>I had to test my dissatisfaction

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So I wasn’t satisfied to take on nature with just my foray into foliage maintenance last week. Which reminds me – you’ll be pleased to know that since the three days I spent raking, blowing and plucking every last dry brown leaf off the property and into the brush in the way beyond, we’ve had a couple of big, windy, rainy storms pass through and now most of the Klingon oak leaves are on the lawn and it doesn’t look like anyone has raked around here in ages.

Nature and control freaks do not mix well.

If last week was Lisa versus the Leaves, this week is like a rerun of Marlin Perkin’s and his Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom.

Funny, it hasn’t been the bees in my bonnet either. Okay, not so funny. I don’t find bees so funny. But bees and wasps and other stinging creatures aren’t the issue. It appears that they like the gloom and cool weather as much as I do. I wonder if they’re holed up in their little bee houses eating copious amounts of sweets and considering naps after a 2p.m. cocktail?

Anyway, this week, it’s me versus the Animal Kingdom, Domestique. Dogs, cats, sugar ants. I still can’t figure out how the sugar ants got onto the Igloo water cooler we use for our filtered H20, but finding them crawling on the surface made damn sure that I’d be launched into some exhausting project to cure the situation.  A half hour later, the place where the cooler sat empty and wiped down (with vinegar, of course) and the refrigerator had been rearranged and washed out so that I could move the shelves to accommodate the eighteen inch chubby red plastic monstrosity.

Truth is, I really hated how the cooler looked sitting on the counter, so thank you, ants. You gave me a reason to fix the situation.

Other domestic disturbances include two – no three cats – a fourth if you consider the new feral kitty I’ve been feeding because I’m a sap for poofs who ask nicely and a dog.  Sorry about that sentence structure.

So the first cat at issue is Morris, aka The Butterscotch Lion aka The Fluffball of Love. He’s not so fluffball anymore because he discovered what happens when he drags his dirty ass across my carpet. If he’s not groomed often, clumps of poo get matted and ick!

I spent Saturday evening locked in battle with him, my only weapons a pair of scissors and a bad attitude. That was not how I intended to spend Saturday evening and I made sure everyone knew it. At one point I shouted to MathMan through the bathroom door that I need one of those wooden thingies sheep farmers use when they shear their sheep. It could double for some kinky sex, too. MathMan was appropriately amused, thank goodness, and you know he’s going to hold me to the kinky sex part, right? Anyway, I’ve created a search on eBay for a small shearing platform. Will keep you posted.

The second cat at issue is Tiger. All the sudden, he’s Mama’s Boy. This cat is on top of me, breathing my air, killing me softly with his purring. In all our married years, MathMan and I let only one animal sleep with us (if you don’t count the children) – a cat named Phoebe. That was before Chloe was born nearly twenty years ago (I’m trying to get used to saying that.). Phoebe loved me, too, and liked to show me by snogging and drooling on my neck. It was beyond gross, but just like now, I was ridiculously accommodating. One night while I was pregnant with Chloe, I dreamed that instead of a precious baby, I gave birth to a litter of kittens. I woke up panicked and panting to find Phoebe asleep on my swollen belly. It was then that animals not of my own making were banished from the bedroom.

Tiger rattles the doorknob and fusses until I relent and let him in. After a few minutes kneading, I’m ready in his opinion and we can settle in to sleep. I turn over on my side and spoon with MathMan and Tiger spoons me. It’s much more wholesome than it sounds.

The third cat causing difficulties is whichever one high stepped it across my laptop keyboard yesterday after I dashed out of the house without shutting my computer, as is my custom. She (I’m looking at you, Fiona) hit just the right combination of keys to make something print and the printer jammed and although MathMan was able to get the offending sliver of paper out of the printer (who knew it opened up on the back?), I have yet to work the magic to make the printer go back online. Why in the devil, in the year 2011, does anyone need to print anyway, you ask?  Coupons, of course!

Finally, there’s a little dog wandering the neighborhood with his toadie, a black lab mix. I went out to finish shoving a log that had been jutting into the yard into the underbrush because I’m sick of mowing around the damn log, when the Chihuahua apparated behind me and barked, startling me so that I lost my grip on the log and fell on my ass. The Chihuahua and his friend the lab had a good laugh. I invited them to come closer so that I could get a look at their tags and perhaps escort them home. They stood pointing and laughing. I tried speaking in Spanish to no avail. Maybe vamanos was not the word I was looking for. Oh well, when they were finished mocking me, they set out across the dry creek to irritate the neighbors dogs by running along the fence going neener, neener and nyah, nyah, we’re loose and you’re not.

I gave up on the log and came back into the house to pound on the printer with a hammer. As long as that little yellow triangle with the exclamation point is over the printer icon on the bottom of this laptop’s screen, I’ve got a reason to rage.  Without rage, I am nothing.

Okay, now that I have that off my chest, here’s what else I’m doing….READING! Reading and reading some more. I’m beta reading for a friend and having fun with it. (She’s gooooood.) I’m editing something (almost done if you’re reading this) and having fun with it, too, because it’s a funny piece, I’m reading Stephen Elliott’s The Adderall Diaries and estalking him like a goon. He’s so nice, he emailed me back and didn’t even mention a restraining order.

And I’m getting ready to read this after I check to make sure my vibrator is in good working condition. Yes, you read that right. Don’t act so shocked. Get that book and check your battery inventory, yo. I’ve read Averil’s other work. You’ll be glad you were prepared.

And I’m finally joining some of you in a near cult like love of the TV show Big Bang Theory. I know, I’m late to the party, as usual. Can I just tell you that the biggest achievement in my writing life would be to create a set of characters like Sheldon, Leonard, Raj, Wolowitz and Penny? Some have likened MathMan to Leonard. I’ll admit they look alike. And my darling husband has a bad habit of trying to explain things to me that I am neither interested in knowing nor capable of grasping. But Leonard is a physicist while MathMan is, well, pretty simple, huh?

Mind you, I’m no Penny. She’s cute and young and can wear revealing clothing without upsetting the Time/Space Continuum. Plus she still has her future ahead of her while I’m on the downward slope and gaining speed. But there are some similarities. I have the annoying habit of calling people terms of endearment when I’m about to deliver a verbal blow. I also can’t keep the Star Trek movies and derivatives straight. Was the one where Spock dressed like Olivia Newton John number four or five? I think Wrath of Khan was number three, but don’t quote me.

But really, I cannot tell you how much I would love to create a character like Sheldon Cooper. Doctor Sheldon Cooper, PhD. In the past I would think how cool it would be to create a character like Hercule Poirot, Miss Marple, Sherlock Holmes, Scarlett O’Hara, Spock, Harry Potter, Mary Poppins, the Fonz. A character so iconic that when you say their catchphrase or say that someone is like a Richie Cunningham, a lot of people will know what you mean. Now I must add this character – Dr. Cooper – to my list of icons.

Oh, Dr. Sheldon Cooper, live long and prosper.

>Unemployment Diary: Burn it down boys

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Source

Americans are divided by what they believe is the appropriate size and role of government. Conservatives, not true conservatives, but people who watch Fox News and vote Republican, believe that Democrats, liberals, and progressives (Aren’t they all the same thing? No.) want a big, meddlesome government that snatches most of your money in taxes and micromanages the lives of Americans and business like I micromanage the Pussies for Peace at mealtime. They also believe that they (PWWFNAFR) are voting for small government that allows Americans mind blowing freedoms so vast that we can be a regulation-free, tax-free heaven on earth if only government (always the problem) would just stay out of the lives of Americans and corporations and stop stealing their money.

Except neither is true. Instead of focusing on legislation that would provide the needed carrots and sticks to persuade business to create jobs or doing something big and audacious like the works program from the 30s, Republicans in Congress and in any number of state legislatures are wasting taxpayer money meddling in the uteri and sex lives of its citizens and debating whether adults should be able to buy alcohol on Sunday.

The only demographic enjoying small government is big business and they enjoy the pleasures of having their diamond fruitcake and fucking it, too. Government stays out of their way long enough to allow them to amass huge fortunes through sketchy business practices and when that scheme blows up, they turn to Daddy government to cover their tab all the while declaring their ability to handle continuing lack of oversight because this mess wasn’t really their fault anyway. It was those awful consumers who caused the world economy’s meltdown. Buying big houses and shit they didn’t need. The nerve. Not that anyone profited from that spending spree. Oh no.

So smaller government means smaller for business, but not just business, but specifically big business. What’s good for them isn’t always good for small business as anyone struggling to get credit for their business can tell you. But smaller government as defined by current Republican leadership also means that individual freedoms are curtailed unless it comes to taxes. But even that is a big lie. We cut taxes for the top and the problems become local. Local governments raise fees and lay people off to cover their nut. Yes, the government has shrunk but so has its ability to deliver services and so has the number of employed people in your community. So far no business – big or small – has rushed in to most places to fill the gaps.

But here’s a way in which yes, I admit, I want a bigger government. I want a government that sees something wrong and uses the tax dollars to help people and to shape society into something better.

On the state’s department of labor website, there’s a job posting for an on-site housekeeper that (1) Required the person to live at the hotel/motel/Holiday Inn* (say what?); (2) Paid minimum wage $7.25; and (3) Would deduct the employee’s weekly rent from their paycheck.

Again, say what?

A little quick math.

Assumptions: The lucky person who gets that job works 40 hours per week, claims one deduction for state and federal and gets paid weekly. He or she (most likely she) will net $247 per week.

Now, let’s say that her weekly rent for the room is $100. That leaves her with $147 per week on which to live. Sounds okay, right? She doesn’t have to pay for her utilities because that would be covered by her rent at the hotel/motel. Fine. But let’s look at this monthly. She has $588 a month with which to pay for the following:
Food and her personal care and laundry items (she can’t steal soap, shampoo and detergent from her parsimonious employers, can she?)
Quarters for her laundry
Car payment, if she has one
Auto insurance
Gasoline
Health insurance & doctor visit copays
Dental care
Savings
Phone bill
Tithing
Incidentals

That $588 is stretched. I can’t even fathom what it costs for an individual to buy medical insurance these days. Let’s hope she’s healthy and without any pre-existing conditions. And I included tithing because people here consider religion a vital part of their lives.

So getting back to the government. This job is posted on a state website that is monitored by state employees. Here’s what I want from my government in this regard:

Pick up the phone and say to that employer in the sweetest voice you can muster “Hell no, this is bullshit, this is not Dickens’ England, are you fucking kidding me? We’re trying to get people to earn living wages, not slave wages. How can this person help stimulate the economy, thus creating demand which creates more jobs, if they don’t have enough money in their pocket for the essentials, much less disposable income? Really – are you fucking kidding me? If you’re going to require the employee to live on-site then you should provide free housing, free use of the laundry and a written contract that outlines their hours and overtime. And once more – are you fucking kidding me?”

That’s what I want. I want a government that is looking out for us, too, not just the corporations who that have the stated goal of making the most profit possible no matter what. In fact, it’s because that’s their mission, and I don’t blame them or fault them for that, but that’s exactly why we need government to regulate them, to look out for the individual, to make certain that we aren’t going back to the old days of the company store and company housing. It’s enough to be beholden for your income and health insurance, but to be at the mercy of employers for housing, too? Bad idea.

Now that imagined conversation goes against my preferred method of catching more flies with honey than vinegar (sorry, vinegar, in this case you lose), but I am willing to set aside my pseudo-Southern charm and passive aggression long enough to clap that ballsy employer around the earhole.

Because here’s the thing – that employee who is putting in full time hours (likely more without overtime pay) and playing by the rules is still going to require government assistance for things like health care. She’d possibly qualify for Medicaid here in Georgia. So the taxpayer is subsidizing this employer who gets off the medical insurance hook.

That’s the kind of taxpayer and employee abuse that I think government should put a stop to. An employee must make a living wage and taxpayers shouldn’t have to subsidize employers through the backdoor. We need regulation because employers use these kinds of methods for increasing their profits. And it flies in the face of what’s good for our society as a whole. There’s no escaping the fact that the quickest way to create jobs is to create demand for goods and services. Put money in the hands of the people who will spend it et voila! We want! We need! Here, take our money! Continue to concentrate the money in the hands of the few and well…..(looks around, shrugs)…..this is working out well for the top 1%. Yes, yes, but the wealthy will invest! Uh huh. So where’s the evidence that that idea is working out?

Sadly, instead of creating incentives (a stick, not just a carrot is needed) for business to pay living wages and put some money into the hands of the many (who will spend it), our government is rigged through a pay for play campaign system to protect the needs of the few.

As that famous philosopher Spock said, “We’re fucked.”

I do understand that businesses have to keep their payroll low in order to stay afloat, but there are also basic human rights that must be honored. And since business – small or large – can show spectacular displays of being incapable of doing this, government must step in.

For those of you wondering, no I didn’t apply for the job. I’m not qualified. Another neato thing employers are doing is upping the experience requirements for any and all jobs. You want to know why someone like me just can’t go out and find any old job? Well, that lulu of a position requires that you have a minimum of twelve months of housekeeping experience and they expressly note that cleaning your own house doesn’t count.

Right – because snaking drains, making old, cheap faucets shine and learning how to remove cat vomit stains from carpet and red Georgia clay from white baseball pants aren’t transferable skills.

*Not a Holiday Inn for real. At least as far as I know.

>Adventures in Real Parenting: Porn Patrol

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It’s still Lisa Versus The Leaves here, but I had this scheduled to post today so here’s what it was like around here in 2008 (From PoliTits)

About a year or so ago, MathMan figured out that Nate might be checking out some naked boobie pictures on the internets.

After a long conversation about what adolescence would have been like if we’d had access to internet porn, we decided that it would be best if we password protected the computer so that Nate couldn’t use it without our knowledge. Especially when his friends were over at the house and we weren’t home.

This worked just fine, as far as we know. We’re not naive enough to think that he isn’t sneaking peeks when he gets a chance, but at least he doesn’t have unfettered access to the internet. The computer resides in full view in the dining room. Looking at internet nudidity would be just about as easy as it would be to hide porn mags under his mattress.

As far as I know, he doesn’t even realize that the mattress and box spring aren’t attached. This kid rolls out of bed and into the shower and his bed is magically made by a grouchy, braless elf in bleach stained yoga pants, a Stanley Kowalski tank and black moccassin slippers, worn sometimes, on the wrong feet. If that elf isn’t sporting coffee breath, she’s usually cursing under her breath and plotting her escape from motherhood.

Anyway.

Lately, Nate has been asking for someone to come to the computer and type in the password at the most inconvenient times. His pleas interrupt Sophia (she has the password since she’s not into porn, yet) who’s required to briefly stop breathing through her mouth in front of Family Guy or Hannah Montana (yes, she is the epitome of all the mistakes a parent can make in 2008) and lumber over to the computer to help her brother out.

This displeases her terribly. Loudness ensues. Cats scatter.

When she’s not around to be pestered for assistance, Nate comes looking for me or MathMan. Sometimes we get a little cross with him because he tends to ask for help when we’re in the middle of something else. According to him, we’re always in the middle of something. He’s right. It’s part of our whole benign neglect parenting concept. We’re considering a how-to book on it. Our working title is “Why Do I Smell Smoke?”

The other day, I’d had enough. Let’s show him that we trust him and, more importantly, let’s fix it so he’s not bugging me in the middle of a blog post or prepping supper or having a quiet alone moment in the reading room.

I gave him the password.

Briefly, though, I worried that I’d just handed him the keys to the Golden Palace of the Himalayas with categories for bukkake, fisting, anal and fetish. It’s really the fetish that worries me.

I thought about how to discourage him from seeking out porn. Then it hit me.

“Dude,” I said to him. “Now that you have the password, you must use the computer wisely. No porn, okay? Because there are a whole bunch of pictures of me in compromising positions floating around the internet and you do NOT want to see that.”

I understand the hysterical blindness is temporary and he’s expected to enjoy a full recovery….

And now I have to go back outside and blow the leaves. What kind of mischief are you up to today?

>Here’s the mutiny I promised you

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Millet – Gleaners

I’m itching to set things on fire. Yesterday I got my manual labor freak on by mowing the back hill and raking a metric ton of leaves. Our oak trees cling to their dead leaves like that mother gorilla with the dead baby held to her chest in the television special that still makes me cry so raking in the autumn, while a seasonally appropriate romantic idea, is a complete waste of time. The wind rattles the brittle saddle brown leaves, but they stay put high above the ground and the bullying rake.
I’d been supposing I should mow all week, but never got around to it. I used every excuse I could think of. My bee phobia. Potential rain. Potential wind, sunshine and maybe the need to be at the ready to fetch a sick kid from school. How would I hear the phone if I had my iPod set to deafen and the mower going?

Yesterday, I did what is most effective for me. I dove into the job without over thinking it. When MathMan came home from baseball practice, he noted that I’d been a busy beaver. Oh, baby, I can do it all. Oven fried chicken, corn pudding, strawberry shortcake and a pile of leaves that stretches from here to Chattanooga. And I didn’t even ask for a ride back home from Tennessee.

As I did my thing yesterday, it occurred to me that it’s wired into my DNA to receive a certain pleasure from committing acts of manual labor. My people were not philosophers, clergy, or aristocracy of any kind. Heck, they weren’t even shopkeepers like MathMan’s grandfather who owned a grocery in Chicago. No, my ancestors were the farmers, the sharecroppers, and before that – the peasants of Ireland and Scotland. They didn’t own the land, they just worked it.

Just. Ha.

So when I spend my time doing things that require a lot of physical exertion, I feel a sense of satisfaction that I don’t get from doing things on the computer, for example. Just this morning, I used the flexible snake thingy and pulled the equivalent of a small, dead animal except it was mostly my hair, out of the shower drain. I really should get a haircut, I guess. Anyway, despite its unpleasant smell and sliminess, you wouldn’t believe the pleasure I received from having accomplished my mission of drain cleaning. I was ready to find an aircraft carrier and hang a banner. But then, just like our former President’s declared Mission Accomplished, this war with the dirt, clogs, grime and general muck is ongoing. You can’t fix other countries and you can’t ever clean and be done with it forever.

Someone steer me back, please.

So this morning before MathMan left for work, I mentioned that I’d like to dispatch those piles of leaves for good before they start to blow around. I wanted to be done with the job thoroughly and without question.

“Would it be bad if I walked by with a lit match and accidentally dropped it into the leaves?” I cooed, stroking his chest fur. I knew what I was up against so I was using my feminine wiles to persuade him.

It was no use. He gave me one of those Oh, Lisa looks and issued his verdict. “No, you can’t burn the leaves. It’s too dry.”

I hate it when he’s practical. I offered to stand by with a hose, to make a circle of wetness around them, to haul them out to the dry creek bed behind the house and do the fiery deed there.

After a few more minutes of pleading and promises of sexual favors, he called me Beavis and escaped to have a shower.

He can afford to worry about things like brush fires. He’s not the sorry sucker who’ll be loading those damn leaves into bags to haul to the dump, I griped under my breath as I made the bed and considered how I could explain the burn marks where the leaves had been at the end of the day.

MathMan came out of the bathroom as the local news reported about a firetruck in an Atlanta suburb that was involved in an accident as it sped to put out a brush fire. I avoided his eyes, but he wasn’t letting me off the hook. “Brush fire,” he said pointedly.

“Fine,” I snapped, my best impression of my fourteen year old self.

This martyr is going to spend the day not writing or reading or doing anything to further her career, but rather bagging up stupid leaves in stupid bags and calling the recycling center to see when I can bring them over. It’s going to take me five trips, at least. All I have to haul them with is Chloe’s little Toyota Celica Roxanne.

I hope MathMan’s happy. He’d better enjoy it while it lasts because he’s probably not going to feel so happy when he sees the little present from the drain I left in his shoe.

Who are you spiting today? Any martyrs out there?

>Breathe out so I can breathe you in

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Observations from my time away from the blogosphere with away being a very subjective term.

A search for a hammer can be a metaphor for life.

Not blogging is the fastest way to rid myself of blogger’s block.

It’s not the first bowl of Cocoa Puffs that’s the problem. It’s the second.

I really do like my coffee bold and dark with lots of warmed half and half.

Whoever thought it would be a good idea to build decks with material that is a bee and wasp magnet should be tortured with their own phobias.

I really love the way Stephen Elliot writes his overly personal emails.

Political television after 11p.m. does not make for easy sleep.

It’s the leap forward that turns MathMan and me into night owls.

When I’ve completed an organization task, I’m so bloody pleased with myself that I feel like someone should slap me. Or spank me. (Freida?)

I still hate bad dialog in books. If I am ever published and reviewed and the reviewer says I do shitty dialog, I will pile up everything I’ve ever written, douse it in gasoline and self immolate.

One can go a long way by not being an asshole to people who work with the public – like cashiers and waitstaff. I wish more people knew this and practiced it.

Vinegar has magical powers.

Deciding to throw myself into writing is a great way to get drawers, shelves and closets organized. It also cleans the oven. With vinegar.

While I really have cut back on Twitter and Facebook this week, I did open Twitter to follow back someone who’s following me and while I was there I found out the MTV is bringing back 120 Minutes. Ah, the great sex of my youth that happened with 120 Minutes on in the background. (The sex is classified as great mostly because I was thin and unmarred by childbirth, it’s not a true representation of quality which definitely improves with age and experience.)

Also, Facebook isn’t all bad, even if it is a tremendous distraction. A young man here in C-Vegas used Facebook to get help during a home invasion.

There are things that overlap that make me stop and wonder. But I promise, I won’t develop a system of belief about it that prevents you from buying alcohol on Sundays.

A cat staring at me while I eat is fucking annoying.

When I laugh or cry at something I’ve written, I feel like a jerk and apologize even if no one is around.

Filling out online job applications is fun!*

Easter candy talks dirty to me. I respond.

Music gets me in the mood to work. I listen to a particular playlist before I write. Here’s a sample of what goes with my current work in progress…

It’s a song that will forever symbolize a moment. One tiny sliver of time that ripples outward…..

*lie

>Just So

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Hello! I miss you guys. You should see how clean this house is! The Pussies for Peace say hello and please send help. They’re tired of helping me rework a couple of plot twists in my time shift novel. Maybe I’ll make a video of one of our sessions. They get so out of hand.

Wait. No. No, no, nononononononono. I’m writing. And editing. And setting priorities. Like clean sheets for everyone! And homemade dishwasher detergent. And banana bread. Because we couldn’t let those bananas go to waste, right?

So here’s an edit for you – it’s a blog post originally run on PoliTits back in 1947. Maybe 1948. I hope you enjoy it. Also, thanks to those of you who’ve made donations or, as Drydiggins put it, paid me for writing. You guys complete me.

Finally, if you hear anything about an incident at a CVS in northwest Georgia involving a silver haired beauty and some Dove chocolate, I swear it wasn’t me. Well, at least, I didn’t start it.


I joke about being obsessive/compulsive. I’ve never been diagnosed so I really shouldn’t joke about it. Were I diagnosed, perhaps I wouldn’t find it such an easy thing to joke about.

MathMan didn’t realize the extent to which I may be OCD until I mentioned to him that sometimes I count things. He was surprised to hear this. I don’t mean that I count lightpoles or the number of times I touch my face before I leave my house, but I count. If I’m not distracted by the television or by talking to someone, I count when I’m jogging or walking for exercise. I prefer to eat my M&Ms in a certain color order. Speaking of color, my clothing is hung in color order. I stack my folded clothes in color stacks.

I’m not licking light switches or plucking out my eyelashes, but the OCD has kicked into high gear again. A neat freak on a regular day, I’m dealing with a specific need to have things just so. Having the living room tidied before I go to bed isn’t enough – the remotes have to be in the wooden bowl on the coffee table, the sofa cushions are realigned and I must adjust the blinds so that they are exactly even.  All the beds must be made each morning. Laundry does not pile up. I sweep and vacuum the garage.

The vacuum cleaner is like another appendage. My knuckles are cracking from scrubbing sinks.

I know what’s at the bottom of the just so binge. I’m feeling like so many things are out of control that I’m doing nutty stuff to control what I can. It’s what I do. That and hold my breath. That’s another thing the family just learned about me in the last few months. I. Hold. My. Breath. And then I sigh. And they think that it’s pissed off sighing when I’m really just catching my breath – breathe, damn you! – sighing.

I’m not the only freak in the house, though. I suppose it’s okay to spill my own secrets, but telling the other occupants’ secrets is out of bounds. That’s a shame really. But I will tell you that someone in the house eats his food in stages. If there’s more than one thing on the plate, say carrots, meat and bread, he will eat all the bread first, then all the carrots, then the meat.

Another person won’t eat using metal utensils. Plastic only. And she drinks from glass only. No plastic. She’s that particular about some things, but in the morning, she thinks nothing of plucking the chewed gum from her bookshelf where she’s let it rest for the night.

Yet another possesses a bionic nose. This one can smell Strawberry Fuze (it’s a drink) on a teammate’s breath at 3:30 p.m. The teammate drank said Fuse at 9:30a.m. These uber olfactory powers are a blessing and curse, I assure you. He gets the gifts from his mother.

And then there’s the one who refuses to wear pants. Well, except for right now and she’s blogging it. 

But so far, no one is licking light switches.

It’s sharing time! What makes you special? Tics? Habits? Predilections? 

>Thirty Days

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I’ve had enough of me. I’m that person who finishes nothing and complains about it as if someone else can fix it. The book proposal isn’t finished. Ditto the novel in progress, the humorous erotica story that’s due for a contest on Tuesday, a story where someone gets killed also due on Tuesday or the manuscript I started for NaNoWriMo in November. My mother used to say something about too many irons in the fire. All I want to do is iron because at least there next to the ironing board, I feel in control. To remedy this, I’m taking thirty days away from blogging and social media to see what I can accomplish without the easily blamed tools of the devil getting in my brainpan. I know they don’t mean to pull me away from the important stuff of busyness, the things I should be doing, but they do. I open Facebook to print a coupon for Ben & Jerry’s and three days later I’m having chat sex with someone from the Federation of Russia whom I just met on tumblr via google translate, meanwhile I’m tweeting the results and can’t remember when I last ate or had a shower.

To keep the blog’s muscles from atrophying entirely, I might do auto draft posts once a week. Some of them might look familiar to those of you’ve been around since the PoliTits days. For those of you who are new, please note that over the years, the names of the characters have change. MathMan used to be The Honey. Chloe was The Dancer, Nate was The Actor and Sophia was Cupcake or Resident Evil, depending. But what am I saying? You’re a smart group of people, you’ll figure it out.

See you in thirty.

>Unemployment Diary: Enough

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“I’m hungry.”

“What would you like to eat?”

She pauses. I wait. And wait. I’m impatient. I have things to do. “Phia? What would you like to eat?”

She looks at me, her dark eyes in a squint. “I can’t decide. There’s too much to choose from.”

Ah.

The issue of scarcity comes up in a way I didn’t expect. But then this is why people who win big in the lottery lose their minds and end up destitute and depressed three years after they bought the yacht, the life size statue of Elvis, the portable zoo, and the vintage jukebox collection for their custom built pool house.

Scarcity affects your brain. Going from having not enough to having more than enough is a weird transition.

We went from being a family with enough to a family with not quite enough. When I was employed, we were already juggling madly. Because I’ve made idiotic decisions in my personal life and financial life and began my career in the Pink Collar Ghetto and never learned the art of negotiation thus giving away a lot of my talent without ever labeling it a valuable commodity, we were in Chapter 13 Bankruptcy (that’s the one where you pay back your debt to those long suffering banks like Citibank, Chase and Barclays) and in the settlement, we gave up our house and a car.

We tested the notion that once you get behind the eight ball, it’s really hard to get out. Guess what! It’s true! You’ve heard that if you’re in a hole, the first step to getting out is to stop digging line? Well, once you stop digging, you still have to claw your way out, running at the steep sides, clutching at nothing but a belief that things will get better if you follow the rules whatever the hell they are. And don’t forget to dodge the dirt clods being lobbed at you by someone up there. And I don’t mean god.

Even so, we had enough. Not shopping and vacations and savings account enough, but enough.

So we went from that to not quite having enough. We reached the end of each month feeling stressed and hungering for things we couldn’t have. I worried about having the utilities would be cut off. We still can’t agree which is worse- having the gas, water or electricity cut off. We experienced each at least once. The cats found it exceedingly difficult when the TV was cut off, for example. Not being able to watch Animal Hoarders was tantamount to torture. But they, too, survived.

When food was more scarce than we were accustomed to, we each reacted in our own way. MathMan and I hid any treats in our room because the kids became territorial as we got squeezed.

“I spat on that so don’t eat it.”
“That’s my last bit of ice cream. You had two bowls of it already.”
“Can I have a piece of your gum?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I have to make it last.”

It wasn’t all bad. We’ve grown from the experience and I hope we never forget making choices such as whether to eat what’s left of the salad now or save it for lunch tomorrow? Salad. Right. That wasn’t me.

Realizing that we couldn’t continue that way, especially if I hadn’t found paid work before the unemployment checks stopped coming, we took a hard look at our variable expenses and decided that we would have to cut spending on groceries because that was one thing we could control. I took the couponing class and started researching buying groceries on a cycle and stockpiling.

I had no idea what a radical change that would mean for us regarding the issue of scarcity. Through inertia and ignorance, we’d been living a split deprivation. The first two weeks of the month, we lived our old life – a fully stocked pantry and refrigerator, money on the bank card for gasoline. The last two weeks, it felt like a rerun of the Great Depression with cellphones and iPods and a message at the gas tank that read “Please see attendant.” Gulp.

So now we have enough food and with the money we’re saving on groceries, cleaning supplies and electricity (using the dryer less), we’re able to pay our bills on time. With our tax refund, we paid off our outstanding medical bills except for the orthodontist, but at the end of this month, we’ll bring that bill up to date. We set aside some savings for emergencies because we drive two cars, each with 200,000 miles already under their fan belts and we’re considering moving closer to MathMan’s job, but there’s no getting around the fact that moving is expensive and would cause yet another financial setback. Rising gas prices may create a no win situation and force the issue. Damn it. I like gazing at that balance in the savings account.

Now what was my point? Oh, yes. Having enough. And how living with scarcity changes you. It’s true. Sometime in early January, I had my Scarlet O’Hara moment. I stomped around the backyard, hiked up my dress, shook my fist at the sunset and announced that we would never go hungry again.

The neighbors are still talking about it.

The kids will adjust. MathMan and I will adjust. We always do.

Here’s the nice part. Having enough moves us from the receivers’ column back to the givers’ column where I, at least, feel more comfortable. Some of the food that I’m getting for free is going to a local food bank and the free toiletries are going to a woman’s shelter. There’s even a way to recycle expired coupons. You can send them to military bases where they can be used by our service members and their families.

This is what it looks like when people have a chance for a fresh start. Our family is going to recover from this financial mess. While the reality that I’ll never replace my former income is a frustrating example of how things have changed for workers in this nation, I can at least use my experiences as a long-term job seeker as blog fodder, book fodder and a reason to drink. Plus, it’s aces for putting a quick end to fundraising phone calls.

“Hi, Mrs. Golden, how are you today? This is Shelley with the Save the Speckled Easter Egg Fund and I’m not calling to ask for money, but can I tell you a little about what we do?”

“Sure. I’ve been unemployed for over a year and still can’t find a job so I’m lonely and bored. Broke, too, so there’s no disposable income for me to donate, but please do, tell me what your organization is doing.”

Click.

I guess she’d heard enough. Dang it. I had to go back to talking to the cats.

*********

Speaking of fundraisers (and I do support some), my friend Latka is fundraising for the Multiple Sclerosis Walk. Latka’s father suffered from the disease and now his daughter Meredith, age 30, has been diagnosed with it. I hope you’ll join me in making a donation. If we each give, it adds up. And some day, it will be enough.

>A million workers working for nothing

>

Source

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

>I Just Can’t Face Me

>You want to know what’s impossible? Putting together a video of yourself when you’re a vain, vain person sporting the skin your father warned you about when you were sixteen and wearing nothing but a string bikini and Crisco Oil as you lounged on the swimming pool deck. His prophetic words leathery old bag will haunt me until I can afford to have my eyes done.

Every wrinkle, line, skin flake, craterlike pore and pimple has come to my attention because MacDougal Street Baby has mentioned that I should vlog or video blog and because I’m nothing if not accommodating, I tried. I really did. As some of you will recall, I am no stranger to videotaping myself doing embarrassing things. In fact, there’s a whole youtube series of videos featuring MathMan and me as we commuted to work. They’re cleverly titled Commute Chats and in this one, I fellate an ice cream cone. And I dragged my mother into it, too.

I’ve created the worst kind of self-indulgent sentimental videos here, here and here, music videos, biology videos, goofball videos here and here, a catrospective and a nostalgic look at high school here.

So today I spent some time making and deleting videos of myself. I talked to the camera. I ironed. I gave a tour of the stockpile. And I ended up with nothing. I do weird things with my mouth when I talk. I don’t know quite what it is that I do with my face when I pause to think, but it’s not attractive. I can’t script for myself to save my life. My skin is a shameful mess. I can’t quit staring at my double chin, crepey neck and cougar chest. And, no offense to lispers, but my camera’s audio gives me a lisp, but not just any old lisp, but a lateral one. I mean, come on! Aren’t the insults that come with aging enough?

Finally, out of desperation to produce something I went to go my go to subjects. Yes, I filmed the cats and you can hear me directing them and getting pretty dang huffy when they don’t take direction. Which is often.

MacDougal Street Baby, I’ll make new videos as soon as I can figure out how to do so using MathMan’s laptop and the webcam. I promise. I’ve got things to say about Charlie Sheen, Mike Huckabee, Newt Gingrich, politicians sermonizing about morals, my most recent job applications and several other crazy and annoying things.

Until then, I give you…..MicroManaged Cats.

I know. It’s pretty clear that I spend way too much time alone with these cats. We understand each other just a little too much. I just can’t decide if I’m Jane Goodall or Cecil B. DeMille.

Is it just me or do you hate to hear yourself and/or see yourself on video? Show of hands, who wants me to smash my camera?