Category Archives: Financial Failures and other not so fun things

George Washington took the shortest cat nap ever here

No, intones The Dentist. You either get a crown immediately or you might DIE!

Oh no.

The dental assistant gasps. Oh no and gasping are are not something one wants to hear while a perfectly fine, but slightly cracked tooth is being ground to a nub.

Yes? The dentist stops drilling.

We don’t have any of the right color for the temporary.

We finally agree on a temporary crown color, I settle back into the Barcalounger and close my eyes.

I have never felt so sexy.

Uh oh.

My eyes fly open. The dentist doesn’t even stop grinding before the assistant elaborates.

We forgot to include lab charges on the treatment plan. I’ll go get a revised plan for her to sign.

The dentist drills. I wonder how much more this will cost. The assistant returns, the drilling stops and a clipboard is thrust before me. I lift the cataract surgery glasses from my eyes so I can see the growing numbers.

Sign here.

I glance over the form and my tongue edges toward my shaved tooth. Time stopped so I could consider consider my options. Halloween is coming up. I could sit on the front porch with a lit votive in my mouth. Look mommy! A living Jack-o-Lantern!

I could invent a story about a disturbed dental student bursting into a cinema where I was viewing (what movies are out right now?) and started drilling teeth. Too unbelievable. How about a disturbed dental student drilling strangers’ teeth in the toothpaste aisle at CVS. Coupons and tooth shards were flying!

The dentist revs the drill over my head.

I don’t have much a choice here, do I? I’m slurring like a stroke victim.

No answer. I grab the pen and sign.

Payment is expected at the time services are rendered.

The kids tried to act like my tooth looked fine until we all busted out laughing. Well, they busted out laughing, I slurred out some laugh-like sounds.

Next up: MathMan, for a reason only he knows, threw his glasses under the wheels of a moving car. I’m sure it had something to do with percentages.

P.S. Unintentional irony on my other blog.

Dogpile on the Rabbit

2 Replies

Last week I received two gifts I’d like to return – the rejection letter from the job I interviewed for and the official letter telling me I’ve exhausted all 99 weeks of my unemployment insurance. They came the same day.

I immediately started looking around the garage for things we could sell. Sophie, the youngest, most succulent of the Goldens, sidestepped up the stairs and locked the door behind her.

MathMan aka Dr. Hofstadter regarded me warily. Waiting for the storm.

I tossed the letters aside and went back to the task at hand.

“You okay?”

“Mmmmhmmmm.”

No one said anything for a moment.

“I guess it’s good to get all my bad news at once,” I said as I stomped on the next soda can waiting to go in the recycling bin.

Bob Lefsetz.

Tree Stand Philosophy 101. My brother’s blog. He always was the favorite.

My very brief, positive review of The Buddha in the Attic.

The rabbit hole I fell down today.

And then this.

I.U. is losing as I type this, but the game has been exciting. A metaphor for life?

Animals in Midlife Crisis and one more.

The Long Month

15 Replies

This is one of those posts that I really hate to write. We’ve hit the financial wall (again). I know. Let’s just not look at each other, okay, because I cannot make eye contact when I’m doing this. The last couple of days have been a carnival of anxieties and so I haven’t written because it’s hard to bring the funny when, well, you know. The good news is that in two days, I’ve run twenty miles. It’s the only way to control the hamsters in the brain, wear them the hell out.

If you’re thinking about a donation, this would be a good time.

Thank you, in advance, whether you give or not. Thank you for being here.

You know how I love you.

Lisa

>You just haven’t earned it yet, Baby

18 Replies

I’m hot, I’m chilly. Not cold. Chilly. Is this a fever or perimenopause? Do I even care? What difference does it make anyway?

It’s been a day already. I’m already bracing for tomorrow and with all the talk of what happened with the IMF Head and the maid in the Midtown Manhattan hotel room, there’s an even greater sense of pressure from the day I wish I could forget. There’s the fury of what happened, but the weight of knowing that freedom has its downside. It means people like him can continue doing what they do.

Nevertheless, one must carry on and that’s what I’ve done.So far today’s landscape is, um, varied.

1. Using coupons, I got two free bags of cat food at Publix. A win.

2. The Kroger didn’t have the 1/2 gallon of milk for a dollar as advertised, but I did pick up a $3.88 bottle of Malbec. I also got hugged by the guy who delivers the Pepsi products to the Kroger, Ingles and WalMart stores. The hug came after he showed me where the packets of Kool-Aid were. It was kind of creepy. Then he was leaving when I left and he helped me load the groceries into the car. It was all awkward and I was trying not to overreact, just thanked him with a stiff smile, I’m sure but it was just – – strange. I’m feeling strange. Maybe that’s it.

And dammit, I forgot to stop at the customer service desk and ask for a rain check for the milk.

Good thing I bought that wine.

3. While I maneuvered around the curious cats to put the groceries away, the doorbell rang. A quick poke of my head into the dining room. The landlady. What did she want? She hadn’t called ahead. Fiddlesticks. Did I mention that we’re not supposed to have pets?

I pressed myself against the wall then dropped on all fours to crawl across the living room so she wouldn’t see me. My plan was to go out the basement door and meet her in front. If I could distract her from going inside or looking at the windows, maybe I could prevent her from seeing the cats who would undoubtedly be pressing their noses against the windows watching to see what might happen next.

She had other ideas. She met me halfway around the back. We chatted briefly while she took photos of the peeling exterior paint. She said she was glad to meet me finally. I didn’t correct her. We actually met two years ago when I met her in the Kroger parking lot to get the lease and keys to the house.

Why does it feel like my life is resembling a bad sitcom more and more?

4. I tried to be calm and nice, but I ended up muttering fuck and bursting into tears while talking to the travel agent whose unpleasant task it was to tell me that Chloe’s plane ticket is nonrefundable. Oh, that fine print. I know.

Okay, who in England wants to host my kid from July 10 – August 10 because we’ve just paid an extraordinary amount of money for this damn plane ticket for which Delta can’t see their way to refund the money? She can au pair for you. She can clean. She could easily learn to drive on the other side of the road, if necessary. If it goes well, you can even keep her. She doesn’t eat much. Toss her a bagel or a scone and she’s good for a day.

The travel agent was nice about it. The kindness of strangers and all that. (insert sound of grinding teeth)

5. I wiped my tears and emailed Cambridge a very professional sounding letter begging for a refund of Chloe’s deposit. I emailed a nastygram to Chloe. (Careful here on your comments, I’m allowed to beat up on my kids, but you aren’t, also, parental sanctimony isn’t a great idea today. Thanks.) Fingers crossed that Cambridge will be reasonable because right now I’m not feeling terribly reasonable.

6. Why can’t I be one of those people who can’t eat when they’re upset because the last couple of weeks would have been guaranteed to have helped me shed twenty pounds. But no. Of course not. In my head, problems are solved by copious amounts of sugar and fat. Please pass the bacon and chocolate ice cream.

7. Good thing I bought that bottle of wine.

8. There are many good things amongst the wacky, the unfortunate, the frustrating. I received another delightful treat in the mail. Teri Carter, of The Carter Library, sent me a handbag, a pocketbook, a purse and a bag. Some of them even came with their own bags. They’re an assortment of colors and styles that will up my panache factor in ways I cannot even begin to tell you. I’ve had great fun modeling them for the cats and anyone else who will look. I even include accompanying music in the form of hummed I Feel Pretty!

For now I’m carrying the blue Coach bag. The color says Spring and all my stuff fits into it with room to spare. If I try, I bet I can even fit that bottle of Malbec in there. Thank you, Teri, for thinking of me. I appreciate it very much.

9. Now I wish I’d gotten two bottles of wine. Maybe I’ll take that Coach bag back to Kroger and see how many Malbec bottles it will hold. A couple of nights in the local lock up might do me some good.

10. I’m reading The Memory Palace by Mira Bartok. Here we are again at the issue of perspective. As bad as things may seem, one can always find someone who’s having or who has had a harder time of it.

That doesn’t mean I won’t be swimming in the bottle of Malbec with all the self-pity I can muster. Let’s not give me more credit than I deserve. It just means I understand that my bad is someone else’s are you fucking kidding me, you drama lightweight?

Sally forth, my loves, using whatever coping mechanisms you trust. Whats new?

>Unemployment Diary: Enough

33 Replies

“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.

Unemployment Diary: Cum on Feel the Zen, Part Deux

27 Replies

I’ll take the big box, please.

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

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

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

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

MathMan was unpreturbed. “Please don’t.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Something to look forward to,” he responded. Funny as ever.

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

“Lockdown?”

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

Deep breath. “Nate’s at the school where someone has a gun?”

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

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

“Thank you. You’re sure Nate is fine?”

“Yes.

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

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

“Of course.” The distraction would be good for me.

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

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

“Soph, it’s lovely,” I said. I felt so bad for her. Stupid fever.

“Thanks. I hate it that I feel so sad right now.”

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

She nodded.

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

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

Ask and ye shall receive.

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

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

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

Rock Bottom

21 Replies

I could choke on this post because it’s killing me to be in this position. But here goes – if you’ve ever thought you might want to donate a little to this blog, now would be a really good time to do so. Because those lights? And the power making the refrigerator stay cold? Yeah, they become wildly important when you don’t have them any more.

This month has turned into a nightmare and the little minimum wage job I thought I had turned out not to be so. The scheduling made it impossible.

Donations are being accepted via paypal on the sidebar. If you’d like something in exchange for your generosity, just let me know. And no, I’m not giving out sexual favors. Unless expenses are paid, of course*.

Or you could purchase something from the ebay page I’m now populating with all kinds of MathMan and Lisa stuff.

Thank you, you guys. I have to go throw up now.

It’s a Gas, Gas, Gas….

16 Replies

Good morning. I’m sitting here bracing for an exhilarating shower while you’re sitting there all snug in your office, kitchen, bedroom, parents’ basement, bomb shelter, right?

The Goldens didn’t pay their gas bill on time. Talk about nasty surprises.

We discovered this bad bit of business last night when Chloe tried to make some pasta on the uncooperative stovetop. Tick tick tick, IGNITE! go out.

So perhaps it’s no surprise at all. It would help if we’d gotten some sort of disconnect notice, though.

As it was, we each had all night to consider the back to nature joys of a cold shower. I believe Joan Crawford was a fan of the cold shower. Better for the skin and all that….

Not that I want to use Joan Crawford for a role model or anything. I mean, there was that questionable business with the wire hangers and she was a fan of Pepsi, not Coke. Here in Georgia, Co’Cola is the state drink (with or without the moonshine chaser).

Because perspective is of the utmost importance, I shall think about how this little speck of trouble fits into the broad scheme of human experience. This is when I roll out the Pioneer Living Scale with 1 being “I’m not whining about a minor inconvenience, I’m simply noting that I’ve noticed the difference between now and then” to 10 being “At least we don’t have to dig a hole in the meadow where we can bury our dead.” So this is what? A 1? Maybe a 2? Nah, a 1. It’s a cold shower, for heaven’s sake, not an amputation or the roof of the lean-to caving in during a blizzard in June.

It could be worse, of course. It could always be worse. My soap is not made of lye and fat butchered from my favorite cow and, what’s more, when I’ve toweled off and turned back to pink from blue, I’ll just stroll right back into my well-appointed home office and be grateful that ~~I won’t have to waste fifteen minutes surfing porn (to take the edge off, you know) before~~ my mind is clear so I can get busy writing.

Perspective.

How was your shower today?

The In Which I Wish We HAD Gotten the Lexus, the Mini and the Hummer

22 Replies

MathMan and I paid a visit to our bankruptcy attorney this morning. It seems that the Bankruptcy Court is serious about us making payments for our Chapter 13. For those unschooled on the differences between types of bankruptcy (lucky, smart you!), here’s the simple diff….Chapter 7 means you’ve cleared the decks and are free of your debts. Except for student loans (cough, cough). They are rarely, if ever, included in bankruptcies. Chapter 13 means your creditors can no longer call and harass your ass, but they’re going to get their pound of flesh from you no matter what, as much as they can, not just what you spent, but all those fees and punishments that cost in the $35 per whack rang. It’s not nearly as much fun as it sounds.

A few years ago, Congress teamed up with the big creditor banks and rewrote the bankruptcy law. It is now quite difficult to qualify for a Chapter 7 so here we are. Except…..

The Chapter 13 was based on our old income. And we’re now minus two thirds of my salary. Which is significant. And since we’ve had to use our money for thing like health insurance, rent, food, phones, utilities, auto insurance and gasoline, well, that just doesn’t leave much to send to the Court. We were advised a couple of months ago to pay ourselves first, and make whatever payments we could. Which amounted to nothing because we needed a new clutch on a car, had to pay a housing deposit for college, assorted other shit comes up and then this month we had taxes to pay because when we lost our house, the mortgage interest deduction went with it.

We have a plan now for what to do next. We’re going to have to refile, but my severance pay (which is long gone) is still fucking up the numbers. Stupid averages. First up though, we have to pay the Court something. Oh. We discussed this on the way home. So fine, we pay the Court their $900, but then what? How do we buy food and gasoline, pay utilities, insurance, etc. We brainstormed ideas on how to cover the shortfall, but I better not write them here. Some of them are rather distasteful and possibly illegal.

As we went through our allowances and deductibles worksheet with our attorney, it became clear that we don’t waste nearly enough money on things. As the attorney pointed out, the law now rewards people who indulge in he riskiest kinds of financial behavior. If we owed money on three cars, for example, we’d take down our income to the point where a Chapter 7 would be a no-brainer. So how can it be that we have just enough to live on, but the Court thinks we should be able to pay $900 per month to our creditors? I am without nice words.

I mean, the banks got bailed out, we didn’t. Will they really hurt if they don’t get our money? Oh, I know. It’s not about money. It’s about punishment. If you just let anyone take out credit and never pay it back, then we all turn into animals. If there’s an advantage to be taken, we’ll all act just like soulless corporations and exploit, exploit, exploit. But really? When we had the money, we paid. We didn’t take vacations, buy designer clothing, jewelry or expensive toys. We didn’t buy a house we couldn’t afford until the interest rate (the bank’s idea, not ours) kicked up a few notches and became untenable. My job moved 2 hours away, increasing my expenses and, then, ultimately laid me off.

Oh, wait. I don’t want to sound like a victim here. These were choices we made. As if people without money really have options. But here we are. We stopped digging the hole, or so we thought, over a year ago. For over a year, $900 was skimmed out of my paycheck and distributed to creditors. Even after I was laid off, we made the payment ourselves until it left us with nothing to live on. The turnip was squeezed until it turned to dust and now we’ve got to hang on to a shred of hope that we can qualify for Chapter 7 in a few months.

As we drove home, I told MathMan that I was going to curl up into my ball of financial shame and stress eat chocolate. He remained quiet. He knew I didn’t mean it. I’ve lost nine pounds. I will not let this spiral into an excuse to overeat. “Perhaps you should stress exercise instead.”

I didn’t even punch him. Because he’s right. The bastard.

Worry changes nothing. Instead we’re taking action. At least it feels like we’re moving in the right direction. And if that light at the end of the tunnel is just another train?

DUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!