A million workers working for nothing

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Dear Midwestern States,

I am with you. We can be serfs or citizens. We can't be both.

Peace, love and power to The People,

Lisa

Not Built to Last

I just go getting a bit too smug about this whole unemployment thing and, well, you can see for yourself....

In 2003, we bought a new washer and dryer when we moved from Illinois to Georgia. We left behind some Kenmores that we got with the last house. They must have been about fifteen years old and were still running strong.

In October 2006, the "new" washer died. We replaced it.
In November 2006, the "new"dryer conked out. Again with the replacing.

We bought the extended warranty from Lowes. We high-fived each other in the parking lot, congratulating ourselves for learning a valuable lesson about today's manufacturing methods. Things aren't built to last. Companies don't want you to have that washer/dryer for fifteen years, dummy.

A few weeks ago, the dryer started making noises. I complained, but nothing happened. The noises got louder. MathMan called the warranty company. Apparently, my dialing finger is broken. The truth is - I leave some of this stuff up to MathMan because we have terrible feuds about the division of labor. If I barrel in and do everything, I relinquish my right to gripe that he's not doing enough around here. We actually had a very funny (in retrospect) fight about that this summer, but I can't tell you because I included it in the novel.

Anyway - the tech came out yesterday (I love this guy, we talk gardening) and what do you know? What ails the dryer isn't covered under the warranty. Of course not. The dryer isn't heating up and isn't really safe to use. Repairs would be near $300. He recommended that next time we get a Kenmore or a Whirlpool.

As soon as he finished wiping my tears and left, I began considering how I might go about stealing a dryer from those perpetual yard sales set up along Highway 278 (I'll have to figure out how to hotwire some truck first), I guess I'll be doing laundry old school. Washing and hang drying in the laundry room. When the weather warms up a bit, I might even ask MathMan to string me a clothes line in the backyard.

I'd love to sputter in surprise that the universe could find yet another way to try to squeeze money out of us, just when we're about to feel the pinch of unemployment, but screw it. The silver lining is that we can reduce our carbon footprint (some), I can work or read while our clothes tumble around in the dryer when I do make the occasional trip to the laundromat and it won't kill me see how laundry was done before dryers were a common household item. I think I'd like to live back then, well, let me try my hand at it, even in this small way. At least I won't have to blue the whites and heat up my iron in the fire. Yet.......

The fact remains, there are millions and millions of people who have it far worse than I do. So my dryer is busted? It could be worse. It can always be worse. And if it ever is ..... I'll always have absinthe.

Call Me Mike or Mary Anne

I have battled my weight since 1987.
In August 1984, I left my hometown weighing 107 pounds and wearing girls size 12 jeans (I'm short. Very short. 5'3/4" short. Short.)
In September 1984, I discovered that weekends, including keg parties and pizza consumed at 2 a.m., began on Thursday nights and ended with the first class on Monday morning. If I managed to make it to class, that is.
In the spring of 1985, I started trying to match bite for Dunkin Donuts bite my boyfriend who was about 6' 1" and who officially qualified as a stringbean. He had a certificate and everything.
Even all that youthful, nubile sex didn't save me from gaining a few pounds.
By July 1985, the size 12 jeans no longer fit. Good thing I was working at Sears so I could use my employee discount to buy some skirts and pants with elastic waistbands.
I went to France for a summer semester in 1987. There I lived on wine, pastries, pizza, coffee, beer spiked with all manner of sin and whatever I could get my hands on at Flunch. No, I didn't really like French food. What a shame my palate was so limited back then. Talk about missed opportunities!
However, thankfully, when I was in France, I walked everywhere.
Then I came back to U.S. and enjoyed all the things I'd missed while I was away. No, I don't mean fruits and vegetables and whole grains. I mean Oreos, peanut butter, Arby's, Skyline Chili and Big Boys. The sandwiches, not the gender.
As luck would have it, I chose that same moment to give up walking for the great American past time of sitting behind the wheel of a car on an ever-expanding bottom.
And so it began. The slow slide into the reality that is fat genes, fat jeans and tears in front of the mirror because no fair!!!! I'm shaped just like Grandma Hewitt!!!

Why couldn't I have really been adopted like my sister told me I was?

Getting married, settling down, and having children did not help matters.
Phentermine did. But that's no solution, clearly. I can suppress my appetite, but eventually, my bad habits catch up with me. Again.

You see, I come by my bad habits honestly. You know how some people are Charmin people or Chevy people? My dad was a Ford man who loved his Pepsi. Cereal wasn't breakfast until we'd ladled tablespoons of sugar over it. That was a gift from our mom. Dad's breakfast of choice was a tall glass of 2% milk with about 1/4 cup of Hershey's Syrup added for giggles. The only bread in our house was white.

I learned well how to nurture my sweet tooth like it was my most precious possession. If I want to clear my family from a room, I don't have to pass gas (although that can work if I've consumed the proper combination of chocolate and green peppers). Nope, all I have to do is load a bowl with cherry jello, sprinkle it with sugar and pour milk over it. Sugar sprinkled on gelatinous sugar. You'd think I was eating raw brains or something.

But I am not here to play the blame game. I'm a grown up. I am perfectly capable of making my own choices now. I just choose to make all the wrong ones when it comes to food and exercise.

It's come to my attention, however, through the baleful stare I receive from the scales right before they squeeze their eyes shut in pain as I step on them, that things are horribly out of control. Again. I am obese. Contrary to conventional wisdom, saying it does not make it any easier. I no longer can see myself as a potentially thin person. I can't even remember what it looked like. Even my eyelids look fat. No really.

Bless his heart, MathMan pointed it out the other day without knowing.
Him: Are you sinuses bothering you?
Me: Yes, a little. Why?
Him: Your eyes look puffy.

When he left the room, I ran, okay... I lumbered to the bathroom to stare at myself in the mirror. More injustice! My mother's eyelids had attached themselves to my face!

I have nothing and no one to blame but myself.

I'm genetically predisposed to being rotund. I carry my weight around my middle like a fat little apple on fat little legs. Let's just say, I would hate to read how someone might describe me in writing.

You know, once, a long long time ago, when I worked for AARP, one of the older volunteers (older being someone in their late 80s, perspective, my friends) was overheard describing me as "you know, that pretty, chubby girl." I was crushed. I wanted to parse the heck out of that statement. Did he mean pretty, but chubby or pretty chubby as in "Watch it, girly, or you'll find yourself crossing the line from chubby to fatso before you can say Ice Cream Sandwich."

But I knew what he meant. Chubby, but too cute to call a fatty. That was then. Now, I don't even qualify as cute or a girl. I'm silver-haired and swaddled in a layer of lard that is going to kill me. Slowly. But dead is dead. And I'm not a fan of the nasty way people who are festering with slow killers, the proverbial ticking time bombs, age.

So I'm making some changes and I'm going to log them online because I'm too cheap to go out and buy a notebook. And besides, I've forgotten how to write longhand.

From time to time, I'll share some of my journey? adventure? shame? with you. I know, you're thrilled. But perhaps watching me flounder about in this fat suit (see, I still don't want to believe this is the real me) will A. Make you feel better about yourself; B. Give you some universal sense that you are not alone in your struggles, whatever they maybe; and/or C. Make you laugh, because let's not kid ourselves, watching the fat chick slip and fall? Even I, with my highly cultured sense of humor, find that funny.

The thing I'm not seeking here, to be just flat out honest with you, is advice. People, I'm 44 years old, moderately educated and weigh - well, let's not get too personal. I'm aware of what I should be doing. Both my parents have hypertension and each has some level of diabetes. There have been incidents of colon cancer and breast cancer on my father's side. On my mother's side, it's like nothing to have open heart surgery. People, I get it. I really, really do. But getting it and implementing it are two entirely different things. I am an emotional eater with a heavy hitter sweet tooth. I am allergic to exercise. Really. I have a doctor's note.

But there it is, plain and simple, what I need to do. Eat less of what's bad for me. Eat more of what's good for me. Move more. Yes, yes, yes, and yes. And for that one person who is going to email me and tell me to make sure I'm drinking enough water. Noted.

So if I don't want your advice, why I am writing about it? Well, accountability. You know, MathMan has a cute way of describing accountability. He likens it to Mike Mulligan and his steam shovel. In the book, Mike and his trusty steam shovel Mary Anne dig better, faster, deeper when they have an audience.

Well, writing about this need to get healthy is my own way of doing a Mike Mulligan. If I write about it, I know one or more of you are going to occasionally remind me of my plan to be healthy. Oh yeah, you'll whack me with it just after I bake a pie or write about consuming martinis and wine full of empty calories. And that's cool. That's accountability. That's what friends are for, right?

But then there are those of you who will snatch a picture of me from my flickr and send it to me and make me want to grind my teeth and scream at the universe and dive head first into some Ben & Jerry's Phish Food. And that's cool, too. There's a bit of me who likes you when you're cruel.

Of course, I should say here that I am indeed doing this for my health. But the truth is that I want to get skinny so that I can indulge my fantasies of swanning about in steampunk fashions or vintage clothing from the 30s, 40s and 50s.

Mostly, though, I'm doing this Because I soooo need a day when I can look in the mirror and not say to myself "Fat, fat, the water rat....."

Whatever it takes, People, whatever it takes......

Instant Karma's Gonna Get You

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fabulous."

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

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

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

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

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

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

********

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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