Friday, July 30, 2010

Honey do

It seems that David will be leaving for the Middle East soon. I am dreading it. I am sickened by it. I don't want him to go, yet, I know this is our only option to get out of our financial situation. I just want him to go and get the six months over with. I want to be done with this chapter of our story. I want him back home, and safe, and happy. The stress of our life has created so many problems in our marriage. I just want to be able to take the financial problems off the table, and when he returns, we can clean up the fallout. It sounds good in theory. Only time will tell.
I have been making a mental list in my head about what needs to be taken care of before he goes away. Our basement door is falling off the hinges. I keep worrying about this. I want David to fix that before he goes. I was sitting in the kitchen yesterday, and realized, that if one of the lightbulbs goes out in our kitchen, I will be unable to change them. The ceiling is too high, and I cannot reach the sockets. David does that job. I suppose all of the lightbulbs will have to be changed before he goes. I was then looking at all of my outdoor furniture on the deck. It is heavy stuff. A couch and chairs, and a table and chairs, with an umbrella. How will I get those things put away on my own? David does that. It is heavy, manly work. Do I have him put it away before he leaves, even though he may be leaving before the nice weather ends?
Then I got to thinking about Christmas. All of my decorations are in the basement. When I referred to the basement in the above paragraph, I neglected to properly describe it. We technically have what is called a "crawl space". The door I was talking about is actually located on the side of our house. You have to go outside to get into the crawl space. It is dark, and creepy. The floor is made of dirt, and river rock. Not really a proper basement. No insulation. It is damp, and there is an entire eco-system in there. Creepy, and buggy. I never go in there. David does that. It is just not suitable for the women of the house down there, in my opinion. So at Christmas time, what am I to do? Leave the girls in the house alone, and go outside in the snow, and get the decorations, alone? There are so many boxes of lights and little trees that I set up, and all of our ornaments. Even our little tin foil star that I made for our first Christmas together. How do I even get a Christmas tree? I know we will go and buy one, and they will put it on the car for me. But then what? I have to take it down, and bring it in the house, and get it to stand straight in the tree stand? Then I will have to water it everyday. That job is the pits, what with all the branches, and crawling awkwardly under the tree to deliver water to the stand. David does that.
For all that I know I do around here, and how put out I feel at times, and resentful I feel toward David, when comparing "duties", I am overwhelmed with all of the new jobs that will soon be added to my job description. David takes care of bugs, both killing, and removal. He puts the groceries away, in the most orderly fashion. He rearranges the dishwasher, so all the cutlery has it's own categories, and the plates are prewashed and lined up from biggest to smallest. He picks up all of the babys toys and neatly puts them in a place for her, at the end of the day. He pulls into the driveway everyday, beeping the horn, so the girls come racing out of the house to greet him. He plays the Grateful Dead for them in the car, cranked up to 11, when I am not there. He hands out ice pops secretly to the girls, letting them think I didn't see, and allowing them all to have a secret. He reads them stories. He insists they respect me. Who will do this? David does that.
Who will be my friend? Who will help me get through this? Who will reassure me, and tell me everything is gonna be OK?
 How will I sleep at night, knowing the other half of me is in a terribly dangerous place.
David does that.

Thursday, July 29, 2010

Dull girl

Olivia has a fever. She woke me up this morning, shaking me, saying she felt like she was going to throw up. Being thrust ot of your sleep, and onto your feet within seconds really gets the heart rate going. She proceeded to vomit and it landed inches away from the hardwood floor, onto the rug. I felt angry that she just couldn't have made it onto the floor, and why did it have to now be on the carpet? Why did she wake me up at all, and had not just gone into the bathroom and vomited? Now the vomit was on the carpet, sinking deeper into it with each passing second. I rushed her into the bathroom, and she finished up the deed, into the toilet. She was crying, and dry heaving, and what did I do? I left her alone because I was preoccupied with the mess on the rug. I wanted to clean it up. I told her, I would be right back, and I cleaned. Nice. 
I was awoken last night by Olivia three times. Her fever caused her to have nightmares. She came to tell me about them. She also got cold, and at some other point, she was thirsty. I also was awoken about four times by Molly, and her constant need to nurse throughout the night. She wakes up screaming. Like a fire alarm sounding in the middle of the night. I am tired. I now will be in the house, all day, with the girls, and I will have to fight the impulse that I have to run out of the house. I just want to close the door behind me, and run to the car, and pull away. I want to go to the scary bar, by the rail road tracks, and order a beer, and smoke.
The only thing I can compare this to, is if you never left your office. Ever. If you were expected to sit in your cubicle, and perform your job, non-stop. Except at this job, you don't get a coffee break, or a lunch break, or get to bullshit with your co-workers. You don't get to go out for drinks after work on a Thursday night. You don't get a three day weekend. You are there, constantly. Day after day. Throughout the night. Hour after hour. No break. Constant child care. Sleep does not bring you rest. Just resentment.
I try and explain this to David. I try and make him see how I don't think that I am very effective at my job anymore. He says he "doesn't deal in hypotheticals". That's too bad. 
All work and no play.....

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Regret in the making

If someone were to come into my home, and grade me on my job as a mother, I think that I would be sent to summer school, or even be held back a year. I envisioned myself as mother, long ago, and in that vision, I was always hip, and cool. I provided this amazing life for my children. We would go on nature walks, and collect things in brown paper bags, that we had previously decorated at home, as a craft project. We would bring these treasures home, and identify them, and label them, or use them in a collage. We would sing and dance together, and all participate making dinner and setting the table. A "Big Chill" meal, except with my kids. There bedrooms would be cleverly decorated, complete with a nightlite that spun, and projected it's images onto the ceiling, creating a magical place in which to sleep. Our mornings would be filled with laughter, and discussions on what to do with the day before us. Yummy breakfast, complete with some delightful homemade treat, would then be followed by everyone happily doing their assigned chores. Bedmaking would be a game. Our day would flow, from one project, and learning experience, to another. My children would look at me, and feel proud. They would think I was pretty. They would think my voice was like Snow White's. They would love everything I cooked for them. They would admire me, and want to be like me.
I thought that this fantasy would easily take shape. I vowed my children would never watch television. They now are spellbound by Sponge Bob. I only thought they would eat fresh, healthy things. Now,they drool if the car seems to pointing in the direction of Mickey D's. The art projects, and nature walks seem like such a pain in the ass. If they ask to paint, I cringe. The word no rolls off my tongue constantly. I just don't want to be bothered. I just don't have the energy. I just don't feel like it.
I lay in bed at night, and I feel happy that my kids are asleep. I don't want to be with them anymore that day. I am happy it is over. I vow to try harder the next day. To wake up with a smile on my face. To provide a childhood for them that I only have this one shot at. I regret already, the regret I will have one day, yet why am I allowing it to be so? I am filled with worry and anxiety, and I feel so powerless most days, yet the one thing I can do well, if I so choose, I choose not to. These beautiful girls, I fear, would be better in daycare, most days. I don't deserve them.
In every way, I deserve F's.
Olivia has a 103 degree fever. I almost feel relieved that due to illness, we must stay home. We must "lay low". The pressure is off of me to step up to the plate, and be a terrific mother, like I vowed I would, last night in bed.
There is always tomorrow.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

Check engine

When I lived in NYC, and worked on Madison Avenue, I got lunch everyday from a little espresso bar, called funny enough, Espresso Madison. It was a tiny little space. It had a bar, that you could get a cappucinno, or an espresso, or a glass of wine. No tables. I mean tiny. The size of my kitchen. The woman who owned it was named Renee. She was an awful bitch. I mean terribly snotty. I loathed her. She saw right through my fancy clothes, and manicured nails. She knew I was not from money. I was just among people who had money. I was not a member of the club. She knew it, and I knew she knew it, yet I tried very hard to be just as harsh to her, as she was to me.
Everyday, I would call the cafe, and order my lunch. A panini made from artichoke hearts, and melted pecorino romano cheese. It was the most wonderful little bit of heaven you could ever have. Other days, I would order the roast beef. It was red, and juicy, on a crusty loaf of bread, with horseradish, and cornichons. It was spicy, and oh so good. Along with these yummy morsels, I would also have an Aranciata, and a cappucinno. My lunch was $20.00 dollars, everyday, plus tip. I hang my head in shame thinking about that terrible waste of money.Even worse, it sent that awful Renee laughing, all the way to the bank.
Today, I had a ham sandwhich. Deli meat purchased from the supermarket. I accompanied it with a glass of water. I was fearful of going out in our car today, as the engine light is on, and it is, yet one more expense, we cannot handle. The glowing orange picture of a car engine makes me so stressed, and I keep taking my eyes off the road to stare at the light, willing it to shut off.
I wonder where that awful Renee is today. I would love to have one of her cappucinnos, right this very moment.

Monday, July 26, 2010


I feel that time is ticking. I see that the sand flowing through my family's hourglass is almost near the end. I am reaching a place that I feel there is just too much stacked against us. It doesn't seem to matter how special of a family I think we are. It doesn't matter how hard we work. There are just mountains in the way of our final destination, and they look too hard to climb. They are not passable at this time.
 I smile at people on the street, hold doors open for others, let people go in traffic. I forward all those e-mails, promising miracles. I say a wish at 11:11. I pray to God, and to Mary. I cross my fingers. I put on a happy face. I don't step on cracks. I wish on stars, and pennies on heads that I find. I look hopefully at ladybugs that land on me. I  blow eyelashes into the wind after I say a prayer.
None of that seems to be working. I am at the end of a rope. I am losing my hope. I am fearful what is going to happen to us. I don't think we can hold onto our home. Our bills are mounting. We have no money. We always had one thing, and that was happiness.
I don't think we have that so much, anymore. It seems hard to smile lately.

Friday, July 23, 2010

The cart and the horse.

A few years ago, I began trying very hard to make something that people might buy, and in turn, make us rich beyond our wildest dreams. I make these really great croutons. Every time I make them, I take them out of the oven to cool, and they never make it to the salad because everyone eats them out of the bowl. David loves them, the girls adore them, and I too, just think they are the tastiest, saltiest, crunchiest, little bits of love ever. I thought that the crouton market might be our path to fame and fortune. I began buying loaves of bread, and fresh, and dried herbs, and different oils, and feverishly began making croutons. I made loads of them. I even tried a "cinnamon toast" blend. I wanted to have all of my bases covered. I also designed the packaging, and came up with THE greatest name. The packaging alone would have made you want to buy them. I ate so many croutons that season, as did my family. I passed them out to friends and family, and was given rave reviews by everyone. Friends even requested more. I knew that they would sell. I envisioned myself seated in large conference rooms, with people from Frito Lay, and Keebler, and maybe even some foreign competitors, wanting to buy this wonderful idea from me. I would be given creative control, and still have my name attached to the product, and the purchase price for this wonderful golden nugget of a crouton would keep myself and my family, and generations to come, working for the man, no more!
Alas, to make a food product, let alone sell it...costs, shockingly, a ton of money. There are so many considerations. You must have the ingredients just so, and listed, and disected by a lab, for nutritional information. You have to produce your product in a kitchen that is for commercial use. So my little kitchen that I think is clean, but probably would not pass a health inspection, was just not up to snuff. 95% of all new food products fail within the first year, so that alone would really narrow down my success. I have not seen any figures as to how much money Americans spend on croutons a year. I am sure it is a lot. And I did have plans to transform the entire crouton genre, from that of a salad topper, to more of a snack, to be enjoyed with a nice aoli, or a fresh pesto for dipping, yet the cost of production took down my crouton empire before I even left the starting line. Cursed!
I did this with orange marmalade last summer. I made a vat of it. I saw a recipe, and realized, I had all of the ingredients for it. I made a big, bubbling pot of it. I purchased jars, and made labels. I even came up with the best name, EVER! (What's the story, morning glory? cute is that!!!!) I read about canning, and almost purchased a canning machine. (Thank god I did not.) I filled my refrigerator with jars of the stuff. I gave some to friends. I then realized that I cannot stand jams, or jellies, or marmalades. I never liked them. My kids had no interest even tasting it, and when I helped my girlfriend empty her refrigerator this past winter, as she was packing her home up to move out of the country, there, in the back of the fridge, was the marmalade. Unopened. Untouched. Unloved. Again, I am not sure of the amount of money that American's spend on marmalade, and marmalade products, and I quickly remembered my crouton problem, ie; cash flow, so just as soon as I had printed my lovely labels, they too were shelved. The marmalade still sits in my refrigerator. Unopened. Unloved.
There have been countless other attempts to strike it rich for my family. I have invented an amazing improvement for the shopping cart. This small change to the cart would revolutionize it, and change the way we shop, yet how do I approach these big fancy shopping cart companies? Why would they listen to me? I made pickles a few weeks ago. Once again, I put the proverbial cart before the horse, and made labels, and became CEO of my very own pickle company, headquatered right here in my kitchen. I watched those pickles change color. They seemed to soften, and the dill I packed in them looked like it was doing it's job. The garlic, however, started to turn a strange blue color, from the vinegar. When myself and the girls did our first quality control test, we all coughed, and Olivia actually teared up and choked. They were a bit too...powerful. Back to the drawing board. The pickle company will sadly have to be shelved. For now.
I write. I am not so good. I  enjoy it. I batter the English language. I do not spell correctly. I read other writers, and fall in love with their use of words, and wish I too, could do the same. I attempt, yet it is an outlet for me, and a way to vent. I also write creatively sometimes. I wrote a children's book. I think it is good, but I thought my marmalade was good too, so take that for what it is. I have sent my story out to publishing companies, hoping and praying, that not only might someone out there think it would be a great book, but that it would help my family, and get us out of this mess of being broke that we cannot get out from under.
I got a response from one the other day. I opened the letter, and it read like this.
Dear Author,
Thank you for sending us your work. Though we must decline the oppurtunity to publish it, we wish you every success with the project.   Sincerely, The Editors.
Maybe I put the cart before the horse more often than I should. Maybe I am fooling myself. Maybe, I keep thinking that my ship will come in one day, and it will be a glorious vessel, carrying my family away to a far better shore. Maybe, that day will never come. Maybe. That would make me sad if that is how it will all pan out. I will still be in the same situation if I don't try, though. Hope gives me hope.
The funny thing is that after reading my rejection letter from the publishing company, I was not sad. I was not disappointed. I was thrilled. They called me an author. They wrote the letter to Dear Author.
Maybe, I will be.

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

No good deed goes unpunished.

A few years ago, David and I witnessed our neighbors house being robbed, and we did nothing about it. We didn't actually know that there was an actual robbery in progress. We thought it was more of a "midnight move" scenario. My neighbor, Barbara, had not paid her mortgage in more than a year, and it was being foreclosed on. She had really hit rock bottom, after losing her job, and slipping into abusing drugs. It was a sad descent to see unfold before our eyes. We tried to help her, but she needed more help than we were able to give her. It was sad to see a human sink so low. Heartbreaking.
One rainy night, I heard a truck pull into Barbara's driveway. I saw the lights go on in her home. The rain was really coming down. The people who appeared to be "moving her out" were actually shouting to one another. David actually was coming home from being out, and drove by the house, and saw the truck, and saw furniture sticking out of the truck, covered in a sheet. He saw the make of the truck, and the color. He came home, and rolled his eyes, and said, "I guess Barbara is moving out".
The next morning, I heard Barbara crying. I saw several people in her driveway. I walked over, and as I approached, I heard her sobbing, saying "They took everything!". Oh boy, I thought. I walked over to her, and she collapsed into my arms, crying, and telling me she was robbed.
You will never imagine how foolish I felt, when I had to tell her that we saw the whole thing happen. Her face went from sadness, to shock, to a tinge of anger. So did all of her friends. I felt really...dumb. I felt like a dummy. I had to explain to her, everything I saw. She seemed shocked that I had not called the police. I had to be frank, and tell her that I honestly thought she was moving out of her home under the cover of darkness. She looked embaressed, but I think she understood.
The police came, and David gave a description of the truck, and oddly enough, the same truck, and it's inhabitants had had a run in with the authority's the night before, and they knew where the people lived. They went to the home, and it was there they found a juvenile, with all of Barbara's belongings in his family's garage. The people were arrested, and we all felt that justice would be served.
Skip ahead about three years later. David got a subpeona for the court case, to be a witness, of the robbery. He was only happy to go. He took the day off of work, and waited around all day to testify, only to be told that the alleged perpetrator, had not shown up for court, and a warrant was out for his arrest.
A few months later, he was called back to court. Again, he took the day off of work. He waited around, all day, again, and this time, was told, he would not have to testify. The "gentleman" had plead guilty.
David walked to our car, and had gotten a parking ticket. He had missed putting more coins into the meter by minutes. He put the ticket away, into the glove box, knowing we had no money to pay our bills, let alone, this parking ticket. It would have to wait.
Well, as you can imagine, the ticket has remained unpaid. We heard nothing regarding this ticket until the other day. An envelope arrived in the mail, from the constable. It was a bright orange piece of paper. Across the top of it, it said, ARREST WARRANT. A bench warrant has been issued for David, for this unpaid parking ticket, stemming from the court case in which we witnessed a crime. A real crime. Ironically, the people who robbed Barbara's home are not in jail, and are out and about, roaming my very neighborhood. Yet, there is a warrant out for David's arrest.
You just can't make this shit up.

Thursday, July 15, 2010


Right before we left town two weeks ago, I heard a car in the driveway. I looked out and saw a sheriff's car. My heart immedeately began to race. Had something happened to David at work, and they were coming to deliver the news? My stepson was somewhere in town. Had he committed some terrible crime? I raced to the door. The male and female officers approached my door. I was shaking. The dog was barking, and my kids were asking me a million questions.
I met them at the door. They were holding paperwork. They asked my first and last name. I stated who I was, and they handed me some paperwork. They began to explain to me that apparantly, I owed an old credit card, and the debt had been sold to a collection agency, that had taken me to court, and now was placing a lean, or a sheriff's sale, upon our household items, if I did not pay the debt, in full. I stated that I had about $200.00 in the bank, and could certainly not pay the debt right then, and there. They understood, and told me, that before a date was set so that a sheriff could come into my home, and inventory all of our worldly goods, to be sold to satisfy this debt, I should try and set up a payment plan with them.
You gotta be kidding me. Really. This, on top of everything else going on in my life. I remember the credit card. I had been pre-approved for it, when we first moved here. It had a $400.00 limit. I applied for it, because I was scared how we lived paycheck to paycheck, and now with a baby, I was worried that we would run out of cash, and I wanted to have a credit card, for emergencies.
And emergencies is exactly what we had. I purchased food and diapers with that card, when we didn't have a dollar to our name. I maxed it out, and sadly, was unable to keep up with the monthly payments. The $400.00 limit balooned to over $1200.00. That is what the sheriff was now telling me that I owed, or my household items would be inventoried for sale in an auction. That actually made me laugh.
You my home, I have a futon that was in our previous rental. It is nailed shut, because it is falling apart, and cannot open anymore. That cushion is so old on it, that I cover it with blankets and throws, coordinating them with the change of the seasons. The sofa that is also in our living room is, shockingly, the same ugly green, bamboo print sofa, that was in my living room in the house I grew up in. My parents purchased brand new furniture when I was 4. They gave us the sofa, that they still, surprisingly, had when we were moving here. One of the legs broke off in the move, and it is actually propped up by several telephone books. I have a slipcover on it, so you cannot see the dated, groovy,seventies print.
Our coffee table and side tables were given to me by my sister's sister in law. They are banged up and outdated, but they do the job. I have some old 60's style chairs that flank the 3 legged couch, also from our old rental. The television is about 15 or 16 years old, and still has a VCR slot built into it. Again, a give away, from my sister.
We have a 70's receiver and and turntable. The speakers, also a giveaway, are probably about 20 years old. The bed in our room is just a box spring, and a queen size mattress, on a frame, that we purchased when we moved here, for $200.00. It feels like it cost about $50.00. I have two old chairs doubling as night tables, that were actually from my Nanny's house. I painted them white, years ago, when they were in my apartment in NYC. The dresser in our bedroom is the same one I used as a little girl, in my childhood bedroom. There is also a funky chair that I pile clean clothes on, that my husbands grandfather gave us. He got it out of someone's garbage.
In the girls room, we have some shelves and a dresser, purchased from Walmart. They serve a purpose. Cheap particle board. The drawers become overstuffed, and seperate. Charlotte has bunk beds that we purchased from Big Lots. I think we paid $175.00. Olivia is sleeping on my old bed from my apartment in NYC, and that bed was given to me by my old friend Jimmy.
The only thing that I think they might be able to sell is my kitchen table and chairs. They were a housewarming present from my in-laws. More like, "Mom and Dad...we need a table and chairs, so could you buy them for us, and call it a housewarming present, because we can't afford one of our own!!!!"  The table is worn, and the chairs are falling apart, from 7 years of use. David has had to glue and nail the chair legs in, over and over. They were purchased at a discount (cheap) furniture outlet. We eat our family meals on it everynight, together. The girls use it to do there arts and crafts. We eat luch on it, The girls linger over breakfast on it. Homework is done there. Holiday meals have been shared there.  This table and chair set is invaluable to my family. They could take it. It is really the only thing of value we have.
I made a payment arrangement. We now will pay $25.00 a month, for god knows, how long, until we have finally paid off those diapers for a baby from long ago. We will be paying for those dinners, and milk I was forced to put on credit. Meals we ate, at my table.
My family's table.

Wednesday, July 14, 2010

Prodigal son

While we were away on our vacation, my husband's son, my stepson, broke into our home. He lived with us for a little over three years. He moved in with us, when his mother decided she wanted some "me time". I had a 1 year old, and a 3 year old. The decision was not mine for him to move in with us. I was actually left out of the decision completely.It was told to me that it was happening by both my husband, and my husband's ex-wife. Even as I protested, already feeling overwhelmed taking care of two small children, it fell on deaf ears. The following years were awful. I don't speak of them at all, because it is simply too painful to write about. My unhappiness reached such an intolerable level. I could not escape. It was the worst period of my entire life. I lost a lot of time with my babies, due to my sadness and anger. It still makes me feel such resentment even writing about it.
In those years, we tried to help my husband's son. When he moved in with us, he was failing every subject, had no rules, had no bedtime, had no limits. We informed him that he was to follow the rules that all were expected to. Do well in school, go to bed at a set bedtime, do household chores, stay our of trouble, and you can pretty much expect to be rewarded with more freedoms, and earned privacy. This was something that my stepson could not tolerate. Life here was OK, for a short time. He did so well in school right way, he was on the Honor Roll, and he joined a team, and he did as he was supposed to, around the house.
Slowly, though, things changed. He started to not do his homework. He started failing classes. He was obviously lying to us, and then he began to get in trouble with drinking, and finally drugs. I don't mean to rush through this. It is just that the toll his behavior took on my girls, and my marriage, the quality of our home life, my family. It was unbearable. Our whole life became focused on one single person. I watched my husband ignore his other children, and focus solely on his son. Everyone else fell to the side. Even me.
His mother refused to participate parenting him in any way. She wanted nothing to do with him. She called him once a month, sometimes less. She refused to pay child support. I called her, and told her I couldn't do it anymore. I could not care for him. She told me, "I am humbled to say, either can I". I was trapped with this boy, living in my home, making each and every day, increasingly tense, and filled with anger. I had to endure his mother's criticism's of me, and my performance caring for him,at a job that she was unwilling to do. I had to watch my girls suffer, and I had to watch my marriage change into something that is still  damaged. All for the sake of this kid. I began to hate him. Even writing that makes me feel bad, but I did. I hated him.
My husband had a moment of clarity. I am not sure what finally made him see what was happening to our family. Maybe the pain in my eyes. Maybe the way his little girl starting wetting her bed. Maybe the high anxiety of Olivia. The way they seemed afraid, each and every day. The way Charlotte walked around in circles, in the livingroom, repeating over and over again, "they're fighting again". Maybe he saw that when I said I was going to be packing up the girls and my things, and leaving our home, it was no longer an empty threat, but the next step. My stepson went back to California, to live with his mother. Against both of their wishes.
My stepson has a mother who still has a lot of issues with my husband. Unfinished business. Anger. Resentment. I think that she is angry he moved on and found happiness, after a very unhappy marriage. Whatever the case may be, she has treated me and the girls like we broke up her happy home. She disregards us, and she does not have a kind word to say to David. She can't even speak on the phone about their child without bringing up issues from 1994. It is odd, and bizarre, and sad. She has bad mouthed, and flat out lied to her child about his father. She has transferred her anger and rage onto her son. My step son now says such awful, disgusting, and vile things to my husband. All hatred, feuled by his own mother. She sent him to Pennsylvania, to visit his girlfriend here, for two weeks. We found out he was coming by chance. She purchased him a plane ticket, and never informed David he was going to be in our neigborhood, with no adult supervision, for two weeks. She dumped him onto strangers, for two weeks, and in doing so, taught her son that it was OK to deceive his father. She would not tell us where he would be staying, and allowed her son to lie to his father.
After a relaxing day on the beach, with our girls, and a dinner on the ocean, we came home to our neighbor calling us, to inform us that our back sliding glass door was wide open. He came into our home. He urinated on my husband's car. He prank phone called us in the middle of the night.
It is not hate I feel anymore. There is no word for this feeling.

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

The cool part of the pillow

Yesterday, I had to clean the entire house. We had been away for the last two weeks, so it had really not been cleaned in that time. I also had to do the laundry. I now have no dryer, so I have to wash and dry the clothes at the laundromat. It is really becoming a pain in the ass, especially having all of the girls with me. Not fun at all. I also had to go to the supermarket. Another awful thing to do with three children in tow.
As I was driving, the girls and I were discussing our favorite part of the day. Charlotte said her favorite part of the day was eating. I laughed. Olivia said her favorite part of the day was going to bed. That nice cozy feeling you get when you first lie down in your own bed. She said she loved that feeling. How sweet, I thought. Charlotte then said she loved the cool part of the pillow. She loved when she moved her head, after it had been on the same part of the pillow for awhile, and had really warmed up the area, to the cool side. She loves that place. It felt nice and refreshing.
We spent Saturday night at the Waldorf Astoria. Compliments of my parents. We were in NYC for my father's 70th birthday. He didn't want a party. He wanted to treat his family to a night out in New York. Dinner, drinks, fancy hotel, the works. We had a suite. We were on the 24th floor, with a great view, and we had a two full bathrooms, with a bedroom, and a livingroom. It was beautiful. We had a great dinner, and we relaxed, for a night. My father was beaming. It was really something.
I was laughing to myself as I drove to the laundromat to wash our clothes, and then onto the supermarket where I had a limited amount of food to buy, due to my dwindling food stamp balance. How funny to be sleeping at the Waldorf  one day, sipping Prosecco, and the next day, back to my life. I stepped out of our reality, for just a minute, and it was really nice. It was refreshing. The cool part.
Now, I am back in the warmed up half.

Monday, July 12, 2010

Random worries

I have entitled this post Random worries. I normally title my posts when they are done. I pick a word or two out, that I feel has been the direction of my posts, and this becomes my title. Today, I am unsure where this will go. I have so many things that I am worried about, and there is an underlying icky feeling beneath those worries, so I feel that my thoughts will come out and not make much sense. We'll see.
We went to my parents for a week. It was to be our family vacation. I was stressed about going because, as I wrote lat post, we had five hundred dollars to make it for two weeks. Well, upon leaving, David told me that we had three hundred and eighty dollars to go to East Hampton with. This began the theme of our vacation. Granted, we were staying for free at my parents, and they were kind enough to feed us. That was actually something I was unsure they were going to do, and it came as a relief and a surprise. My mom and dad literally rolled out the welcome mat, and treated us wonderfully. My mother cooked and my dad bought wine. We ate and drank like kings. Yet, I had this terrible knawing feeling inside the entire week, that we were doing something wrong. That we were imposing on my parents, and that we should not be out and about in "the Hamptons", the land of the have and have nots. We, were definitely, a have not. We had to think of ways to entertain our daughters everyday, for free. We went to the beach. We went back to the beaches of David's childhood. My girls played at the same shores that their Dad played at when he was a boy. There was a day, that I actually realxed. David had all three of the girls with him, and I sat in a beach chair, planted in the sand, where the small waves were rolling in. The water was all around me. I was soaking in the sun, and listening to the beach sounds. Fifteen minutes of real, stress free, relaxation. My girls and David were beaming from their beach excursion. 
When we left, and got to the car, we got a ticket for $125.00 for not having a beach sticker. I cried for almost an hour. Why does just an hour and a half of fun, and relaxation, come at such a high cost for us. Why, with all of the people, THOUSANDS of them, all coming out to the Hampton beaches, and THOUSANDS of them with NO STICKERS, why is my family the one to be made the example? Why does this shit happen to my family?
The rest of our time there was now spent worrying about how not to get another ticket. My dad actually offered to drop us off at the beach, and pick us up when we were ready. I suddenly felt 15 again. Thank you Dad, but no thank you. We couldn't take our girls out to lunch. We couldn't go to the cute ice cream store in town and get them a cone, because it costs 6 bucks each, and sprinkles are an extra dollar. As I write this, I know I sound whiney, and spoiled. I am sorry for this. I suppose that there are worse things than being in East Hampton, with no money. It was really more about the big picture for me. I see the stress and worry in David's face. I know how long we have not been able to pay our mortgage for. I knew we could not return home to Pennsylvania, because our refrigerator was empty, and we had to wait until our food stamp money was available, so we could go grocery shopping. These are the things that upset me. I just want us to be. I just want us to thrive as a family, and not worry about money. I don't want it to shape our every move, and determine what we are capable of doing. I don't want to alway have this knawing feeling inside of me, that simply having a family is something I cannot afford, and I am doing a bad thing. I don't want much. Either does David. We want to get the mail, witout a feeling of dread, and just write checks to cover our expenses. I want to be able to take my 70 year old parents out to dinner, and treat them as they have been treating me my whole life. I want to see the worry lines fade from David's face, and my own. I want my girls to be able to play on the sand that their Dad played on without it costing us a weeks worth of food. I want to be able to go to the cute ice cream parlor in town, and not worry about sprinkles. I want my beautiful family to just flourish, and I want to just be able to enjoy them, instead of being panicked each and every day. I don't want to live in fear.
I don't want David to have to go to Iraq for 6 months to be able to pay our bills. I don't want to have this feeling of dread, and fear, and panic, and guilt, and anxiety, and worry, and shame anymore. I just want us to be.