It's been one year since I took my last drink.
It feels amazing to say that.
But for at least two years up until that last drink, I talked myself into and out of asking for help many times. I knew I drank too much. I thought I could quit on my own. I told myself time and time again that I would quit "tomorrow." But my discovery of cake vodka martinis and the last half of a bottle of brandy proved to me I couldn't. I was miserable. Sad. Lost.
I sought help. I told my family. I told my boss. I took a couple weeks off work. And although my initial chemical health assessment showed that I qualified for in-patient treatment, the counselor recommended that I start out-patient treatment for chemical dependency. Of course I was concerned about his recommendation, but it turned out to be exactly what I needed.
During my four months of treatment I met some wonderful people, both men and women. A group of us still keep in touch. I had amazing support from my parents, which has brought us closer together. My son also supported my choice to quit drinking, which thrills me. But throughout treatment and afterward, I learned that I am not the only person in the world who needed help to stop my addiction and that I don't have to be ashamed of or hide from it.
Asking for help is a smart choice. It shows you are brave, you want to make a positive change and you're willing to do the work. Not seeking help, on the other hand, is what causes problems -- driving drunk, hurting others, hurting yourself. Since I've been open with others about my sobriety, three friends have asked me for advice and help with situations in their lives that involve chemical dependency, either for themselves or someone they know. I believe they felt comfortable asking me because of my openness with my problem. If I'd kept my sobriety a secret, they wouldn't have asked me for help.
In the 1930s when Alcoholics Anonymous first began, there was a stigma about alcoholism, so people didn't want others to know they had a drinking or drug problem, which is why AA is anonymous. I can respect that and I do when I go to AA meetings. It is a fantastic program that has worked for hundreds of thousands of people since the 1930s. However, I believe that the stigma needs to be dissolved. No one is perfect -- everyone has problems. Whether it's financial woes, marital problems, a family member with special needs or mental illness, we all have problems. Being an alcoholic is just another problem. And it's only when you hide it and don't ask for help that it can turn into something worse than it is. Open up and you will find that others open up as well.
Please don't misunderstand me -- being an alcoholic and going through treatment is obviously not what I had planned. But after many years with alcohol as a part of my life in different social situations, I began to think that I couldn't have fun without drinking. I didn't know what kind of grown-up drink I would pair with my steak if I could no longer drink a glass of red wine. (Does anyone ever just have one glass of wine with dinner?) If I couldn't drink brandy or wine, what would I drink after a bad day at work? I didn't even know what other grown-up drinks there were. But I've learned that there are other drinks available, including water, which I drink a lot more of now. And of course lattes, which aren't nearly as expensive as alcohol.
Let me give you an example of the expense of alcohol. One time when I was out with friends, we closed down the bar, but not before ordering several chocolate martinis. My bar bill that night, including appetizers, was about $123. Just my tab alone. I had closed out my tab once and started a new tab when I decided it was a good idea to order martinis. Compare that to a more recent happy hour when a friend and I ordered appetizers and iced tea. We each had two or three refills of tea. Our combined tab was only about $20.
Not only is happy hour less expensive sans alcohol, I no longer need to worry about the "Extra DWI Enforcement This Weekend" signs, being hungover at work or sleeping all day Saturday (just kidding, I sometimes still sleep all day on Saturday). There's a little extra money in my bank account. I've lost a little weight. I'm generally happier (although please don't confirm that with my coworkers), I have a closer relationship with my parents and my son (now he usually responds to my text messages). I feel proud of myself for making a good decision. I feel good about being honest with people and being able to help and support others. I feel emotionally stronger. And although I know that one year of sobriety is only a blip on the radar of life, I am confident that I will remain sober if I take it one day at a time.
When I first started looking into different treatment programs, I thought it was way too expensive and I would never be able to afford it. The truth is I couldn't not afford it. If you think you may have a drug or alcohol problem, please don't be ashamed or embarrassed. You are not alone. Ask for help. It's the grown-up choice.
Monday, April 29, 2013
Monday, February 18, 2013
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Nice Altoids! Part I
Last Saturday I redeemed my free one-hour fitness session with a personal trainer. It was something I'd won from Plume Blue, a dating site, and supposed to be something to do as a "date." But in all honesty, dripping sweat from my neck, back and arm pits is not something I want to do with myself, not to mention with a date. I just can't imagine that it would make a very good first impression. And as long as we're being honest here, if I'm gonna to sweat profusely with a member of the opposite sex, it'll not be the result of suffering through multiple rotations of pull-ups, squats, rowing and the like!
At any rate, I chose to go it alone to this fitness session at 2:15 pm on Saturday.
She said bring water and a protein bar. "It's only an hour," I thought, "including warm up and cool down. Does she really think I'll be working that hard? Obviously she doesn't know who she's dealing with."
But I obliged and brought my water and a protein bar that I'd purchased from a beefed up Ahhnold wanna be at GNC. Seriously, $3.19 for a candy bar!
The trainer had given me good directions plus the added, "in the building with Midwest Gymnastics," so in addition to good directions, I also had a landmark. "Great!" I thought, "There is no way I can get lost."
Naturally, I had trouble finding the place. It was a big building with a big parking lot. But I drove right up to the door, next to Midwest Gymnastics, and parked in a "Final Cut Parking Only" parking spot, grabbed my H2O and my purse (with the $3.19 candy bar in it) and got out. Even though I knew the company name was Duell Fitness, I figured this must be it. She hadn't said, after all, "There's another fitness company called Final Cut right next to Midwest Gymnastics but that's not the one. I'm on the opposite side of the building."
The Final Cut doors were locked. I thought that was really stupid because I was only five minutes early. Why would she not have the doors unlocked for me? Annoying.
But then I thought, "OH, of course! Maybe she meant Duell Fitness was in the same building as Midwest Gymnastics."
So I drove down 20 yeards to the Midwest Gymnastics doors and parked, grabbed my H2O and my purse (with the $3.19 candy bar in it) and got out. The doors to Midwest Gymnastics were locked.
At any rate, I chose to go it alone to this fitness session at 2:15 pm on Saturday.
She said bring water and a protein bar. "It's only an hour," I thought, "including warm up and cool down. Does she really think I'll be working that hard? Obviously she doesn't know who she's dealing with."
But I obliged and brought my water and a protein bar that I'd purchased from a beefed up Ahhnold wanna be at GNC. Seriously, $3.19 for a candy bar!
The trainer had given me good directions plus the added, "in the building with Midwest Gymnastics," so in addition to good directions, I also had a landmark. "Great!" I thought, "There is no way I can get lost."
Naturally, I had trouble finding the place. It was a big building with a big parking lot. But I drove right up to the door, next to Midwest Gymnastics, and parked in a "Final Cut Parking Only" parking spot, grabbed my H2O and my purse (with the $3.19 candy bar in it) and got out. Even though I knew the company name was Duell Fitness, I figured this must be it. She hadn't said, after all, "There's another fitness company called Final Cut right next to Midwest Gymnastics but that's not the one. I'm on the opposite side of the building."
The Final Cut doors were locked. I thought that was really stupid because I was only five minutes early. Why would she not have the doors unlocked for me? Annoying.
But then I thought, "OH, of course! Maybe she meant Duell Fitness was in the same building as Midwest Gymnastics."
So I drove down 20 yeards to the Midwest Gymnastics doors and parked, grabbed my H2O and my purse (with the $3.19 candy bar in it) and got out. The doors to Midwest Gymnastics were locked.
This was getting a bit redick. How hard do you think I'm gonna work to spend an hour busting my ass with a personal trainer? Lemme answer that for ya. Not hard. For Pete's sake, open the damn doors! This isn't North Miami! We're in Little Canada . . . Minnesota . . .
But this was free and I do like the Plume Blue peeps (although have never met them personally or had a single solitary date since joining . . . hmmm), so I waited a few more minutes until exactly 2:15 before I decided to leave. I had planned to report back to the authorities immediately that this Duell Fitness thingy is giving Plume Blue a bad name! Oh yes'sir'ee! I had it all planned out.
Just before I pulled out of the parking lot and after having taken a couple bites of my expensive candy bar (because by this time, I felt I was starving to death), I thought I should make a call to Duell Fitness. What if I was in the wrong place all together? What if I had misunderstood something? That wouldn't be good to be a "no show" at a free fitness session. My name could be smeared all over the Plume Blue site as a lame duck, someone who's afraid of commitment or who can't be depended on!! So I made the call.
But this was free and I do like the Plume Blue peeps (although have never met them personally or had a single solitary date since joining . . . hmmm), so I waited a few more minutes until exactly 2:15 before I decided to leave. I had planned to report back to the authorities immediately that this Duell Fitness thingy is giving Plume Blue a bad name! Oh yes'sir'ee! I had it all planned out.
Just before I pulled out of the parking lot and after having taken a couple bites of my expensive candy bar (because by this time, I felt I was starving to death), I thought I should make a call to Duell Fitness. What if I was in the wrong place all together? What if I had misunderstood something? That wouldn't be good to be a "no show" at a free fitness session. My name could be smeared all over the Plume Blue site as a lame duck, someone who's afraid of commitment or who can't be depended on!! So I made the call.
No answer.
"Good," I thought, "I'm in the clear. I can leave with a clear conscience."
I'd barely driven to the end of the lot when my phone rang. Ugh! It was the trainer -- I was in the right place; just the wrong side of the building . . .
Linda, of Duell Fitness, welcomed me and showed me around. Big place. Lots of stuff. Oh, and there's Midwest Gymnastics, right there. When you're on the inside of the building you can see it.
Linda, of Duell Fitness, welcomed me and showed me around. Big place. Lots of stuff. Oh, and there's Midwest Gymnastics, right there. When you're on the inside of the building you can see it.
She asked me about any injuries so I explained my ongoing shoulder problem and told her about my fractured lateral sesamoid. "And so," I told her, "I don't think running would be good for me."
Lo and behold, she also has a fractured bone in her foot. "I am SO glad you said that!" (about her fractured bone. I'm so dumb.) "No one believes me when I tell them I have a fractured bone in my foot!"
Instant bond. We're besties . . .
Monday, August 22, 2011
Two Issues: Bored and Broke
My friend told me I should write a column, "You're like a female Dave Barry," he said. Of course, I have no idea who the hell that is.
"No," I said, "people might get the wrong idea about me."
He said that people have already figured me out. But I told him he thinks he has everyone figured out (because he's one of "those" kind of people). And I explained that I have two issues: I'm bored and I'm broke.
Then he said I need a good screw.
"Truly," I told him, "I don't think that's it at all. Well, maybe partly. But what would I do with the other 23 hours and 59 minutes of my day? I'd still be bored."
"No," I said, "people might get the wrong idea about me."
He said that people have already figured me out. But I told him he thinks he has everyone figured out (because he's one of "those" kind of people). And I explained that I have two issues: I'm bored and I'm broke.
Then he said I need a good screw.
"Truly," I told him, "I don't think that's it at all. Well, maybe partly. But what would I do with the other 23 hours and 59 minutes of my day? I'd still be bored."
Sunday, May 1, 2011
Right to Contest the Validity of the Claim
In response to the parking citation I received via USPS that had a $5 late fee added to the balance due because I didn't respond to the first citation within the required 21 days:
-1st This is a mistake.
-2nd I did not receive a previous notice.
-3rd I was not at this location on this date or any date close to it. My work calendar is attached for that particular day to prove that I was in a meeting from 1:15pm - 2:00pm.
-4th No one borrowed my car.
-5th Someone must have written the plate number down wrong.
-6th This is obviously a college student.
-7th I work M-F from 8:00am - 4:30pm and don't have time to fix other people's mistakes.
-8th Please figure out what needs to be done because I am not paying for a parking violation that I did not commit.
Thanks,
Paula Anderson
-1st This is a mistake.
-2nd I did not receive a previous notice.
-3rd I was not at this location on this date or any date close to it. My work calendar is attached for that particular day to prove that I was in a meeting from 1:15pm - 2:00pm.
-4th No one borrowed my car.
-5th Someone must have written the plate number down wrong.
-6th This is obviously a college student.
-7th I work M-F from 8:00am - 4:30pm and don't have time to fix other people's mistakes.
-8th Please figure out what needs to be done because I am not paying for a parking violation that I did not commit.
Thanks,
Paula Anderson
Saturday, April 23, 2011
To Bank of America
Brad and Monique,
Is there something else missing from the mounds of paperwork I've sent? Someone named Toby called from an unknown number and won't give me any information about what's happening unless I provide him information about my account.
I'm not giving any information out over the phone for my own protection. Please let me know what's missing or please give Toby my email address so he can let me know. This has been the most ridiculous process. And what a complete waste of money for all the staff time that has been spent, the duplicate FedEx packages, the poor record keeping by Bank of America and the recorded phone calls that provide no information whatsoever.
On November 29, 2010, the same day they were requested, I emailed Monique two forms that were supposedly the final documents needed. Then nine weeks later I was notified that I needed to provide a Profit and Loss statement and that it could NOT be a Schedule C. Then two months later I was notified that it MUST be a Schedule C, along with my entire 2010 tax return, but only if it wasn't e-filed. Then I was notified that it COULD be the e-filed form 8879.
What can possibly be missing?
Can someone who knows what's going on please call me and stop sending the recorded messages. This is incredibly frustrating. It's been six months since I started the process. I really think the modification should be retroactive since it's taken you so long to process.
Please let me know what's going on.
Thanks,
Paula Anderson
Is there something else missing from the mounds of paperwork I've sent? Someone named Toby called from an unknown number and won't give me any information about what's happening unless I provide him information about my account.
I'm not giving any information out over the phone for my own protection. Please let me know what's missing or please give Toby my email address so he can let me know. This has been the most ridiculous process. And what a complete waste of money for all the staff time that has been spent, the duplicate FedEx packages, the poor record keeping by Bank of America and the recorded phone calls that provide no information whatsoever.
On November 29, 2010, the same day they were requested, I emailed Monique two forms that were supposedly the final documents needed. Then nine weeks later I was notified that I needed to provide a Profit and Loss statement and that it could NOT be a Schedule C. Then two months later I was notified that it MUST be a Schedule C, along with my entire 2010 tax return, but only if it wasn't e-filed. Then I was notified that it COULD be the e-filed form 8879.
What can possibly be missing?
Can someone who knows what's going on please call me and stop sending the recorded messages. This is incredibly frustrating. It's been six months since I started the process. I really think the modification should be retroactive since it's taken you so long to process.
Please let me know what's going on.
Thanks,
Paula Anderson
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Friday, December 31, 2010
My Christmas Letter 2010
I hope this letter finds you and your families well.
My 2010 started off fantastic with a new job in January, after having been laid off for 18 months and only working sporadic contract positions for about seven of those months, it was my light at the end of the tunnel. Eleven months with no work at all does wonders for a person’s credit card bills! January flew by and I learned quickly that there was still going to be more month than money.
Of course February dragged on with no Valentine to keep me warm, and an average temperature of 11.3 degrees. Gotta love winter in Minnesota.
It became apparent in March and April that I’d need to stop paying my credit card bills all together in order to semi-make-ends-meet. Either that or stop paying my mortgage. An attorney recommended the former. So in May I stopped making credit card payments. And as bad as I felt about leaving Chase and my credit union high and dry, I have to say I felt a sense of relief because I could suddenly afford to buy a few spring tops and continue with patio happy hours. And, oh yes, pay my mortgage.
June was delightful. As most of you know, my one and only son graduated from high school. I was a proud momma. Not only did he graduate at the top of his class, he had selected the college he wanted to attend and had been accepted. We visited the college and got a great feeling from the admissions rep and the baseball coach. He was an outstanding student and was going to play baseball in college.
His high school graduation ceremony itself was boring, but even among the sleet and chaos of finding a seat, we managed to sit on the right side of the arena so we got to see him every time he yawned. We got pictures. I look fat. Pictures don’t lie, but whatever. I was looking forward to his open house celebration the following weekend.
However, the Friday before the graduation open house, the day I’d taken off work to make food and prepare, I got vertigo. Please allow me to insert a “WTF” here. Vertigo? Why not the flu or something normal like a stuffy nose or sprained ankle, my period, a zit!?
I don’t even know how it happened. But Friday morning I started to feel “funny.” It was a light, floaty feeling that I ignored because it was tolerable and I needed to deliver an order. I stopped for a cup of coffee first and got back in the car, heading from Cottage Grove to White Bear Lake. Along the way I noticed things around me starting to “float” or move sort of. I got scared and made a few phone calls to people to ask them what was happening to me. My brother told me to drink something, so I grabbed a Life Water at the gas station but kept driving toward White Bear. I didn’t get very far from the gas station when I realized this strange feeling wasn’t going away. So I turned around. When I got home to rest for a few minutes, I called Katie to let her know I was still planning to make food but I needed to rest for a bit due to my current confusing condition.
When I woke up, I gingerly made my way back to my car and then to Katie’s to fry 30 pounds of hamburger. After browning and seasoning only about 12 pounds of ground beef, three pounds at a time, we took a break for Lucas’ baseball game and would brown the rest later. Instead of going to the game with everyone else, I decided that I needed to rest more. I went back home and laid down for a couple of hours.
This time when I awoke, my head was spinning terribly and I could only walk by holding onto furniture and walls. I called my dad in a state of panic. He didn’t know what to tell me. So I called Katie because she’s worked in the emergency room as a surgical tech and I was afraid to call the ambulance (because I was totally and completely broke and didn’t know if my health insurance would cover it -- sad but true). Katie came to my house to help me. When she got there, I was laying on the living room floor crying and confused but I had managed to get dressed and grab a plastic tub. I greeted her with the dry heaves. I spent that evening in the emergency room with my parents until midnight. The doctor prescribed something that made the dry heaves stop and also some valium, which I was happy about although I didn’t understand why I needed it. I stayed at my parents house over night. The next day even though I wasn’t throwing up, I still couldn’t walk because the room was spinning. I laid in bed on my side for something like the next three days and missed Lucas’ graduation open house.
You know that he is my only son, right? I've made three payments to Katie and still owe $174 for my half of the food and supplies.
Missed a few days of work too but was back to normal after that. Once in a while I feel a little floatiness coming on but now that I know what it is, it doesn’t freak me out. It just pisses me off.
July 4th we got great seats at the Liffey to watch fireworks with my friends. Yay us! Yay July!
I’ve become quite the volunteer. I continue to volunteer at YPC this year on the board, as the board secretary now, and also help to build and strike sets and promote and attend the shows. It’s given my life a little purpose. My thumbs have taken a beating. Not sure if that’s due to manual labor or arthritis. Either way, Aleve and I have become good friends this year.
In August, about ten or 12 of us from Go East volunteered at Great River Greening to cut down (with loppers) sumac that is overtaking the prairie (that no one, including Laura Ingels, knows is there to begin with). Please allow me to insert a “WTF” here as well. Apparently this “sumac” (I don’t really know what this is either) grows in such abundance that it chokes out the other . . . uh . . . uh . . . plants (?) that need to grow way out there and we, as the educated species, are the ones to make the call about what should and should not be allowed to flourish in the fucking boondocks.
So on the hottest day of the blessed Minnesota summer, we twelve got in three or four motor vehicles and made our way like pioneers along the Oregon Trail, to an awning on a plateau in the middle of nowheresville, where we donned our self-selected ABC workman gloves and loppers. And I think we got granola bars too. Seriously I think I remember that. Then, we twelve thoughtful (stupid) volunteers, stumbled along the incredibly narrow path between the bean field and tree branches poking the right sides of our heads, to what became no-path-at-all and then finally uneven, tortuous weed-infested paradise. We had arrived, unbeknownst to us (or as God is my witness I would *not* have agreed to this), to our intended destination.
For the next few hours, as we avoided the *poison ivy* and lopped the evil sumac, we sweat. From our heads, our brows, armpits, backs, butt cracks, etc. Luckily for us and perhaps because we voiced (and maybe over exaggerated a teensy bit) our disbelief at the heat, humidity and incredible difficulty of the daunting, unpaid task, our shift ended early.
We were not left unscarred. Several of us contracted poison ivy. However, I was a lucky one. I didn’t get poison ivy. Instead, when I got home, I undressed on the ghetto patio and threw nearly every piece of clothing into a hot, soapy washing machine :-) Being smart, I decided not to ruin my delicates in the hot, hot water, so I ran warm water in the bathroom sink to soak them overnight and hand-wash in the morning. Yay me. I was soooo hot and tired. Completely pooped! I showered and scrubbed thoroughly, put on my jammies and plopped down on the couch upstairs to watch a little TV before turning in for the night. But I didn’t sit there long. I was too exhausted. I turned off the TV. Turned off the living room light. Turned off the kitchen light and walked downstairs. As I approached the lower steps I heard something. Something like my toilet running? Something like my faucet leaking? Of course, they always do that. Then as I stepped off the bottom step, my foot squished into the carpet! OMG! I LEFT THE WATER RUNNING IN THE SINK AND IT'S FLOODED THE ENTIRE HALLWAY!!
I grabbed bath towels, hand towels, a fan . . . the phone. I called my insurance agent/brother and he calmed me down. He’d take care of it. As it turns out, the hallway, 1/3 of my bedroom and about 1/4 of Lucas’ bedroom carpeting were covered with standing water. Thank goodness for home owners’ insurance. I only had to pay my deductible. Allow me to insert a “thank you God” here.
Later in August we took Lucas to college. Overall it was a good experience. Proud mom (with dad and step-mom) drop off son at college. Again, it was hot and you know me and heat, especially in a 10'x12' dorm room where we set up and took down the lofts twice before getting them right. Plus I carried about 20 12-packs of Mountain Dew from the truck to the dorm room (like what, there's no pop in Iowa?). But we got him moved in and I managed to make it back to Minnesota. Barely.
The road construction posed a slight problem immediately upon my departure. I turned around once within the first 20 minutes, but I’d be *dammed* if I’d call for help or turn around and ask for directions. I knew I’d be OK and could find my way back to Minnesota if I had a full tank of gas and if I kept South Dakota to my left. And actually, since this was agri-desolate, farm country, if I really *had* to I could pee on the side of the road. Notta biggie, I was fine . . .
. . . until about four hours into the trip when I noticed a sloshing sound coming from somewhere in the car when I applied the brakes. Was it the gas in my tank? Couldn’t be. Was it the 16 ounce water bottle that was on the passenger seat? I wasn’t sure, but maybe. So I kept unnecessarily applying the brakes at random intervals and looking at the water bottle to see if the sloshing sound matched with the movement of the water in the bottle. Couldn’t be that. But it kind of correlated. Was there a jug of washer fluid. In. The. Back. Seat? I. Couldn’t. Really. Tell.
No, there wasn’t. Oh well.
Made a few phone calls to pass the time on the long drive home. What would normally be a four-and-a-half to five hour drive took me almost seven hours. It wasn’t that bad though because there was no one chomping at my ass to do this or that. All in all, nice drive. Over the years, I’ve learned to enjoy my own company.
For the next couple of weeks, I noticed a humid feel and musty smell when I got in my car. Not really strong like soiled milk or a dead something or other, but just plain musty-smelling. And I heard the sloshing sound again. So of course I kept unnecessarily applying the brakes at random intervals to see if I could solve the mystery. Then one day it dawned on me that there *had* to be water somewhere, thus the humidity (I mean my windows fogged at times). Hello, I finally checked under the floor mats and the carpet was soaked in both the front and back seats! For the MF LOVE of a MF SOB, how could this be? Had someone been washing delicates in my car?
Soaked carpet again.
The Toyota dealer discovered it was something to do with the air conditioner thingy that a passenger must have bumped (yea because I have *so* many passengers travel in my car. And when I noticed it, I had absolutely zero passengers with me, but whatever). It was covered under my 36,000 mile warranty. After they fixed it, all I had to do was pull the carpet back and put a fan in my car to dry it out for the next two weeks every night when I got home from work.
Eventually it dried. And I put the floor mats back in. Had to be mid-September by then and I was still receiving hospital bills from my June vertigo visit that I hadn’t paid, collection notices from two credit card companies and barely making my mortgage payments and other bill payments. I discovered that dealing with Excel Energy is great! Love them for real.
Bank of America is a joke. I started the process of modifying my mortgage in late October because I figured I finally made enough money to qualify to reduce my mortgage, since I actually have a job now. Yes, you heard me. When I was unemployed I didn’t qualify because I didn’t make enough money. Please allow me to insert another WTF here. I’m *so* confused. If I made enough money to qualify, why would I need my mortgage modified? I’ve had this mortgage for something like 10 years and all had been well. Never made a late payment. Sometimes paid early. Had a 725 credit rating. In fact, I paid all my bills on time -- credit cards included. Then all of a sudden the earth started crumbling around me. I was laid off from two jobs in one year due to “this economy” and received only unemployment benefits (which isn’t considered “income” FYI), which forced me to rely heavily on credit cards to live for 11 months. At that point, when I really, really needed it, I tried to modify my mortgage but I didn’t qualify because I didn’t make enough money. No shit. Why do you think I want it modified? Perhaps if I won the lottery you’d consider modifying my mortgage? Talk about back fucking asswards.
In the meantime, I managed, on my own, to get both credit card companies to settle for about 40 percent of the balance I owed. Yay me. Except when credit card companies agree to this, they agree on the terms that you will pay in a lump sum, which obviously I didn't have or I wouldn’t have been in this situation to begin with. The only option I could imagine for coming up with this amount of money was to request a “hardship withdrawal” from my 401k.
On November 16, 2010 I started this process. I don’t feel like getting into the minutia of this process because I’m *so* done with 2010. The long and short of it is I emailed my contact at the benefit company on December 9 to check on the process and learned that the payment, which I should have had by that date, had been delayed due to an error by the investment company in the amount disbursed. OMG. I’m dyslexic and even I can write a check for the correct amount. (Whether or not there’s money in my account is a different issue.)
I’d made an agreement with one credit card company to take the lump sum out automatically on December 23 because I figured a month (more than a month, actually) was enough time to get a disbursement of my own money for my own self to me!
Luckily, they were willing, upon my very direct request, to expedite payment via UPS. And things are good. Both credit card accounts are settled :-) My mortgage modification is still in process and should be determined any day now -- 4-6 weeks from the time they receive my documentation, which was mid-November. I strongly advise you not to hold your breath for the result on this one -- I'm not.
Because even if my mortgage does not get modified and even though my association dues have already increased, and gas is at an all time high and expected to continue to rise, I should be able to make ends meet in 2011. I’ve switched my health insurance to a new plan effective January 1, canceled my life insurance policy, changed my internet speed at home from 12mbps to 4mbps, and *can* cancel my landline and cable (and internet) if needed. Plus Mercury will only be in retrograde three times this coming year. How bad can it be?
I’ve got new tires on my car and I’m ready to face 2011 just like my tires: well-balanced, safe and mounted (pretend I didn’t say that out loud).
So there you have it friends and loved ones, my 2010 in a nutshell. I wish you all the most Merry Christmas and a Joyful and Prosperous New Year!
Much love,
Paula
My 2010 started off fantastic with a new job in January, after having been laid off for 18 months and only working sporadic contract positions for about seven of those months, it was my light at the end of the tunnel. Eleven months with no work at all does wonders for a person’s credit card bills! January flew by and I learned quickly that there was still going to be more month than money.
Of course February dragged on with no Valentine to keep me warm, and an average temperature of 11.3 degrees. Gotta love winter in Minnesota.
It became apparent in March and April that I’d need to stop paying my credit card bills all together in order to semi-make-ends-meet. Either that or stop paying my mortgage. An attorney recommended the former. So in May I stopped making credit card payments. And as bad as I felt about leaving Chase and my credit union high and dry, I have to say I felt a sense of relief because I could suddenly afford to buy a few spring tops and continue with patio happy hours. And, oh yes, pay my mortgage.
June was delightful. As most of you know, my one and only son graduated from high school. I was a proud momma. Not only did he graduate at the top of his class, he had selected the college he wanted to attend and had been accepted. We visited the college and got a great feeling from the admissions rep and the baseball coach. He was an outstanding student and was going to play baseball in college.
His high school graduation ceremony itself was boring, but even among the sleet and chaos of finding a seat, we managed to sit on the right side of the arena so we got to see him every time he yawned. We got pictures. I look fat. Pictures don’t lie, but whatever. I was looking forward to his open house celebration the following weekend.
However, the Friday before the graduation open house, the day I’d taken off work to make food and prepare, I got vertigo. Please allow me to insert a “WTF” here. Vertigo? Why not the flu or something normal like a stuffy nose or sprained ankle, my period, a zit!?
I don’t even know how it happened. But Friday morning I started to feel “funny.” It was a light, floaty feeling that I ignored because it was tolerable and I needed to deliver an order. I stopped for a cup of coffee first and got back in the car, heading from Cottage Grove to White Bear Lake. Along the way I noticed things around me starting to “float” or move sort of. I got scared and made a few phone calls to people to ask them what was happening to me. My brother told me to drink something, so I grabbed a Life Water at the gas station but kept driving toward White Bear. I didn’t get very far from the gas station when I realized this strange feeling wasn’t going away. So I turned around. When I got home to rest for a few minutes, I called Katie to let her know I was still planning to make food but I needed to rest for a bit due to my current confusing condition.
When I woke up, I gingerly made my way back to my car and then to Katie’s to fry 30 pounds of hamburger. After browning and seasoning only about 12 pounds of ground beef, three pounds at a time, we took a break for Lucas’ baseball game and would brown the rest later. Instead of going to the game with everyone else, I decided that I needed to rest more. I went back home and laid down for a couple of hours.
This time when I awoke, my head was spinning terribly and I could only walk by holding onto furniture and walls. I called my dad in a state of panic. He didn’t know what to tell me. So I called Katie because she’s worked in the emergency room as a surgical tech and I was afraid to call the ambulance (because I was totally and completely broke and didn’t know if my health insurance would cover it -- sad but true). Katie came to my house to help me. When she got there, I was laying on the living room floor crying and confused but I had managed to get dressed and grab a plastic tub. I greeted her with the dry heaves. I spent that evening in the emergency room with my parents until midnight. The doctor prescribed something that made the dry heaves stop and also some valium, which I was happy about although I didn’t understand why I needed it. I stayed at my parents house over night. The next day even though I wasn’t throwing up, I still couldn’t walk because the room was spinning. I laid in bed on my side for something like the next three days and missed Lucas’ graduation open house.
You know that he is my only son, right? I've made three payments to Katie and still owe $174 for my half of the food and supplies.
Missed a few days of work too but was back to normal after that. Once in a while I feel a little floatiness coming on but now that I know what it is, it doesn’t freak me out. It just pisses me off.
July 4th we got great seats at the Liffey to watch fireworks with my friends. Yay us! Yay July!
I’ve become quite the volunteer. I continue to volunteer at YPC this year on the board, as the board secretary now, and also help to build and strike sets and promote and attend the shows. It’s given my life a little purpose. My thumbs have taken a beating. Not sure if that’s due to manual labor or arthritis. Either way, Aleve and I have become good friends this year.
In August, about ten or 12 of us from Go East volunteered at Great River Greening to cut down (with loppers) sumac that is overtaking the prairie (that no one, including Laura Ingels, knows is there to begin with). Please allow me to insert a “WTF” here as well. Apparently this “sumac” (I don’t really know what this is either) grows in such abundance that it chokes out the other . . . uh . . . uh . . . plants (?) that need to grow way out there and we, as the educated species, are the ones to make the call about what should and should not be allowed to flourish in the fucking boondocks.
So on the hottest day of the blessed Minnesota summer, we twelve got in three or four motor vehicles and made our way like pioneers along the Oregon Trail, to an awning on a plateau in the middle of nowheresville, where we donned our self-selected ABC workman gloves and loppers. And I think we got granola bars too. Seriously I think I remember that. Then, we twelve thoughtful (stupid) volunteers, stumbled along the incredibly narrow path between the bean field and tree branches poking the right sides of our heads, to what became no-path-at-all and then finally uneven, tortuous weed-infested paradise. We had arrived, unbeknownst to us (or as God is my witness I would *not* have agreed to this), to our intended destination.
For the next few hours, as we avoided the *poison ivy* and lopped the evil sumac, we sweat. From our heads, our brows, armpits, backs, butt cracks, etc. Luckily for us and perhaps because we voiced (and maybe over exaggerated a teensy bit) our disbelief at the heat, humidity and incredible difficulty of the daunting, unpaid task, our shift ended early.
We were not left unscarred. Several of us contracted poison ivy. However, I was a lucky one. I didn’t get poison ivy. Instead, when I got home, I undressed on the ghetto patio and threw nearly every piece of clothing into a hot, soapy washing machine :-) Being smart, I decided not to ruin my delicates in the hot, hot water, so I ran warm water in the bathroom sink to soak them overnight and hand-wash in the morning. Yay me. I was soooo hot and tired. Completely pooped! I showered and scrubbed thoroughly, put on my jammies and plopped down on the couch upstairs to watch a little TV before turning in for the night. But I didn’t sit there long. I was too exhausted. I turned off the TV. Turned off the living room light. Turned off the kitchen light and walked downstairs. As I approached the lower steps I heard something. Something like my toilet running? Something like my faucet leaking? Of course, they always do that. Then as I stepped off the bottom step, my foot squished into the carpet! OMG! I LEFT THE WATER RUNNING IN THE SINK AND IT'S FLOODED THE ENTIRE HALLWAY!!
I grabbed bath towels, hand towels, a fan . . . the phone. I called my insurance agent/brother and he calmed me down. He’d take care of it. As it turns out, the hallway, 1/3 of my bedroom and about 1/4 of Lucas’ bedroom carpeting were covered with standing water. Thank goodness for home owners’ insurance. I only had to pay my deductible. Allow me to insert a “thank you God” here.
Later in August we took Lucas to college. Overall it was a good experience. Proud mom (with dad and step-mom) drop off son at college. Again, it was hot and you know me and heat, especially in a 10'x12' dorm room where we set up and took down the lofts twice before getting them right. Plus I carried about 20 12-packs of Mountain Dew from the truck to the dorm room (like what, there's no pop in Iowa?). But we got him moved in and I managed to make it back to Minnesota. Barely.
The road construction posed a slight problem immediately upon my departure. I turned around once within the first 20 minutes, but I’d be *dammed* if I’d call for help or turn around and ask for directions. I knew I’d be OK and could find my way back to Minnesota if I had a full tank of gas and if I kept South Dakota to my left. And actually, since this was agri-desolate, farm country, if I really *had* to I could pee on the side of the road. Notta biggie, I was fine . . .
. . . until about four hours into the trip when I noticed a sloshing sound coming from somewhere in the car when I applied the brakes. Was it the gas in my tank? Couldn’t be. Was it the 16 ounce water bottle that was on the passenger seat? I wasn’t sure, but maybe. So I kept unnecessarily applying the brakes at random intervals and looking at the water bottle to see if the sloshing sound matched with the movement of the water in the bottle. Couldn’t be that. But it kind of correlated. Was there a jug of washer fluid. In. The. Back. Seat? I. Couldn’t. Really. Tell.
No, there wasn’t. Oh well.
Made a few phone calls to pass the time on the long drive home. What would normally be a four-and-a-half to five hour drive took me almost seven hours. It wasn’t that bad though because there was no one chomping at my ass to do this or that. All in all, nice drive. Over the years, I’ve learned to enjoy my own company.
For the next couple of weeks, I noticed a humid feel and musty smell when I got in my car. Not really strong like soiled milk or a dead something or other, but just plain musty-smelling. And I heard the sloshing sound again. So of course I kept unnecessarily applying the brakes at random intervals to see if I could solve the mystery. Then one day it dawned on me that there *had* to be water somewhere, thus the humidity (I mean my windows fogged at times). Hello, I finally checked under the floor mats and the carpet was soaked in both the front and back seats! For the MF LOVE of a MF SOB, how could this be? Had someone been washing delicates in my car?
Soaked carpet again.
The Toyota dealer discovered it was something to do with the air conditioner thingy that a passenger must have bumped (yea because I have *so* many passengers travel in my car. And when I noticed it, I had absolutely zero passengers with me, but whatever). It was covered under my 36,000 mile warranty. After they fixed it, all I had to do was pull the carpet back and put a fan in my car to dry it out for the next two weeks every night when I got home from work.
Eventually it dried. And I put the floor mats back in. Had to be mid-September by then and I was still receiving hospital bills from my June vertigo visit that I hadn’t paid, collection notices from two credit card companies and barely making my mortgage payments and other bill payments. I discovered that dealing with Excel Energy is great! Love them for real.
Bank of America is a joke. I started the process of modifying my mortgage in late October because I figured I finally made enough money to qualify to reduce my mortgage, since I actually have a job now. Yes, you heard me. When I was unemployed I didn’t qualify because I didn’t make enough money. Please allow me to insert another WTF here. I’m *so* confused. If I made enough money to qualify, why would I need my mortgage modified? I’ve had this mortgage for something like 10 years and all had been well. Never made a late payment. Sometimes paid early. Had a 725 credit rating. In fact, I paid all my bills on time -- credit cards included. Then all of a sudden the earth started crumbling around me. I was laid off from two jobs in one year due to “this economy” and received only unemployment benefits (which isn’t considered “income” FYI), which forced me to rely heavily on credit cards to live for 11 months. At that point, when I really, really needed it, I tried to modify my mortgage but I didn’t qualify because I didn’t make enough money. No shit. Why do you think I want it modified? Perhaps if I won the lottery you’d consider modifying my mortgage? Talk about back fucking asswards.
In the meantime, I managed, on my own, to get both credit card companies to settle for about 40 percent of the balance I owed. Yay me. Except when credit card companies agree to this, they agree on the terms that you will pay in a lump sum, which obviously I didn't have or I wouldn’t have been in this situation to begin with. The only option I could imagine for coming up with this amount of money was to request a “hardship withdrawal” from my 401k.
On November 16, 2010 I started this process. I don’t feel like getting into the minutia of this process because I’m *so* done with 2010. The long and short of it is I emailed my contact at the benefit company on December 9 to check on the process and learned that the payment, which I should have had by that date, had been delayed due to an error by the investment company in the amount disbursed. OMG. I’m dyslexic and even I can write a check for the correct amount. (Whether or not there’s money in my account is a different issue.)
I’d made an agreement with one credit card company to take the lump sum out automatically on December 23 because I figured a month (more than a month, actually) was enough time to get a disbursement of my own money for my own self to me!
Luckily, they were willing, upon my very direct request, to expedite payment via UPS. And things are good. Both credit card accounts are settled :-) My mortgage modification is still in process and should be determined any day now -- 4-6 weeks from the time they receive my documentation, which was mid-November. I strongly advise you not to hold your breath for the result on this one -- I'm not.
Because even if my mortgage does not get modified and even though my association dues have already increased, and gas is at an all time high and expected to continue to rise, I should be able to make ends meet in 2011. I’ve switched my health insurance to a new plan effective January 1, canceled my life insurance policy, changed my internet speed at home from 12mbps to 4mbps, and *can* cancel my landline and cable (and internet) if needed. Plus Mercury will only be in retrograde three times this coming year. How bad can it be?
I’ve got new tires on my car and I’m ready to face 2011 just like my tires: well-balanced, safe and mounted (pretend I didn’t say that out loud).
So there you have it friends and loved ones, my 2010 in a nutshell. I wish you all the most Merry Christmas and a Joyful and Prosperous New Year!
Much love,
Paula
Saturday, November 7, 2009
The epitome of Catch 22
Several months ago I heard about a helpful plan where the government would pay for 65 percent of your COBRA premium. And I have to be honest, I have no idea where or when I heard it but it was exciting news, so I checked into it. The result: I didn't qualify. To qualify, one needed to be laid off AFTER September 1, 2008; but I had been laid off BEFORE September 1, 2008. Excuse me? Doesn't that seem a little backwards? Wouldn't I need MORE help with my very expensive COBRA premium payments if I had been paying the expensive premiums for a longer time period rather than a not-so-long-period of-time? It sure doesn't make any sense to me, but it must make sense to someone. Anyway, rules are rules, and as per the rules, I didn't qualify.
Here's a few scenarios:
I'd also heard about this "Obama Mortgage Modification Plan" so I checked into it too. I lost my job due to a layoff many months ago and am very strapped for cash, so having my mortgage modified to a lower monthly payment would be a great help. However, the rules of this very helpful plan indicate that I don't make enough money to qualify. What? You heard me, I don't make ENOUGH money to qualify. Think about this with me for a minute, if you will. "If I made MORE money, would I need my mortgage modified?"
I can't wrap my head around that one either. But rules are rules, and as per the rules, I don't qualify. NEXT!
A couple months after I had heard about the first helpful COBRA reimbursement deal, someone told me about a different very helpful COBRA deal. I immediately told them I won't qualify so I wasn't going to waste the time and frustration to apply or check into it. They said, "No, no this is a different deal."
Cool beans! So I explained my situation to someone on the phone and she said, "If you didn't qualify for the other one, you won't qualify for this one."
Why was I not surprised? Pissed off to beat the band, but not surprised. And not only did I not qualify for this second COBRA deal, my COBRA premium had gone up (for the second time in 14 months) from $279 per month for single coverage to $431 a month for single coverage, AND it doesn't cover a $128 monthly prescription. Just between you and me, I'd quit taking the prescription all together if it were for birth control or something like that (let's not get into THAT sorry discussion), but it's for anxiety and depression. And Paula, sans anxiety meds, is not something anyone wants to see. Just trust me on that one.
Even though my COBRA premium is sky high and seriously helping to break the bank in a huge way, at least it's health insurance coverage. Right? Well, my very important and very expensive health insurance coverage ends in less than a month. So I've been searching diligently for new individual coverage.
Here's a few scenarios:
Scenario #1: $556 for a six-month policy. This breaks down to a reasonable monthly payment...if I could pay monthly. But the terms of this policy mandate that the full premium is paid upfront. And honestly, I understand. But I don't HAVE the full amount, so I have to continue my search.
Scenario #2: Declined coverage through a company in Iowa due to pre-existing conditions. The agent told me I wasn't declined due to my pre-existing conditions necessarily, but rather due to Minnesota regulations, and that if I lived in Iowa or Wisconsin, he could have written the policy. You have GOT to be kidding me!
Scenario #3: Still pending. I've requested in writing that my previous medical records from my primary doctor and a specialist be sent to Medica for review. This could take two weeks.
Scenario #4: Minnesota Care. I was told if I have had access to health care in the past four months, I would NOT qualify for this plan. Well jeeze, I have had access to health care in the past four months, and in fact have been paying COBRA payments through my ass for the past 17 months because I learned that NOT having health insurance is a very bad thing. Let's talk this through for a moment. Does "HAVING access to health care in the past four months" make me more of a risk than NOT having access to health care in the past four months? I've been pondering that for days and I still can't understand it. If it makes sense to you, please shed light. I'm sick of being in the dark.
It's like you need to be 65-years-old to retire, 55 to qualify for a senior discount, 21 to drink alcohol, 18 to be an adult, 17 to see a rated R movie, 16 to drive, 5 and under to get in free...it's all so completely random.
But the good thing is, since my first inquiry with Minnesota Care, I've learned that rules may have changed and I may qualify (yay me). So I am in the process of gathering pay stubs and proof of income for the past 30 days or a written statement of earnings from my employer if I do not have pay stubs, copies of recent bank statements or written statement from my bank showing current balance or value of my accounts, one citizenship document, one identity document, copies of retirement accounts, copies of other documents showing value of assets, and my LEFT LEG severed above the knee! Then I'll send everything in to the powers that be and wait up to 45 days for a response. [Insert expletive here!].
It's like you need to be 65-years-old to retire, 55 to qualify for a senior discount, 21 to drink alcohol, 18 to be an adult, 17 to see a rated R movie, 16 to drive, 5 and under to get in free...it's all so completely random.
But the good thing is, since my first inquiry with Minnesota Care, I've learned that rules may have changed and I may qualify (yay me). So I am in the process of gathering pay stubs and proof of income for the past 30 days or a written statement of earnings from my employer if I do not have pay stubs, copies of recent bank statements or written statement from my bank showing current balance or value of my accounts, one citizenship document, one identity document, copies of retirement accounts, copies of other documents showing value of assets, and my LEFT LEG severed above the knee! Then I'll send everything in to the powers that be and wait up to 45 days for a response. [Insert expletive here!].
Scenario #5: Medical Assistance. I don't qualify for medical assistance because I make too much money. What?! You heard me, I make too MUCH money.
Are you following the story at all? Is there a valid reason that I feel like a walking example of a Catch 22? Or the epitome of the American Dream gone bad? I make too much money (mind you this is my unemployment income of $1427.60 per month average). I don't make enough money (because unemployment isn't considered income). I've been unemployed too long (before September 1, 2008). I've been paying through the nose for health insurance coverage and now I don't have enough to pay upfront another premium that would end up being a good deal.
WTF! Someone throw me a bone! I'm happy to pay for my health insurance. But PLEASE...just GIVE IT TO ME for the love of everything sacred and holy!
WTF! Someone throw me a bone! I'm happy to pay for my health insurance. But PLEASE...just GIVE IT TO ME for the love of everything sacred and holy!
P.S. I should say that since this writing, I have been approved for a Medica insurance policy that I'm happy with so far. Confirmation of final price is to come.
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Creative Job Search or Insanity Settling in?
Everyone is advising the unemployed to get "creative" with their job searches, saying we can't rely on traditional means any longer. They're even recommending going beyond twitter and Linkedin. They recommend narrowing your search to specific industries and primarily targeting those industries.
OK. I'll take those recommendations. I've decided to target non-profits, the health care industry, and organizations that market consumer products. But hell, I'm a writer at heart so why not also target PR firms, look for copywriting/copy editing positions, or blogger jobs? Guess what? I have.
Here's what I did when targeting a PR firm. And don't even try to tell me this isn't creative (or that insanity isn't settling in because I know it is):
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE:
CONTACT: Paula J. Anderson
8825 Ironwood Avenue South
Cottage Grove, MN 55016
Phone: 651-207-8371
Cell: 651-442-7776
Email: pjtoday@comcast.net
BROKE, SUBURBAN BASEBALL MOM SEARCHES FOR A JOB
AND A LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL
Her Story
MINNEAPOLIS -- June 25, 2009 -- Paula Anderson, an unemployed cum laude college graduate who has held account executive and project management positions in the past 10 years with ad and design agencies, seeks a new and challenging role with Haberman.
In the past tw0-and-a-half years since leaving Go East - a brand building firm in St. Paul, Paula has been laid off (not once, but twice) from agencies. "I love agency work. It's exciting and fast paced. Being around that creative energy is inspiring and fun," she said, "but finding work in my field has been tough in this economy."
Having picked up only two short-term contracts in the past year, she said, "The past year has been a long and humbling road. Had I known then what I know today about the economy and the job market, I would never have left."
In November 2006, she left Go east after nearly seven years on good terms. In fact, one of her contract gigs was back at Go East this spring filling in for six weeks during a major product launch. "Going back to Go East was a welcome experience. No less than five coworkers told me they wished I could stay. And the fact that I was asked back during this important time tells me they valued and appreciated my service. It's a testament to my work ethic and abilities."
The time away from the daily grind has helped her appreciate her craft. She said that she is more than ready to dive in head first to a new position, and is actually looking forward to rush hour traffic! She has kept her head held high through the layoffs and continues to look for work despite a number of disappointments and prospective employers deciding not to fill positions. "I understand that they need to watch out for the company's best interest and I need to watch out for mine."
"But it's so unfortunate that they don't know what they're missing!"
Paula grew up in White Bear Lake and graduated cum laude with a Speech Communications degree from the University of Minnesota and a minor in Journalism. She is a seasoned project manager/account manager. Although she has done little PR work professionally, she has three master's level courses with a PR focus under her belt from the University of St. Thomas. She writes for fun and has an innate ability to make people laugh. She enjoys watching her son play baseball, especially in the heat of July; she enjoys walking for exercise and sitting by the pool with a cold one (not necessarily in that order).
###
Monday, August 3, 2009
An Innocent Lunch with Friends
Last Thursday as I was having lunch with my friends Kris and Sandy, I noticed a cute guy sitting at a table next to us with his friend. He looked about my age, give or take a year or two, nice hair, cute face, nice hands, acceptable clothes, and a nice voice (I kept listening to their conversation...so what?). And no wedding ring! I sort of felt like this might be my lucky day.
As we were settling our bill at the table, I grabbed a napkin and wrote a quick note to Sandy for her or Kris to get "that guy's" business card for me. Sandy just sort of ignored me. Some friend. Sheesh! We figured out who owed how much for lunch (funny that we all had the same thing) and walked out the door.
The minute we got outside, I said, "You GUYS! One of you go back in there and get "that guy's" business card for me."
They both looked at me like, "wtf?"
Obviously these two friends have been married too long, "...so I can call him..." I clarified.
Kris was shocked, "I don't do that shit."
Sandy, shocked as well said, "Me either."
Are these guys really friends? "You GUYS! I'd do that for you. If you asked me to get a guy's business card so you could call him, I'd do it for you!"
My guilt trip worked. (Knowing full well that I was safe because these two innocent ding dongs are married. I'd never have to return the favor.) Kris, without hesitation, turned and walked confidently back into the restaurant to get his card. Score!
Sandy and I went to the car and waited. A few seconds later, Kris came out of the restaurant with a guy walking behind her. They were going to his car to get his business card.
And here is where my shock took over. "Oh my God, Sandy!"
Sandy looked at me and said, "What!?"
"That's. The. WRONG. GUY!"
Kris, bless your heart for trying. Thank you for a fun lunch, a great story to tell and a lesson learned. The next time I ask you to get a guy's card, I'll be more clear about which guy.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Random Babble
Do you think there is such a thing as a man who would say, "You are worth my time. I like you and I want to be with you"?
I don't.
Instead he'll say things that make you want to imagine he means that, but really he means nothing. He's just yapping. And I've learned that when a man randomly tells you something like, "I don't want to have more children," he doesn't mean he doesn't want to have more children with YOU necessarily. He's not future-thinking with you in mind at all. He just means he doesn't want to have more children. So it would make just as much sense for him to walk up to a random stranger on the street and profess this same thing.
Or like when he sends you an email that says something about a nooner, for example. He doesn't mean he thought of a nooner with YOU necessarily. He just means he thought about it (and remember, this is all guys think about anyway so it's no big news flash). Do NOT read anything into this unsolicited, arbitrary comment. It would make just as much sense for him to walk into the office of the nearest coworker and confess the same thing. Random babble.
When he sends a cryptic email message, don't even bother trying to decipher it because it will not mean what you hope it does. And don't ask him for clarification either because he won't respond or he'll respond by telling you that you're looking for logic where there is none. When really all you're trying to look for is which planet he's on! No, don't waste a minute of your time deciphering cryptic email messages - delete, delete, delete!
And speaking of email...under no circumstances should you ever engage in email or text games because you will be embarrassed and ashamed when you realize he's never gonna actually call to ask you out again. If he is unable or unwilling for whatever reason to simply pick up the phone and call you, he's not worth YOUR time. Never ever call him. Never email him. Never text him. Ever. Even if you felt love at first sight (which you never truly thought was possible because you are extremely rational). Just forget about it. It doesn't mean a damn thing. Virtual fantasy!
Even if he provides multiple ways to contact him (again, you probably didn't request this information, but he randomly provided it), don't do it! Don't write down his multiple phone numbers. Don't save his multiple email addresses. Just don't. It's a waste of space -- save it for someone else.
However, if feelings are mutual, the story can be different. By "mutual" I mean verbally expressed mutual feelings for each other. It can't be mutual in your mind only. So even when a man refuses to tell you that he is NOT interested in you, it doesn't mean that he IS interested in you. It may mean that he's not interested, or it may mean that he's keeping you at arm's length for emergencies. Either way, it's not what you deserve. Move on. Cuz unless a man can say to you frankly and honestly, "You are worth my time. I like you and I want to be with you," he's not worth it.
Not one iota.
I don't.
Instead he'll say things that make you want to imagine he means that, but really he means nothing. He's just yapping. And I've learned that when a man randomly tells you something like, "I don't want to have more children," he doesn't mean he doesn't want to have more children with YOU necessarily. He's not future-thinking with you in mind at all. He just means he doesn't want to have more children. So it would make just as much sense for him to walk up to a random stranger on the street and profess this same thing.
Or like when he sends you an email that says something about a nooner, for example. He doesn't mean he thought of a nooner with YOU necessarily. He just means he thought about it (and remember, this is all guys think about anyway so it's no big news flash). Do NOT read anything into this unsolicited, arbitrary comment. It would make just as much sense for him to walk into the office of the nearest coworker and confess the same thing. Random babble.
When he sends a cryptic email message, don't even bother trying to decipher it because it will not mean what you hope it does. And don't ask him for clarification either because he won't respond or he'll respond by telling you that you're looking for logic where there is none. When really all you're trying to look for is which planet he's on! No, don't waste a minute of your time deciphering cryptic email messages - delete, delete, delete!
And speaking of email...under no circumstances should you ever engage in email or text games because you will be embarrassed and ashamed when you realize he's never gonna actually call to ask you out again. If he is unable or unwilling for whatever reason to simply pick up the phone and call you, he's not worth YOUR time. Never ever call him. Never email him. Never text him. Ever. Even if you felt love at first sight (which you never truly thought was possible because you are extremely rational). Just forget about it. It doesn't mean a damn thing. Virtual fantasy!
Even if he provides multiple ways to contact him (again, you probably didn't request this information, but he randomly provided it), don't do it! Don't write down his multiple phone numbers. Don't save his multiple email addresses. Just don't. It's a waste of space -- save it for someone else.
However, if feelings are mutual, the story can be different. By "mutual" I mean verbally expressed mutual feelings for each other. It can't be mutual in your mind only. So even when a man refuses to tell you that he is NOT interested in you, it doesn't mean that he IS interested in you. It may mean that he's not interested, or it may mean that he's keeping you at arm's length for emergencies. Either way, it's not what you deserve. Move on. Cuz unless a man can say to you frankly and honestly, "You are worth my time. I like you and I want to be with you," he's not worth it.
Not one iota.
Sunday, June 14, 2009
The Dating Game - Story Two
At first glance, I thought the guy looked weird. We were matched via one of the match.com automatic match generation dealios. After a couple of email notes back and forth and a conversation on the phone, he asked me if I wanted to meet. His name was gadget65 and, although I wanted to say no, I said yes.
Why did I want to say no? Because he sounded lazy on the phone. And I'm sorry people, but the voice matters! Please understand that I'm not super spunky myself, but I can muster energy and/or interest when it matters. And don't you agree that dating is a time where energy and/or interest matters? Speak to impress! Stand up, look in the mirror, smile while you're talking! Have you never heard of that?
I pretended it was a good idea and we agreed to meet in the breezeway at Champp's in Woodbury at 5:00. Who do you think arrived five minutes early? Uh that would be me. When I got there I checked the bar area for someone who looked like a 'gadget65' (God help me). It IS possible for people who are INTERESTED to show up someplace early. Well, he wasn't early and had I been smart, I would have left then and there. Expedition over. But instead, I reminded myself that I was early, after all, and took a seat in the breezeway.
From the moment I sat down I gawked at every single person who came up to or through the door. And for nearly every single male I saw, I prayed to God (I think out loud a couple times even) that it wouldn't be Inspector Gadget. God I promise to go to church on Sunday if you let that NOT be him. In fact, I'll go on Saturday too.
One time an odd-looking character parked a small pick-up at the curb and came inside. He had thin, stringy, grayish-blond hair that fell between his shoulders and his ears. He had a scruffy beard and icky eyes that he looked at me with. I was sure this was Inspector Gadget. Even though the photos I'd seen looked nothing like this guy, I managed to convince myself that it was him.
He ogled around and then grabbed a free community paper and walked out. Thank you God, I will for SURE see you this Sunday.
By this time it was 5:10 or so. And as far as I was concerned, 10 minutes was plenty long enough to wait. So I left. If he was going to be late, he should have called -- my CELL phone. I'd given him the number for crying out loud. Are there any astute (and if I HAVE to say it, single) men out there? I'm beginning to wonder.
As it turns out, he'd left a message on my home v-mail that his son was sick so he wasn't able to make it. I mean, kids DO get sick and we can't HELP it when our kids get sick, right? So I gave him the benefit of the doubt and agreed to another meeting, but mostly because my friend urged me to (I'm beginning to wonder about the definition of friend too, btw). We agreed that he would call me on Sunday after he'd taken his son to a movie around 2:00 and then we'd meet around 3:00 or so. It sounded simple to me. Not too many instructions to follow all at once. Simple enough that even a man could do it.
Guess what? You're right, he didn't call. What a complete moron! Where do these people come from? Wherever it is, they need to go back.
I told this story to a Don Juan friend of mine and he said I should never give a guy a second chance.
Really?
I thought I was being kind, loving and understanding by giving the complete moron dufus the benefit of the doubt. And I'd want someone to do the same for me. (Did you hear that God? I live by the Golden Rule.) But this advice came pretty much straight from the horse's mouth. Men are a different species that do not deserve second chances.
Duly noted!
Why did I want to say no? Because he sounded lazy on the phone. And I'm sorry people, but the voice matters! Please understand that I'm not super spunky myself, but I can muster energy and/or interest when it matters. And don't you agree that dating is a time where energy and/or interest matters? Speak to impress! Stand up, look in the mirror, smile while you're talking! Have you never heard of that?
I pretended it was a good idea and we agreed to meet in the breezeway at Champp's in Woodbury at 5:00. Who do you think arrived five minutes early? Uh that would be me. When I got there I checked the bar area for someone who looked like a 'gadget65' (God help me). It IS possible for people who are INTERESTED to show up someplace early. Well, he wasn't early and had I been smart, I would have left then and there. Expedition over. But instead, I reminded myself that I was early, after all, and took a seat in the breezeway.
From the moment I sat down I gawked at every single person who came up to or through the door. And for nearly every single male I saw, I prayed to God (I think out loud a couple times even) that it wouldn't be Inspector Gadget. God I promise to go to church on Sunday if you let that NOT be him. In fact, I'll go on Saturday too.
One time an odd-looking character parked a small pick-up at the curb and came inside. He had thin, stringy, grayish-blond hair that fell between his shoulders and his ears. He had a scruffy beard and icky eyes that he looked at me with. I was sure this was Inspector Gadget. Even though the photos I'd seen looked nothing like this guy, I managed to convince myself that it was him.
He ogled around and then grabbed a free community paper and walked out. Thank you God, I will for SURE see you this Sunday.
By this time it was 5:10 or so. And as far as I was concerned, 10 minutes was plenty long enough to wait. So I left. If he was going to be late, he should have called -- my CELL phone. I'd given him the number for crying out loud. Are there any astute (and if I HAVE to say it, single) men out there? I'm beginning to wonder.
As it turns out, he'd left a message on my home v-mail that his son was sick so he wasn't able to make it. I mean, kids DO get sick and we can't HELP it when our kids get sick, right? So I gave him the benefit of the doubt and agreed to another meeting, but mostly because my friend urged me to (I'm beginning to wonder about the definition of friend too, btw). We agreed that he would call me on Sunday after he'd taken his son to a movie around 2:00 and then we'd meet around 3:00 or so. It sounded simple to me. Not too many instructions to follow all at once. Simple enough that even a man could do it.
Guess what? You're right, he didn't call. What a complete moron! Where do these people come from? Wherever it is, they need to go back.
I told this story to a Don Juan friend of mine and he said I should never give a guy a second chance.
Really?
I thought I was being kind, loving and understanding by giving the complete moron dufus the benefit of the doubt. And I'd want someone to do the same for me. (Did you hear that God? I live by the Golden Rule.) But this advice came pretty much straight from the horse's mouth. Men are a different species that do not deserve second chances.
Duly noted!
Saturday, June 6, 2009
Happy Birthday
I can't believe you turn 21 today. Seems like only yesterday I was projectile vomiting all over the hospital bed just hours before you were born into this world.
I remember the day. June 7, 1992...
Although you were planned, you were also a bit of a surprise. It was a Sunday morning, two weeks before your due date, and my water broke unexpectedly while I was on the toilet. I went to Dad's side of the bed to wake him up. I simply said, "My water broke."
He was surprised as you can imagine, and he said to me, "Shu'dup."
But I didn’t shut up. This was the real deal. My water had broken two weeks early. So we called the doctor to see what we needed to do -- this was new to us. I ate something per the doctor’s instructions and laid back down on my side, but still didn't feel you moving. We worried a bit and called the doc again and then went to the hospital (frankly I don't remember which hospital, please forgive me.)
We were admitted to Whatever Hospital and I was dressed in a hospital gown and lying in bed. The nurse (or someone) handed me a pair of tiny mesh underwear. Dad held them up in the air and said (in prime Dad fashion), "Cut me some serious slack."
But I put them on. I guess mesh underwear must be easy to tear off in an emergency or something? No idea why they were mesh or why I was not allowed to simply wear NO undies. At that point, vanity wasn't really an issue. Wearing mesh undies and still not feeling you moving inside me, I was given some orange juice to stir things up in my belly. Someone also gave me some sort of shot (again the details escape me. I have no idea what kind of shot it was) and told us to go for a walk. Dad and I walked the hospital halls, as instructed.
Sure enough, after only a short walk, labor pains started. Suddenly I was uber tired and I just wanted to lie down. Truly I wished I could lie down and go to sleep and have someone wake me up when it was all over (kind of similar to how I felt last week when I was at the dentist). But that didn't happen. I was awake the whole damn time.
I don't remember a ton about the day. I do remember, however, being naked in the shower, sitting on a plastic bench with warm, relaxing water pouring down over me. At first it was calming. But the second time the nurses instructed me to get in the shower to sooth my labor pains, it was very UN-calming. I must have gotten dressed at that point and was put back into bed because (here's the vomit part) I sat up in the hospital bed and projectile vomited. Dad freaked, and later he described it to me as a scene straight out of the Exorcist. He went out of the room telling anyone who would listen, "She's throwing up!"
A nurse came in pronto to change the sheets -- she wanted to change the sheets with me still in the bed, which I thought was weird. I was thinking to myself, I can stand up, for goodness sakes. So I got out of the bed and she expertly put on the new sheets. They insisted that my throwing up had nothing to do with the shot they had given me. Right. It's not like I was pregnant AND had the flu.
Before I knew it, there were all sorts of hospital-type folks in the room looking at my hoo haa. My doctor wasn't there and I sincerely apologize Sweetheart, but I have no idea the name of the doctor who delivered you. As far as I'm concerned, it was me! Everyone and everything in the room was a complete blur and I didn't care who was staring at my crotch at that point. I do, however, distinctly remember a nurse standing next to me with a clip board and two pens taped together, one red and one blue. I assumed she was color-coding her notes. Color coding is always a good idea. But I prefer to use highlighter markers instead of pens to color-code my work. I also prefer to change sheets WITHOUT people in the bed.
One thing I remember is that one of the screams that came out of my mouth was terribly guttural (probably sounded like something "straight out of the Exorcist" again), and Dad tried to calm me by saying. "It's OK. I know how you feel."
Bless his dumb little heart. I said, "NO YOU DON'T."
I'm pretty sure that Dad didn't say much after that. And then, get this, the doctor had the audacity to say, "Baby's head is crowning. Do you want to feel it?"
"Feel it?" I thought. Give me one good reason why a person would think I can't feel "Baby's head crowning." I calmly said to her, "I. CAN. FEEL. IT."
Before I knew it though, you were born. And someone handed you to me. I loved you immediately, despite the pain and despite the nurses thrusting on my stomach to get the placenta out and despite all the complete idiots that were in the room with us! You were an easy delivery (as far as I'm concerned ANY delivery is not easy when you're pushing seven pounds of human being out of your crotch). But I would do it all over again if I could have another you. I am very, very lucky and very, very blessed!
Happy Birthday! Lucas, you are the brightest bulb on my Christmas tree. Shine on!
I love you!
Love,
Mom
I remember the day. June 7, 1992...
Although you were planned, you were also a bit of a surprise. It was a Sunday morning, two weeks before your due date, and my water broke unexpectedly while I was on the toilet. I went to Dad's side of the bed to wake him up. I simply said, "My water broke."
He was surprised as you can imagine, and he said to me, "Shu'dup."
But I didn’t shut up. This was the real deal. My water had broken two weeks early. So we called the doctor to see what we needed to do -- this was new to us. I ate something per the doctor’s instructions and laid back down on my side, but still didn't feel you moving. We worried a bit and called the doc again and then went to the hospital (frankly I don't remember which hospital, please forgive me.)
We were admitted to Whatever Hospital and I was dressed in a hospital gown and lying in bed. The nurse (or someone) handed me a pair of tiny mesh underwear. Dad held them up in the air and said (in prime Dad fashion), "Cut me some serious slack."
But I put them on. I guess mesh underwear must be easy to tear off in an emergency or something? No idea why they were mesh or why I was not allowed to simply wear NO undies. At that point, vanity wasn't really an issue. Wearing mesh undies and still not feeling you moving inside me, I was given some orange juice to stir things up in my belly. Someone also gave me some sort of shot (again the details escape me. I have no idea what kind of shot it was) and told us to go for a walk. Dad and I walked the hospital halls, as instructed.
Sure enough, after only a short walk, labor pains started. Suddenly I was uber tired and I just wanted to lie down. Truly I wished I could lie down and go to sleep and have someone wake me up when it was all over (kind of similar to how I felt last week when I was at the dentist). But that didn't happen. I was awake the whole damn time.
I don't remember a ton about the day. I do remember, however, being naked in the shower, sitting on a plastic bench with warm, relaxing water pouring down over me. At first it was calming. But the second time the nurses instructed me to get in the shower to sooth my labor pains, it was very UN-calming. I must have gotten dressed at that point and was put back into bed because (here's the vomit part) I sat up in the hospital bed and projectile vomited. Dad freaked, and later he described it to me as a scene straight out of the Exorcist. He went out of the room telling anyone who would listen, "She's throwing up!"
A nurse came in pronto to change the sheets -- she wanted to change the sheets with me still in the bed, which I thought was weird. I was thinking to myself, I can stand up, for goodness sakes. So I got out of the bed and she expertly put on the new sheets. They insisted that my throwing up had nothing to do with the shot they had given me. Right. It's not like I was pregnant AND had the flu.
Before I knew it, there were all sorts of hospital-type folks in the room looking at my hoo haa. My doctor wasn't there and I sincerely apologize Sweetheart, but I have no idea the name of the doctor who delivered you. As far as I'm concerned, it was me! Everyone and everything in the room was a complete blur and I didn't care who was staring at my crotch at that point. I do, however, distinctly remember a nurse standing next to me with a clip board and two pens taped together, one red and one blue. I assumed she was color-coding her notes. Color coding is always a good idea. But I prefer to use highlighter markers instead of pens to color-code my work. I also prefer to change sheets WITHOUT people in the bed.
One thing I remember is that one of the screams that came out of my mouth was terribly guttural (probably sounded like something "straight out of the Exorcist" again), and Dad tried to calm me by saying. "It's OK. I know how you feel."
Bless his dumb little heart. I said, "NO YOU DON'T."
I'm pretty sure that Dad didn't say much after that. And then, get this, the doctor had the audacity to say, "Baby's head is crowning. Do you want to feel it?"
"Feel it?" I thought. Give me one good reason why a person would think I can't feel "Baby's head crowning." I calmly said to her, "I. CAN. FEEL. IT."
Before I knew it though, you were born. And someone handed you to me. I loved you immediately, despite the pain and despite the nurses thrusting on my stomach to get the placenta out and despite all the complete idiots that were in the room with us! You were an easy delivery (as far as I'm concerned ANY delivery is not easy when you're pushing seven pounds of human being out of your crotch). But I would do it all over again if I could have another you. I am very, very lucky and very, very blessed!
Happy Birthday! Lucas, you are the brightest bulb on my Christmas tree. Shine on!
I love you!
Love,
Mom
The Dating Game
Contrary to popular belief, being single (read: divorced) at 44 isn't so bad. I love having my own time and doing my own thing. I wake up and go to bed whenever I want. I hardly spend any time at the grocery store because I can find a satisfying dinner when my refrigerator is practically empty. Cheese and crackers with a glass of wine makes a great dinner. Oh who am I kidding? Cheese and crackers with a bottle of wine makes a great dinner.
An unmade bed is acceptable and dusting the living room with a Kleenex is all right. No one complains about anything I do. But when you need someone to fix the broken microwave, hang a closet door, sweep the garage or take out the trash...or you know, to kill spiders and boxelder bugs, it would be nice to have a guy around to do it. And fine, I admit it sure would be nice to look at the evening sky with someone special or share wine together, or hold hands and feel tingly.
So, sap that I am, I joined match.com. For the first couple of weeks, I checked the pictures and profiles all the time, and I sent a few email notes to guys I thought might be nice to meet. But there never seemed to be a connection. One guy said he found it "sexy" when a woman makes the first move (which I had done). He thought I was appealing and attractive but he wasn't interested in me. Well, smoke another one, buddy. Who do you think YOU are? Prince Charming? I'm sexy, appealing and attractive but you're not interested? OK, I wish you luck in your search (that's the stock language on match.com).
Match.com offers automatically generated "top matches," "daily 5" and you can "wink" at other members to express your interest (instead of writing an email, but I prefer a man that can construct a complete sentence). After several winks from guys that were clearly not matches (I mean did they even read my profile at all?! I said I eat SALAD, not three cheeseburgers and a super size fry!), I'd had enough. It kills me when a match comes automatically with the automatically generated match information, "Like you, he's not a smoker," or "Both of you enjoy baseball."
It should say, "Like you and 40 million other people..."
Come ON! That's not a match. So I've given up. Now I use my match.com membership to make fun of people. Bad? I don't think so. Can you really blame me? (Correct answer: no.) I mean, when a guy picks a name like CecilDragon, SheGuns or ThisDogStillHunts for his username, what do you expect? He's asking for it. And you can count on me to dish it out. I'm not gonna sit home on a Friday night and pity myself for not having someone to hold hands with. I'll make fun of his ass all night.
SheGuns? What does that even mean? I was very clear in my profile that I'm interested in MEN, not burly women who look like Chyna! And for goodness sake, ThisDogStillHunts. Really? Not in these woods, buddy. Then you've got LeftWingLoon, LoudPipes, BigDaddySugar and MadeInJapan. I mean that is just too much information.
...and then there's Tedlicious...
I am SO done.
Friday, May 22, 2009
A Day at the Zoo
It's called the zoo for a reason.
The first thing I saw as Mac and I were parking the car in the Dolphin Lot at the Minnesota Zoo this morning was a woman wearing a short, see-through white skirt, pink thong underwear and brown, suede-ish, high-heeled boots. The good thing about this? I no longer feel like white trash. What EVER was I thinking wearing tennis shoes, jeans and a t-shirt?
There weren't many cars in the Dolphin Lot, but there were several school buses and hundreds, if not thousands, of school kids. I have a new found respect for elementary school teachers and parents who chaperon. I also have a new found respect for parents of 6-year-old boys who come ill-equipped with indoor voices.
Mac and I started our zoo visit outside looking at the monkeys. I think they were actually orangutans but any sort of monkey-looking animal was a monkey to us. Since Mac is only two, I figured there's no need to confuse him (and I didn't know the difference either). It was confusing enough for him when I said, "Let's wait our turn."
He loved the monkeys and even said, "Butt" when one climbed the tree near us. No confusion there.
Then we went inside the Tropical Trail, which must have needed to be a tropical temperature to keep the animals feeling like they were in their natural habitat. Holy hell, was it hot! And loud. But I seemed to be the only one sweating from every crevasse in my body. The heat (and noise) didn't bother the 6-year-old boy next to me at the lemur cage who kept screeching "LEMUR! LEMUR! LEMUR! LEMUR!"
Jeeze kid, I'm not deaf. Er...I wasn't three minutes ago. I might be now!
We also looked at the turtles, flamingos, fish and a couple other tropical animals before I could take the heat no longer and found our way out of Tropical Trail, seemingly against the natural traffic flow.
The breeze and temperature outside were perfect for a day at the zoo (if there is such a thing). We walked the path and saw ostrich, giraffes, wild boar, caribou, moose, horses, zebras, prairie dogs. Tons of animals that I'd never thought of seeing. It really was interesting. The wild boar smelled like shit. And I really was beginning to feel like we should head in the direction of the Dolphin Lot. After all we'd been there for almost two hours. That's quite a long time for a two-year-old and a sweating, hungry woman.
At our last stop along the path, we came upon a group of, I assume, first graders. I only assume this because we were looking at "BUFFALO! BUFFALO! BUFFALO! BUFFALO!"
Do all 6-year-olds shriek no matter what?
We continued to head toward the Dolphin Lot. I neglected to recognize on our way into the lot that there is sort of an upper and lower Dolphin Lot. I also forgot that there would be about SIX THOUSAND more cars in the Dolphin Lot than when we arrived (at the same time as white trash, pink thong mother and family).
We managed to find the car after meandering in both upper and lower lots. I got Mac strapped into his car seat, got the stroller folded down and put it in the back. I put the camera and diaper bag in the car and thought for just a second about taking a teeny weeny cat nap before the ride home. And at that very moment, I thanked God that I don't have any toddlers of my own, or any 6-year-old boys who are indoor-voice-challenged.
Honestly though, seeing Mac's big blue eyes close slowly on the ride home made the madness and profuse sweating all worth while. A sleeping baby is a precious baby -- until you need to wake him up for lunch.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Cruel World
I just looked in the mirror (no I'm not going anywhere, I just looked, OK?) and noticed my sort of less-than-gigantic earring was making my earlobe sag! What is UP with that!?!
Another joy of aging, no doubt.
I do feel it is necessary to point out that to date, I've been OK with the change in my eyesight, the need for cheater glasses (cuz let's face it ladies, some of those glasses are cuter than we are!), tweezing hairs from a mole or two and finding new age spots from time to time. I'm totally OK with wearing age-appropriate swimwear and foiling my hair to cover gray (I only have gray in a couple places, btw).
I've even gotten used to people thinking that I'm my ex-husband's wife's mother. I mean technically I could be. It's fine that people don't think I'm 38 anymore. I'm so OK with being my age that two weeks ago when someone said to me, "I assume you're over 40," I didn't snap back with, "and I assume you want a black eye."
Hot flashes? No problem. Excruciating pain in my shoulder? Ibuprofen is my friend! Weakening wrists? Love it! Aching hip? Bring it on baby!
But come on, as if it's not enough, for heaven's sake that I need to look in the mirror sideways to make sure my Full Coverage Body by Victoria is supporting properly before going out into public. Now you're also telling me being over 40 (44 but we don't need to get boring with all the gory details) means I can no longer wear cute earrings without first having to double check the sagability factor of my earlobes?
It truly is a cruel, cruel world.
Another joy of aging, no doubt.
I do feel it is necessary to point out that to date, I've been OK with the change in my eyesight, the need for cheater glasses (cuz let's face it ladies, some of those glasses are cuter than we are!), tweezing hairs from a mole or two and finding new age spots from time to time. I'm totally OK with wearing age-appropriate swimwear and foiling my hair to cover gray (I only have gray in a couple places, btw).
I've even gotten used to people thinking that I'm my ex-husband's wife's mother. I mean technically I could be. It's fine that people don't think I'm 38 anymore. I'm so OK with being my age that two weeks ago when someone said to me, "I assume you're over 40," I didn't snap back with, "and I assume you want a black eye."
Hot flashes? No problem. Excruciating pain in my shoulder? Ibuprofen is my friend! Weakening wrists? Love it! Aching hip? Bring it on baby!
But come on, as if it's not enough, for heaven's sake that I need to look in the mirror sideways to make sure my Full Coverage Body by Victoria is supporting properly before going out into public. Now you're also telling me being over 40 (44 but we don't need to get boring with all the gory details) means I can no longer wear cute earrings without first having to double check the sagability factor of my earlobes?
It truly is a cruel, cruel world.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
A Slice of Heaven
It was just a 9-hole par 3 course, but oh what a challenge it was. You'll need to know right away that I have never been much of a golfer (and that is the understatement of the century but let's just go with it for now). I had clubs, but I had no idea why. My husband (we're not married anymore, which had nothing to do with my lack of golf prowess) must have bought them for me with hopes of me gaining interest in the game (or whatever you call it -- sport? I hardly think so).
My idea of a "good round of golf" is driving along in a golf cart with the walkers (I mean golfers) with their clubs and a cooler of beer. And by the way, when I'm driving you'll need to grab the club you need now and the club you'll need for your next shot because if I find a good spot to soak up some rays, you won't see me for a while. I've been known to miss a hole or so. But whatever. Get OVER it already and just use your 1 wood all the time like I do. I've found that it provides the best odds of connecting with the ball.
So anyway, we were golfing on this par 3, right? I can't remember for sure which hole it was on, but I hit the ball (which is a big deal in and of itself) and it sliced to the right. Not just a little slice. It was a humongous slice into the opposite lane thingy (apparently the lanes are called fairways or whatever).
"FORE!" That's what you holler when you want to give all the walkers (I mean golfers) a heads up to watch out for flying balls (sounds like a fun game, right?) Since I was a new "golfer," my husband cut me a little slack and let me hit another ball. And rightly so. I mean what's a golf ball cost anyway? Fifty cents? (Might I remind you that we aren't married anymore?)
Using my 1 wood (can't understand why it's called a "wood" when it's made out of some sort of silver-looking material) I made contact (another big deal) and the ball went left (also known apparently as a hook. Whatever, it went left, OK) into the other fairway. My husband said we should pick up the balls and keep going. I looked at him as if he had a 3rd arm sprouting and said, "Pick them up? They're golf balls! What'd' they cost like fifty cents a piece?! I'm not gonna go pick them up. Just gimme another one."
Speaking of 3rd arms sprouting. He probably could have used a 3rd arm because he carried his bag and my bag, and picked up a few of the foul balls too. Although my bag couldn't have been very heavy -- it only had a few essential clubs (i.e., putter, 1 wood and 5 iron, which I don't consider essential at all!), I'm sure it can't be fun to walk around with two cumbersome bags strapped to your shoulders. But I wouldn't know about that.
And then there was this little pond.
Once when we were there I managed to hit my ball riiiiiiight over it on the first try, which caused issues ever after. I didn't want to hit around the obstacle. I wanted to hit my ball over the obstacle. I mean, isn't my enjoyment worth at least six or seven golf balls? Hand 'em over.
My poor husband (have I mentioned that we're not married anymore?). Sometimes I feel sorry for men. But I will say this; he said that being married to me was like being in heaven. Isn't that sweet? (I'm probably paraphrasing. He might have said something more like he needs to get a new pastor because being married to me isn't what he was told heaven would be like. I just can't remember for sure.)
Anyhew to finish the story. It was a par-3, so before you know it, we were done. But the last hole had a really gigantic tree at the end that managed to catch my ball right between its roots, thereby rendering it hit-less. What? A ball of mine rendered hit-less? So I went to pick it up (all fifty cents worth!) and move it just a little or toss it into the fairway perhaps or somehow get it to a hittable position. When I bent down to grab the stupid ball, a bird shit right on the back of my hand!
That's gotta be a metaphor for something.
My idea of a "good round of golf" is driving along in a golf cart with the walkers (I mean golfers) with their clubs and a cooler of beer. And by the way, when I'm driving you'll need to grab the club you need now and the club you'll need for your next shot because if I find a good spot to soak up some rays, you won't see me for a while. I've been known to miss a hole or so. But whatever. Get OVER it already and just use your 1 wood all the time like I do. I've found that it provides the best odds of connecting with the ball.
So anyway, we were golfing on this par 3, right? I can't remember for sure which hole it was on, but I hit the ball (which is a big deal in and of itself) and it sliced to the right. Not just a little slice. It was a humongous slice into the opposite lane thingy (apparently the lanes are called fairways or whatever).
"FORE!" That's what you holler when you want to give all the walkers (I mean golfers) a heads up to watch out for flying balls (sounds like a fun game, right?) Since I was a new "golfer," my husband cut me a little slack and let me hit another ball. And rightly so. I mean what's a golf ball cost anyway? Fifty cents? (Might I remind you that we aren't married anymore?)
Using my 1 wood (can't understand why it's called a "wood" when it's made out of some sort of silver-looking material) I made contact (another big deal) and the ball went left (also known apparently as a hook. Whatever, it went left, OK) into the other fairway. My husband said we should pick up the balls and keep going. I looked at him as if he had a 3rd arm sprouting and said, "Pick them up? They're golf balls! What'd' they cost like fifty cents a piece?! I'm not gonna go pick them up. Just gimme another one."
Speaking of 3rd arms sprouting. He probably could have used a 3rd arm because he carried his bag and my bag, and picked up a few of the foul balls too. Although my bag couldn't have been very heavy -- it only had a few essential clubs (i.e., putter, 1 wood and 5 iron, which I don't consider essential at all!), I'm sure it can't be fun to walk around with two cumbersome bags strapped to your shoulders. But I wouldn't know about that.
And then there was this little pond.
Once when we were there I managed to hit my ball riiiiiiight over it on the first try, which caused issues ever after. I didn't want to hit around the obstacle. I wanted to hit my ball over the obstacle. I mean, isn't my enjoyment worth at least six or seven golf balls? Hand 'em over.
My poor husband (have I mentioned that we're not married anymore?). Sometimes I feel sorry for men. But I will say this; he said that being married to me was like being in heaven. Isn't that sweet? (I'm probably paraphrasing. He might have said something more like he needs to get a new pastor because being married to me isn't what he was told heaven would be like. I just can't remember for sure.)
Anyhew to finish the story. It was a par-3, so before you know it, we were done. But the last hole had a really gigantic tree at the end that managed to catch my ball right between its roots, thereby rendering it hit-less. What? A ball of mine rendered hit-less? So I went to pick it up (all fifty cents worth!) and move it just a little or toss it into the fairway perhaps or somehow get it to a hittable position. When I bent down to grab the stupid ball, a bird shit right on the back of my hand!
That's gotta be a metaphor for something.
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Happy Mothers' Day
I like the Arthur's Jewelers idea of Dad buying a strand of pearls for Mom and the child buying her a matching bracelet for a dollar!
But I wonder if I could modify the idea ever so slightly?
My suggestion for the happiest Mothers' Day in the history of mankind would be if I could, oh, let's just say pay my life insurance bill and my son could pay my credit card bill for a dollar. Or If I could pay my Excel bill (in its entirety, mind you) and my son could pay my car payment for a dollar.
Or best yet would be if I could pay my utility bill and my son could pay my monthly mortgage bill for a dollar (I mean really, do I have to pay this every month?).
Arthur's Jewelers, this would make me the happiest mom ever!
Signed,
An unemployed-in-debt-up-to-her-eyeballs-yet-still-Hopeful Mom
But I wonder if I could modify the idea ever so slightly?
My suggestion for the happiest Mothers' Day in the history of mankind would be if I could, oh, let's just say pay my life insurance bill and my son could pay my credit card bill for a dollar. Or If I could pay my Excel bill (in its entirety, mind you) and my son could pay my car payment for a dollar.
Or best yet would be if I could pay my utility bill and my son could pay my monthly mortgage bill for a dollar (I mean really, do I have to pay this every month?).
Arthur's Jewelers, this would make me the happiest mom ever!
Signed,
An unemployed-in-debt-up-to-her-eyeballs-yet-still-Hopeful Mom
Blizzard Baseball: Orlando Memories
Traveling to Orlando with my son's baseball team was memorable for all of us: my son, his baseball buddies, his step mom Katie, the other parents and me.
Katie and I traveled together with my son, the rest of the team and another mom, Pam. The team always stays in hotel rooms together and parents stay wherever.
Being smart, economic travelers, Katie, Pam and I shared one room. To Katie and me our friendship has become normal and something we’re pretty proud of. We do lots of stuff together and some people even think we're mother/daughter (yes, I would be the mother of that mother/daughter team). And most of our friends think it's great. But apparently my son is not as comfortable with it as we assumed.
On the last night of the trip (which was very fun. We visited Cocoa Beach. Love saying that. Cocoa Beach), my son and his buddy, Jordan, needed to stay in our room because team funds didn't cover costs for the boys to stay in their own rooms that last night. We figured this was no big deal and we’d have plenty of space, including sleeping because we had a pull out couch in addition to two double beds. Not a lot of walking space after all our suitcases were strewn about, but who cares? We were only going to be in the room together for something like six hours. Notta biggie, we'll manage, it's cheap.
We didn't actually announce sleeping scenarios because I think we all assumed who would sleep where: Jordan and Pam (mother/son) would sleep in one double bed; I’d sleep in a bed with my own son; and Katie would sleep on the pull out couch. No problem. Perfectly logical. Nothing to fret about.
However, apparently we hadn't all assumed the same scenario. As we were getting situated on that last night, my son blurted out in a mild state of panic, “My mom and my step mom are NOT sleeping in the same bed!”
Wow. Poor kid. I wonder how long that had been weighing on his mind?
Katie and I traveled together with my son, the rest of the team and another mom, Pam. The team always stays in hotel rooms together and parents stay wherever.
Being smart, economic travelers, Katie, Pam and I shared one room. To Katie and me our friendship has become normal and something we’re pretty proud of. We do lots of stuff together and some people even think we're mother/daughter (yes, I would be the mother of that mother/daughter team). And most of our friends think it's great. But apparently my son is not as comfortable with it as we assumed.
On the last night of the trip (which was very fun. We visited Cocoa Beach. Love saying that. Cocoa Beach), my son and his buddy, Jordan, needed to stay in our room because team funds didn't cover costs for the boys to stay in their own rooms that last night. We figured this was no big deal and we’d have plenty of space, including sleeping because we had a pull out couch in addition to two double beds. Not a lot of walking space after all our suitcases were strewn about, but who cares? We were only going to be in the room together for something like six hours. Notta biggie, we'll manage, it's cheap.
We didn't actually announce sleeping scenarios because I think we all assumed who would sleep where: Jordan and Pam (mother/son) would sleep in one double bed; I’d sleep in a bed with my own son; and Katie would sleep on the pull out couch. No problem. Perfectly logical. Nothing to fret about.
However, apparently we hadn't all assumed the same scenario. As we were getting situated on that last night, my son blurted out in a mild state of panic, “My mom and my step mom are NOT sleeping in the same bed!”
Wow. Poor kid. I wonder how long that had been weighing on his mind?
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