instructions, Garbo raced off to find a notepad. And she did take notes. She even read them back to us when the family meeting was about to adjourn. And then she promptly got up from the table, leaving the notes, the pen and the clipboard forlornly behind, sitting next to a barely drunk from, but requested glass of Tropical Punch Kool-Aid. Later, as I noted this waste with annoyance, a housefly tiptoed along the glass's rim. I gathered it and the other things up with a sigh.

After all was said and done and one child was back to exercising this thumb, another was off creating sculptures in her bedroom using toiletries, and the third was mouth-breathing in front of the living room television, MathMan and I discussed what the reception to our ideas. Regardless of what those children think, we are not complete idiots. We know full well that the children will ignore us and treat us and our wishes with disrespect. This must stop because I've reached the point where my dislike for them is outweighing my love for them. And they should be aware that they are not the only ones capable of drama.



MathMan and I discussed options. I wanted to move away and not tell them. MathMan rejected this as inhumane to the cats and probably illegal, the killjoy. I was about to suggest that we take the cats with us when he shook his head in anticipation of my own predictable idea.

I suggested that I go back to New York City and stay this time, leaving him here to deal with the children alone then. MathMan didn't cotton to that idea much either.

I suggested we go Mrs. Piggle Wiggle on their lazy, disrespectful asses and let them have what they claim to want - parents who don't care and who leave them alone. Groceries? Clean clothes? Sign this permission slip? Money for all those things they like? We cackled like Hamlet's witches at the idea of casting our children adrift in their wishes - allowing them to live in chaos, clutter, and filth. That would show them. But if I couldn't get MathMan on board with moving out, that meant that we would have to cope with all the resulting squalor, too.

We slumped our shoulders, leaning on things as we thought. "We could modify it some," I began,"It might work," I added as the idea grew brighter, more clear in my mind.

I shared with MathMan my idea. He liked it. Now, of course, being consistent will be key to our success. Giving in for the sake of quiet and expediency will wreck this plan for sure. And if the children don't hold up their end of the deal regarding the budget request idea, as mentioned in no detail earlier, life could be pretty miserable for them, as long as we insist on written budget requests for any items requested or money for activities outside the normal items of lunch money, for example.

The plan is simple indeed. We shall respond to our children in the same manner that they respond to us. When one of them asks what we're having for dinner, I am going to simply ignore them until they go away. If one of them wants to know who deleted their favorite programs from the DVR, I'll holler "I didn't do it!" All those other things that they request? Yeah, yeah, I'll get to it. Sometime. Or not at all. Were you talking to me?

And MathMan and I can keep them bouncing back and forth all day on decisions. Want to spend the night at your friends? What did Daddy say? What did you mom think?

The real fun, though, will not be in the execution of the plan, but in the announcement of it, as it takes shape. I want to see their faces as we respond to them with the pat answer that "I'll address that with the same alacrity that you use when I ask you to do something."

And when they ask me what the hell alacrity means, I shall simply shrug, take another drink of wine and pretend that I did not hear them.......

Adventures in Real Parenting; This Mama Don't Raise No Idjits

The long version....

Dear Credit Card Companies:

I realize that over the last few years, and with the help of our Congress, and, yes, even our now Vice President Biden, you have pretty much gotten your way on everything. You've been allowed to write your own laws, "regulate" yourselves (the idea is laughable), and pretty much thumb your nose at good business practices, ethics and just plain old humane behavior. Things are changing for you at the macro level and I hope like hell that they are going to change at the micro level, too.

I am prepared to do my part.

Brace yourself, old chums, because you're about to hear a word you're not used to hearing. And you're about to hear it repeated. Repeated repeatedly. A lot.

No.

No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. No. And NO.

No, you may not have our oldest daughter. You may not have her heart, her soul, her social security number, nor her future. None of it. As long as I am here, you will not have her.

Look, I am not an unreasonable woman despite what you might have heard. I understand that you are in the business of making a profit. I am in full support of profit, but I believe that companies can do business in an ethical manner and still make a profit. If not, get the hell out of the business. If you must behave like thieves to make the kind of money you think you should be making, then you must reconsider your choice of business. I mean, what if we all used that philosophy? Where would it end?

Consider, if you will, what would happen if all of your customers decided that they were going to behave like thieves, too. We would all just mail you back your postage paid envelopes filled with clever and disgusting things (the imagination runs wild). I, for one, would take great pleasure in mailing you a hand made smiley face with the message "Get Stuffed" scrawled underneath. There would, of course, be no check enclosed.

Even using legal methods, we were unable to treat you with the same disdain you treat your customers. According to the laws that you've had a large role in writing, our Chapter 13 bankruptcy required that we give up our home - the place where we lived - and a car - the thing that got me to my job so that I could pay those bills. But you? Oh, you're still getting your money with payroll garnishments. Yes, you are taken care of. You saw to that when you purchased all those lawmakers over the years.

So please consider this your cease and desist letter from one mother of a recent high school graduate with no means of supporting herself. Stop sending those solicitations now. Because as taken as she was with your wicked cool choices for card decor, our daughter has been made painful aware of the role you've played in her family's financial mess.

If any good has come from our mistakes, it's the life lesson for our kids. They have been thoroughly schooled on the evils of credit and living beyond your means. For every vacation not taken, every lean holiday season, every time the purchase of clothes, food or shoes have been put off with the stock answer that there is no money, they are reminded that the lack of funds is due in large part to the fact that even though nearly all the items and services purchased over the years on those credit cards have been paid for, we will still spend the next three and a half years paying off interest, crazy charges and junk fees because credit card companies have better government representation than consumers do.

Look, you blew your chance. I tried to give you The Dancer back when your abusive collections agents started calling me at work, at home, on my cellphone. Remember that time when I'd probably had a bit too much to drink and I felt like so many things were just crashing down around me? I called you for help. That at-first friendly young man with the tell-tale accent (overseas call center, cough, cough) thought I was joking when I said perhaps you would take our first born in exchange for wiping out our debt. Remember that?

He laughed oh so heartily at what he thought was my cliched joke. But then I started to cry and he realized that I wasn't kidding. He started calling me ma'am at the end of every sentence he uttered. (You know that customer service agents are getting exasperated when they start ma'aming and sir'ing you all over the place.) I cried harder and asked if his supervisor could talk to me about working a deal. Wouldn't a young white girl be worth something to them? All I've heard on thinky news shows is about the Asian sex trade.....

Click.

So you see, you could have had her then, but no. You thought it would be more fun to garnish my wages and go through the bankruptcy process. Well, you got your wish. And now you come sniffing around now, but not for an exchange, but to snatch her up, handcuff her and metaphorically do to her what would have been done to her had you gone for my original plan.

Well, we've wised up to you and your wicked ways. Her parents may be your indentured servants, but The Dancer will never be as long as I draw breath. We've educated her and her siblings about your tricks, seductions and lies. The transfer your balance bait and switch. The low interest rate tease. The hard to use travel discounts and nearly impossible-to-redeem airline miles. Hell, I even had one credit card company tell me that if I took their card, my boobs would shrink to a more manageable size and my crows feet would disappear.

Now I know better. And may your siren song of Have It Now fall on deaf ears from now on.

So...........once more and for all time (because we have two more children to usher into good money management adulthood) NO. No. No. And finally NO.

As an added protection, we have added The Dancer to the credit card solicitation opt-out list. (See Federal Trade Commission info here.) So suck it.

With all good wishes,

Lisa Golden


The short version.....

Dear Credit Card Companies,

Please take those smiling cherubs and peace signs that you think an 18 year old want on their shiny new financial handcuffs and shove them straight up your collective, money-grubbing, unethical ass. Also, do the same with all your solicitations, fees, charges, lobbyists, collections agents.......you get the idea.

Thank you and best regards,

Lisa Golden

Tea, but No Sympathy

Okay, so maybe, just maybe, I still pay some attention to what's going on in the world. I mean, I do listen to NPR while I'm in the shower and performing my morning ablutions.

And then again while I'm having tea and croissants on china. Mmmmm...a civilized breakfast instead of a bacon biscuit behind the wheel of the car......

So where was I? Oh, yes. Paying attention. Truth is, I still do and boy oh boy thinking about the mighty mess we're in as a nation can send me groping madly for the old fermented grape juice. I would never claim to be the deepest of thinkers, but when forced to consider this or that, I find it necessary to try to find some explanation and then my mind immediately starts imagining solutions. It's like silent brainstorming.

For example, yesterday as I got ready for work, NPR had a story about home foreclosures. Our family just moved on April 1st after MathMan and I made the difficult decision to let Citibank foreclose on our house. We were almost $60k underwater on our mortgage and we knew a move closer to town was necessary before we could ever be able to sell the house in the middle of nowhere. When we contacted Citi to see about renegotiating our mortgage, it became apparent that they were either not interested or able to work with us and so, after many calls and much wasted time, we concluded that the only thing to do was walk away.

After listening to the story on NPR, I think one solution to this problem would be to forbid the large national banks from issuing mortgages. If we were forced to deal with local banks for our loan needs, rather than being steered by mortgage brokers into those hokey big bank loans in the first place, perhaps this mess wouldn't have happened. And I mean that on the micro and the macro level.

When we first contacted Citi about working with us, one of the things we were told was that Citi couldn't work with us because our mortgage wasn't just one single thing on the holder's end. Several entities had pieces of our loan and so to renegotiate would be next to impossible because there were too many stakeholders involved.

It occurs to me that had we been working with a local bank, this kind of thing would be less likely to happen. Local banks are much more integrated into the community. It would be harder for them, I suspect, to avoid dealing with their customers. You've also got word of mouth and local ties to consider. Maybe keeping loans local would be the best way to avoid this kind of problem in the future.

Local banks would still have to be monitored and regulated to make certain that all ethnic groups are being treated fairly, for example, but this is not insurmountable. And letting large national banks do business across state lines hasn't been a full-proof method for eliminating redlining and other unfair loan practices.

The second piece of this mess has been the credit default swap fiasco. The system is so hokey and ridiculous, I can only think that the theives who invented it must have thought they'd become completely invincible after they realized that it was working for them and they were able to rake in huge piles of cash. No one caught on? They were getting away with it? Imagine the conversations they must have had as they swanned about posh settings, acting the peacock for each other with audacious displays of wealth. As BAC writes, there's plenty of blame to be laid at the bankers' and brokers' expensively-shod feet.

The way I understand it, we'd arrived at a place where a large part of the financial game was based on people making their money up front and early, very much like a Ponzi scheme. I'm not an investor and I don't mean to suggest that I understand how the system works, but common sense should tell you that a system based on people collecting huge amounts of money at the front end of their investment would be an incentive for corruption and would also take away from the system that provides its largest payoffs at the back end. Long-term investment would suffer.

It's no so different from parenting. If I tell my kids that they can have some reward after they've completed some task or chore, then they are more likely to complete said task or chore. If I let them have the reward up front, they're much less likely to follow through, or, if they do, they're very likely to do a half-assed job at best.

From the looks of this economic crisis, we are exactly right where I would be if I told my kids that they can have the new cellphone now, but I expect them to clean up the family room later.

Like those preening uber-rich bankers showing off their big-ticket items to their pals, my kids would be fervently texting away to all their friends about their new phone while I stand hip deep in an ocean of dirty clothes, discarded bits of food, the occasional forgotten plate, crumpled candy wrappers, a blizzard of paper bits, the random loose battery, mismatched shoes, a broken off piece of plastic from something I can't quite identify, a bookbag with its guts spilling out, smelly socks stuffed under sofa cushions, someone's half-eaten bagel, and dozens and dozens of open dvd boxes scattered around the room.

Except our financial mess is much, much bigger than that. And it smells much, much worse, too.

Blog Against Theocracy: Leaving it all behind

So you've heard how people who are being foreclosed upon trash their houses?

Not us. I understand the anger that people feel when they must leave their homes, but why do damage? How can that possibly make you feel better?

As we finish closing up our house to turn the keys over to Citibank, I'm vacillating between an odd melancholy and a sense of relief. I can assure you, though, that it has not occurred to me to damage the house.

Perhaps the fluorescent light bulbs have disappeared. And the good shower heads. And some of the heavy-duty dowel rods from the closets. But these are all things we purchased on my credit card and will continue to pay for as part of our Chapter 13 bankruptcy settlement. I figure that as long as that chunk of money for creditors is subtracted from my paycheck, then I'll be damned if I'm going to leave those things behind.


It's really as much what you don't do as what you do, I think, when it comes to leaving a house. Luckily, we've been able to take our time. The Sheriff didn't knock on our door and demand that we leave. I'm glad for that.

However, knowing that we were leaving, things like simple repairs didn't get done. Why bother? Screens are damaged and go unreplaced. The Actor and Garbo cracked a window in her bedroom a while back and we didn't fix that. We never finished the painting job we started in 2007 when our lives derailed and today I peeled some blue painters' tape from a door jamb, chuckling to myself about how many times I'd said "we really need to finish those touch ups and be done with this."


As I walked through the house this afternoon, I listened to the echoes of my footsteps, playing off the walls. And what was that? The wild footfalls of the kids running down the hallway, the sound of a cat mewling behind an accidentally closed closet door, the crackling of bacon frying on a Sunday morning, a hushed laugh in the master bedroom, the faint racket of the washing machine winding down its cycle in the basement.

I stood for a moment in the master bathroom and stared out the window at the cedar tree that stands alone in the back yard. As odd as it seems now, this was the room where I experienced my most intense emotions. It was where I hid to cry, where I mulled things over as I got ready for my day, where my eyes met the eyes of my beloved in the mirror as we shared that space.

I snapped a picture and then moved on. The neglected garden waited for me. I joined MathMan in the back yard, sorting out the hardscaping and emptying pots of soil into the tangle of weeds that would have been, in other years, a dark patch of earth with new growth already poking through. I plucked the low iron fencing from the edge of the herb bed and considered which plants to dig up and bring with us to the new place.

There won't be too many more trips to the old house now to tidy up. All that remains is a second hand weight bench, some pots from the back yard, an odd box of bunting that needs to go back to The Dancer's high school, and some cleaning supplies.


I did leave one thing behind. I couldn't help myself. Of course we'd left our marks all over the house. The color of paint on the walls, the type of flooring. The dings and scratches on the walls where pictures once hung.

That just wasn't enough for me, though. I wanted to leave a message. In the master closet, I'd done my handiwork.


All the way up and down the closet. Keep Church and State Separate. It's my little way of participating in The Blog Against Theocracy and spreading the word.