Happy Friday! Trying To Live My Own Lessons

Mom before me, in January of '72.

Boy, did I ever get smacked in the face with my own theories this week. My mom, who I've been worried about since she got laid off right after my uncle died in spring 2009, finally got a job on Wednesday. She starts work tonight.

And? I'm jealous.

I know! I just talked about this on Tuesday. PT did not get my job. Her getting a job does not mean that there is one less job for me. I have some good stuff going on. I woke up at 4:44 this morning because I couldn't breathe (that's not the good thing; anyway, I think I have a sinus infection) and ended up applying for two jobs online and filling out two applications that had been sitting around for a week.

So, I need to let you know that PT getting herself a job really does make me happy and less worried. But I happen to also be completely envious. She's applied for exactly two jobs in her three years of unemployment and she nailed the second one. I've put my name in the race for, what must be, a couple of hundred jobs and aside from two short temp gigs...Nothing.

PT will be leaving for work soon, I have to call and wish her luck, so here are some internet wanderings for your enjoyment this weekend.

1)If you're interested in continuing your education, Mashable has a list of ways to do it online.

2) Brain Pickings has had some interesting articles on sleep and why it's good for every aspect of our lives.

3) Margaret Atwood has 10 honest rules for writing fiction. This list is great for all the writers out there (in here).

4) Lifehacker has the scoop on a web app that'll let you license your Instagram pics.

5) And for a little comedy, Olympic gymnast McKayla Maroney is not impressed and Expendables 2 stars before they were famous.

Enjoy the weekend, lovelies!

I Am Nothing If Not A Sobbing Heap

I'm really glad I didn't post yesterday. I was feeling pretty good after the cat stuff on Tuesday. The Trapper was back, but no one took the bait. In fact this is as serious as it got:



That's Mollie sitting on top of a trap. There was lots of nuzzling and sniffing and sitting on, but no getting caught in traps. Apparently that was just because the universe knew I couldn't handle seeing it two days in a row. Know what the first thing I saw was when I woke up this morning and looked out my bedroom window? A cat getting caught in a trap.

I couldn't deal anymore. I called Animal Control to see if they can legally use our property for this. The chick behind the desk called Trapper who called the cops. Yes, the cops. Who then knocked on my door, with Trapper in tow, and explained how diseased and horrible the strays are and how coyotes feed off of them and how he's an animal lover too and he knows I just feel for them.

But, if I'm feeding them, I'm in violation of laws and they consider them my cats and I have to stop feeding them. And, Trapper will be outside my home every day for the next seven days doing her thing. If, on the seventh day cats are still coming around we'll get citations for each law we're breaking for each cat she sees.

So, there you have it. No more feeding the cats. I'm upset, angry, despondent, pissed I ever agreed to like cats at all. Three pieces of good news? HUBS and I will save about $20 a month not feeding the strays; they'll likely stop showing up within three days, so we are unlikely to get any tickets; and, we did pick up Julia last night. She's currently sequestered in our basement until we can get her shots/bathed/de-wormed/tested for various illnesses.

Here's my question: how would Trapper feel if she'd been locked in a cage for six days and then been expected to act perfectly nice and pleasant? Considering that she's already severely sawed off, she'd probably behave like a raging bitch-on-fire who'd have to be immediately put down. How exactly are the cats supposed to fare any better, on average?

I know there's no perfect solution, other than everybody keeping their animals spade/neutered and inside their houses, but this still sucks Trapper ass.

Though, I do feel good about Julia.

Have You Heard The One About The 35-Year-Old Woman And Her 401K?

It goes like this:

So a woman works for the same company for almost 10 years, right? And, she hates it almost the whole time. But then she finally leaves, happy to be free and really happy to have built up a nice little nest egg in her 401k.

The woman has a degree from a good university and a steady work history, she thinks she'll finally have a good job that she enjoys within a few months. But, the woman was wrong. The economy dips to the ninth circle of Hell shortly after she leaves her old, hated job and she can't get hired. Not even Best Buy, Walmart or Target will take her.

So, when almost three years have gone by and all unemployment benefits have run out, the woman and her husband are in deep, deep, shitty credit card debt. They are scared and angry. They know they should have done things differently: lived more frugally and had the woman back-burner the dream job search sooner. But also! They weren't out buying yachts and crap. They mostly used the credit to pay for much needed (sudden) home/car repairs and groceries.

The woman talks to 10 Consumer Credit Counseling agencies. Some won't offer any deals at all because of the negative income the couple has at the end of the month. The others offer deals that they still cannot afford.

The woman gives in and gives it all to God. She's tired of the phone calls, the crying, the constant math-doing and bill shuffling. She's tired of the stress, the sleepless nights, the headaches, body aches and the constant beans and rice eating, the woman is gassy enough without all that.

That woman? She lets go of her fear and obstinacy and sees one way out. She cashes in her 401k.



I freely admit that when HUBS brought up the idea of using my 401k to help us out of this jam it made me incredibly angry. Not because he suggested it. Because it felt like I would then have nothing to show for my unnecessarily long stint at a job I mostly despised.

Then last Saturday, after yet another talk with a creditor, I felt something change. The idea of doing this big, major thing made me feel free. Things will still be tight, but not can't-afford-groceries-must-eat-the-same-things-day-and-night tight.

I can see that I needed this; to have a financial fuck up so big that I had to use my retirement fund to fuel my rescue. And, if we had done this over a year ago, when HUBS first suggested it, there would have been considerably less money to work with.

I can also see what a blessing it is that I had that option in the first place. (Well, last place really. Believe me when I say using your retirement fund to bail yourself out is always an absolute last resort option.) Some people get into this kind of bind and only have bankruptcy to look forward to.

I am committed to not using credit cards until we dig ourselves out of this mess totally, and then only sparingly. I am committed to finding an in-the-meantime job until someone realizes how fabulous I am and pays me lots of moolah to write. I am committed to living within our means and helping HUBS do the same.

Thank God, y'all.

Oh Boy...

A desperate list I couldn't even finish.

In the past couple of months I've renewed my obsession with reading self-help books. This was something I used to do all the time from the early 2000s until about five years ago. I stopped for two reasons. One, almost all self-help books tend to say the same stuff in different ways. So, after you read about three of the things you're going to keep getting the same info over and over.

The second reason I stopped was my own odd tendency to feel like I'm accomplishing something when I'm actually procrastinating and hiding. What do I mean? I mean that reading self-help books has the same effect on me as entering contests online, somehow I feel a little like I'm earning money when I enter, even though I know that's a stupid feeling. When I read self-help books I feel like I'm working toward my goals, but in actuality I'm just reading a book and not really doing concrete work to fulfill my dreams.

I started up again because I was so depressed about working yet another job I loathed, but even more than the last one I hated. I felt I needed a little boost, and this has turned into me reading about six self-help books in four months.

Here's where the oh boy comes in. I've been reading a book called The Joy Diet. There's a part that tells you it's necessary to give yourself small treats for taking risks that will further your goals. The writer has you do an exercise where you list 10 things that make you smile, so you can use those things as treats.

Do you know what? After writing three things, I completely stalled. I started to think of all the stuff I like or even love: organizing the house, getting rid of things we don't need anymore, cooking, writing, photography, watching movies, reading fashion magazines and tearing out tips and photos, reading books, HUBS, the light at sunset, the light at sunrise, watching good tv...None of these things make me smile all the time. They make me feel good at least 90% of the time, but they don't make me actually smile.

It was months ago when HUBS told me I never smile anymore. I conceded that I'd been moody/angry a lot, but, Of course I smile!, I said. And now, trying to make this list, I see that he's likely very right. I absolutely love taking pictures and writing; why the fuck do they not make me smile? If nothing makes me smile, what does that mean? What have I become?

This is why HUBS so often knocks himself out doing goofy, ridiculous stuff in an effort to make my mouth turn up at the corners. I'm really not smiling anymore.

HUBS. I've become a huge drag. I'm sorry.

That Was A Mistake

Uggghhhhhh...

Last week I had nachos three times at three different restaurants. Now, I'm not a dietitian or nutritionist or anything, but I think that might not be good for me.

I made beef stroganoff for the first time ever last night. There was a recipe on the back of a pack of noodles I'd bought, and it seemed like a good meal for a cold, snowy, winter night. It was good, alright. So good that I ate way too much and made myself a little bit sick. I'm still full from last night's dinner, you guys. And it's after 4pm, now. All I've had today is one bowl of oatmeal and one cup of green tea. I realize I probably should have more food than that, but right now I just don't see how I can fit anything else in my bloated belly.

Last week was a bad food week. I did a lot of eating after 10pm, stuffing my face until way past full and eating large quantities of not-so-good things. I'm gonna blame my period and get back on track, starting TODAY.

When was the last time you ate something good, but then overdid it?

Well...Ok

Yup. It's pretty obvious to me now - I think I'm depressed again. And I don't mean that random depression that comes when you think about something upsetting and then goes on its way when you watch your favorite tv show. I'm talking about the real, lasting depression that had me on Effexor for about five years.

Other than my anger/rage issues, I've also been feeling really overwhelmed. Even though I know in reality I barely do anything. I have three stories to write every week for my one freelance gig and two stories a month for the other gig. But...But I often feel like I have no time to do what I want or need to. There's this constant nagging in my brain to do a huge list of things, and thinking about this list makes me tired, saps whatever little energy I have and leads to me not wanting to do anything. So, often, I don't.

Last week during a moment of bright, shining clarity when I woke up in the middle of the night, I had a realization. What did I realize? I'm bored. That's right, I'm bored with my main source of income, writing bar/club reviews for an entertainment website.

I'm tired of the running around and the low pay and not getting reimbursed for the cash I spend on food and drink and having to put these excursions on my credit cards and racking up more debt and never knowing when I'll get paid or how much they'll decide to give me when I do.

This week, for instance, I'm doing a special on pies for Thanksgiving. The last time I did one of these holiday themed specials my pay was knocked down to $50 instead of my usual $100 because I didn't talk about enough different things. So, this time I asked my editor how many places I'd need to visit to get my usual fee. He said eight. One piece of pie from eight separate restaurants. Do you know how much running around that is? And how much money spending that is? For only 100 fucking dollars? Shit, I am tired.

And no matter how many jobs I apply for, I just can't keep up that hopeful feeling I had briefly that something with full-time money is around the corner. Just. Can't. Do it. I actually had another interview on Wednesday last week. During the interview the woman revealed that I would only get, at most, $7.75 an hour for this job. I'd wanted $10, which I thought was reasonable and already really, really shitty. It was a front desk job at a local YMCA; haven't heard from her and don't think I got this one either. Even though I have eight years experience handling front desk stuff.

I don't know what I'm supposed to be good for anymore. This whole process is demoralizing.

Hate.

Fit

I wish the title of this post referred to my firm inner thighs and tight abs, but unfortunately I'm talking about the kind of fit you have instead of are.

For a while earlier this year I was having a lot of these, throwing things and yelling and such. I had one again last night. This time, though, I hit HUBS in the stomach and when he said "Hey, what the fuck?" and backed away I threw a bag of crackers at him. Dammit.

Why did I get so upset? He'd just come home, right before 9pm, after saying he'd be home at 5:30 and then saying he'd really be home at 7:30. I had just finished eating without him (I hadn't had anything but toast all day; I tried to eat soup after I found out about the liver thing, but I think I was too worried to eat. So, after getting sick to my stomach I took about a 4 hour nap.).

I was mad that even though I'd called him and told him about the medical stuff, he didn't seem worried, or to care that I was worried. I was really hoping that he'd be home early so I could talk to him and be comforted and such. Plus? My computer keeps crashing and had just done so. So I wasn't able to get started on the story I'd been procrastinating on, like I'd wanted to.

It was one of those feelings like nothing is ever going to be right again. We literally never have any money for anything other than bills anymore, and are dangerously close to having no credit left either. We even had to take a cash advance from one of my cards last week to avoid getting overdraft fees in our checking account and to have some money for something. I really just can't seem to find a job. I put in four applications for retail places on Monday and no one has even called.

Nothing feels right. And, yeah, I was taking some undeservered stuff out on HUBS when I hit him, but I also feel like he hasn't been caring for me like he should. We've talked about this at least 3 times since I've been sick this month. I know he's been working insane hours to make overtime money for us, but when I was sick he still had to be asked and told to do things for me.

I mean, I got dizzy everytime I bent over and I still had to request that he do a little laundry. Do you realize how hard it is to go down a flight of stairs (to the basement) when you're weak and dizzy? He wouldn't so much as load the dishwasher without my prompting. Until I yelled at him. Got angry and told him to "help me dammit!"

Do you know he wouldn't even go get me a hamburger? Just a plain McDonald's hamburger. He didn't come out and say no, it was more like "Well, let's just wait and see after I finish this and we can go together blah blah blah." Fuck, I didn't feel like leaving the house. Basically, after a hard, long week at work he was finally getting to goof off online like he likes to and didn't want to deal with me (which he actually said to me, though not in so many words) when I asked him a whopping 4 hours later why he didn't just go get me a God damn burger already? Oh, and I happened to confront him about this when we were finally on the way to getting my burger, after I'd been hungry for, yes, FOUR HOURS.

I don't think I'm being outrageous here, to expect a little care from my husband when I get ill. Especially since I literally do everything for him when he's sick, and he gets sick A LOT. I even stuck by him when he got some flu-like thing a few months after we got together, when he thought he, wait for it...MIGHT HAVE AIDS. Yeah, and honestly, I think he deserved to get hit a little, though not for everything I hit him for.

This no-job-no-money-no-credit pressure is too much after 22 months of unemployment. I think we need counseling.

How Could I Have Known?

How I feel: I'm stuck in a tree with my tail in the air and I'm flashing my big orange balls to the world.

Remember how I said I made a huge mistake last Wednesday, without any clue it was going to be a mistake? Well, not only did I not realize I was about to do something stupid, I actually thought I was going to be helping our financial situation. Here goes...

After calling Citibank (they still haven't called me back, by the way) I was feeling bold and decided to do something I'd been meaning to do for a couple months. I called our bank to see about lowering the interest rate on our credit card with them. The only reason we even have the card is because we kept overdrawing our bank account due to my unemployment and getting the card was the only way to have overdraft protection. If your account gets low, they give you a cash advance from the card to cover your checks/payments/bills/what-have-you.

So, this card now has an almost $2500 balance. We pay $20 a week and the interest rate fluctuates between 20% and an astronomical 65% (no, I am not exaggerating). Here, much to my dismay, is what happened:

citygirl: Yeah, I wanted to see if we could lower our interest rate.

credit card bank lady: Ok, let me ask you some financial questions.

ccbl: (after questions about our jobs and income) Alright, I can't lower your interest rate right now because you're only using the card for cash advances. But, I have to tell you that I did lower your credit limit to $2500.

citygirl: Ok...Wait...What?

ccbl: I had to lower the credit limit on the card. With your lack of income right now I can't justify having any more money put on this card. If things change you can always call and ask to have the limit raised.

citygirl: So...Wait. You're saying we now only have $84 left on this card, because you reduced our $8000 limit to $2500, which is right near our current balance. So we have no more cushion?

ccbl: Yes. I'm sorry, it's just not good business for us to have you use this card any more.

citygirl: Ok. Ok...Bye?

I think she may have apologized again before hanging up. So, let me break down what just happened. HUBS and I used to have a cushion if we were running out of money in our bank account to pay for stuff. Now...We don't. All because I just wanted to lower our ridiculous interest rate. That bitch at the credit card took away the cushion. Now if we overdraw our account it'll be just like old times: a $35 charge for going over + whatever the amount is we were trying to pay. Yay!

I managed to remain calm until I got off the phone. And then I started to panic. I called HUBS to let him know what happened and apologized, "How could you have known?" he said.

The more I talked to HUBS the angrier I got and the more I wished I had cursed out the ccbl. No, it wouldn't have done any good, but what did I have to lose at that point? I have literally been daydreaming, all week since then, about the things I should have said to that heifer. Times like these are exactly why God did not give me the power of a witch, because that woman would now be newly unemployed and homeless and if she has a husband he'd be unemployed too. Also, I think I'd make her bald and fat and toothless for good measure.

Holy Jesus, my heart is racing now thinking about it again. All of our credit cards are almost maxed out and now if we overdraw the account we'll just be totally fucked.

Wednesday Was Bad

This is how my mind feels. See those bright spots? That's my anger.

I have now gone two weeks without getting my unemployment benefits. HUBS and I have no money, he got paid on the 13th and after bills (which hit within a few days) we had $50 left in our account. I reluctantly moved most of the money I've been scraping to save ($10 a week since last August, which amounted to almost $300)into our account to take care of the mountain of additional bills that we'll need to pay before he gets paid again.

Why am I not getting my UE money, even though I have a balance in there, you ask? The short answer is that when I filed to get this new extension I fucked up ONE GODDAMN QUESTION. The UE people freaked out, called me twice (in conversations that totalled almost an hour) with bullshit questions I'd already answered and now my case has to go to committee before I can get anymore money.

The first UE conversation was Monday. I talked to that heifer for half an hour. Then Wednesday another chick called me with even more questions. She was trying to explain something to me, but it made no fucking sense so I told her that. Then I began to cry, curse and screamed something to her like "I've been unemployed for 14 months so give me my fucking money so I can pay my fucking bills!" and hung up the phone.

HUBS had been sleeping in (he took a sick day), but he came out to try to comfort me. After he kissed me on the head I threw my mug filled with ice water across the room and smashed a ceramic coaster against a bookcase when I threw that too.

I then went into the bedroom where HUBS had retreated to protect himself from flying objects and screamed. Louder than I've screamed since I had my nervous breakdown in college.

"Do you know I applied at Target," I asked HUBS in the scariest voice ever. "And they sent me an email turning me down? I worked at the same company for almost 10 years and I can't get a fucking job at Target. But every fucking 15 year old in the fucking country can walk into the store and get a job. What the fuck did I do wrong? This feels personal. Like the universe is really, specifically fucking with ME."

I'm starting to wonder if I'm supposed to be doing something special with this time, and that's why I can't get a job yet. It's as if the powers that be have given me this time, but I can't get over, you know, not having enough money for food and bills and stuff to get out of my head and figure out what I'm supposed to be fucking doing.

I seem to have a knack for doing the wrong thing at the wrong time. And not being able to make the best of it. At. All.

You Win Some, You Lose Some

HUBS when I'm not scaring him.

I have had a mildly interesting January 2009. After constructing my giant to do/to buy list, I've been trying really hard to step up on a lot of levels. I've made some strides, had some "events" and, as is my tendancy, completely chickened out in some areas.

Let's start with the not-so-good. I've been having periodic (about once a week) spells that HUBS calls my "tire fire". He got the term from an episode of King of the Hill where Hank is trying to explain how to deal with angry women to Bobby. Only I can honestly say, in my case, angry almost doesn't cut it. I've become enraged to the point of screaming/crying/throwing things four times this month, and the first two were over relatively small things.

First, it was the toilet. We just put on a nice new seat a couple months ago. It was so pretty and white and very sturdy. I cannot explain how deeply irrational my love for this toilet seat was, except to say that our old one never came clean anymore and was broken, so that if you moved the wrong way on the toilet you were libel to go flying off and this made it very hard to fully take care of business at times. I had already noticed that the paint on the seat was starting to come off, leaving two brown spots where the wood was showing through. You can guess what that looks like on a toilet seat, right? So, me no happy.

Then, one quiet Sunday I saw two big yellow blotches on the seat near the exposed wood. They wouldn't come off. I started to yell, and HUBS tells me he thinks he spilled bleach on the seat and that's what the yellow is. I. EX. PLOADED. So now it looks like we routinely shit and piss all over our toilet? Great, we can never have people over now! Why can't I ever have nice things anymore? Why do boys mess up everything? What the fuck is wrong with them? Does HUBS not care anything about our home at all? Is this my life now? We should just go live in the woods and shit on trees! I threw a bathroom towel into the living room and left it there. HUBS picked it up the next day, along with flowers, my favorite coffee and a snack from Quick Trip.

The second time was after our lovely HellCat Tux bit me one night. We have never been able to completely stop him from attacking us. He does it blissfully less than he used to, but the biting is still random and fierce. This time really set me off. I chased him around the house spraying him with a water bottle. Usually that's the end of it. But I guess I hadn't punished him enough, so I began to throw clothes off the drying rack in the hall at him as I sobbed uncontrollably. I finished with picking up the drying rack and throwing that at Tux too. I know, you guys. I didn't hurt him, he's a fast little bastard.

At some point late last week something made me angry while I was making a sandwich. Do you know what I did? I threw all the sandwich fixings on the floor of the kitchen and the hall, and for the third time picked nothing up. HUBS had to do it again.

All of these incidents have one thing in common: I realize I'm overreacting but cannot seem to stop myself. And, in the Tux case, the realization that I'm going too far makes me angrier and want to go even farther. So, I do.

The most recent occurance was Saturday night, and I'm sure this is what all the other enraged spells were about. HUBS and I decided to try out to be extras in a George Clooney movie that's going to be filming here, so we had spent the early evening taking pictures of each other for the casting directors. His were fabulous; he's thin, looks good in his clothes, and cute. I, looked like hell. I thought my hair was ok; it was shit. I thought I looked nice in the clothes I picked out; I was fat and lumpy in everything. And to top it off there was some blotch on my forehead that I didn't see when I looked in the mirror.

After seeing the results I was devastated. I couldn't stop thinking about how fat I am and how worthless I feel and how nothing is the way I want it to be. I cried for hours, this time without throwing anything, but massive crying nonetheless.

By 1 a.m. I was sitting up in bed (still crying) telling HUBS everything. How hard it is for me to watch him eat Taco Bell at midnight when I'm trying really hard not to eat after 10 p.m., how I don't feel anything anymore when we have sex, how hard it is to be married to someone who's never had to worry about his weight, how I hate staying at home everyday but hate the idea of going to an office, on and fucking on. I woke up with a headache and very swollen eyes, like I always do when I sleep after crying.

Today I left messages to make two appointments, one with the social worker I used to see every week, and one with a sex therapist. I really still don't know what I'm doing; with my life or work or anything else. Maybe talking will help like it did once before. But I absolutely refuse to go back on crazy pills. And that's the end of that.