Monday, April 30, 2007

Just Torch It

Bunkbeds are stupid. Let me clarify, as I do not think all bunkbeds are stupid, just the ones that I own. They were moved in to the apartment just fine. Why in the bleeping bleepity bleep will the stupid bunkbeds not come throught the door again?! The door is not smaller, the beds are no larger!!
I am extremely irritated!!


Thursday, April 26, 2007

I Can See The Writing On The Wall

So I took a picture of it. While ripping off previously mentioned yucky paneling, we discovered the writing of my grandfather (told to us by my mother) who was a mathematician (I remember him as being mean and drunk, but alright) and had this room (our bedroom) as a study. Go figure. But the fugly wallpaper had to go, so I took this for prosperity.

Monday, April 16, 2007

There Used To Be a Door Here

I have to start at the beginning, and in order to do that, I have to include some research I've been following for awhile. It's called the Sandwich Generation:

Main Entry: sandwich generation

Function: noun:

a generation of people who are caring for their aging parents while supporting their own children

My mom is a hip lady, no doubt about that. And I wouldn't necessarily call her "aging" either, at least, not "aged". But she is over fifty, on her second divorce, and trying to survive on a limited income. (She's a preschool teacher...they gross maybe $14k annually.)

Alright, so. With a divorce comes stupid petty stuff, like settlements. And division of property. The house my mother and her husband were living in was her parent's home, and set on 14 acres of land. Unfortunately for her, the property was gifted to both of them, due to two reasons: he was the "breadwinner" (mortgage companies like those) and marriages are expected to last forever.

Exit Husband. Uh-oh. Husband wants $50,000 or for her to sell the house and give him half. The house and property that have been promised to my brother and I since we were children. Which is easier to do? My mom took out another loan on the property and cashed in on her retirement and took over Husband's truck payment, all in order to meet his $50k demand. Can you see where this is going?

The mortgage payment is now too high, along with that truck payment my mom now has to make. She doesn't have enough money to live in this big house by herself. My brother is not financially stable right now to move in and help her. Hmm...who does that leave?

Me. My fiance. My children. I'm 28 years old, and I'm moving in with my mother. Part of me hates this. I wasn't forced into this decision, but I certainly feel as though I had no choice. Part of me delights in this choice, as I will have a large living room, a bathroom, and two bedrooms to do with what I wish. That means paint samples! I love paint samples, and have even been known to gather and pore over them with no such intentions to paint anything. Paint an apartment wall? Unthinkable.

Before paint samples, however, comes the walls to put them on. Walls that were put up in the 1940's and have not been changes since. Wallpaper from the 1940's, that's certainly pretty (my camera refused to take a picture of it, it was that good looking).

There was a door in that wall, leading to the kitchen. Now it is just a wall. Soon it will be a painted wall. I think of those paint samples nestled gently in my purse and my toes curl. I am sure that my camera will take no offense with these walls.

Monday, April 02, 2007

Push It Down, Way Down Inside

I can't help it. There are certain people who I don't get along with. Not just me, anyone. Everyone! Every day we encounter someone who irritates us for one reason or another, be it subconcious or known. At a restaraunt, the gas station, grocery stores. Welfare offices.
I have to be impartial. I cannot be judgemental. I pride myself on being compassionate and non-biased, full of empathy. Not sympathy, empathy. Fiance says I'm naive. I won't deny it. I might see the world rose-tinted, but I'm not as naive as one might think. My sagacity is a glorious site to behold sometimes.
I can feel however I like on the inside. I wouldn't say that I've become any more hardened...mayhaps a bit more jaded, is all.
I'm getting off track here. Main point? Some people irritate the everloving crap out of me. Some people know how to bend the rules, work the system to their advantage. Don't get me wrong, I am a full supporter of universal healthcare and I'd like to think that no child ever goes hungry, but that's not the case. I do not agree with all of the rules set by the government, beit local or federal, but they are there for a reason. Some of them are absolutely fucking moronic regulations, there's no other way to say it. But along with the "users" come the "needy"...but we're all needy sometimes, aren't we? For something?
Every day I deny the cases of people, families, who were desperate enough to walk into the welfare office tell a complete stranger everything about their lives, income-resources-ss numbers-work history, and in return you'll give them something. Not something for nothing, never that. Some of you know the steady resolve of having to sit in that interview cubicle facing that welfare stand in that winding line of dirty screaming toddlers and hungry looking faces. Can anyone value the price of that?
I try my hardest to get every case granted. To deny what they beg for, whether it's food or medical care, is not in my nature to rejoice over. But sometimes...sometimes, a person will bug me so much, for whatever reason, that I do feel a little bit glad when I deny their cases. Usually it is because they're lying and couldn't provide proof of what I'm asking for, or what they're telling me doesn't match what proof I've got. I feel a little satisfaction...we'll call it justice.
I can never show it on the outside to a client, and I can tell them with a clear conscious I did everything I could legally to "make it work". But maybe that little flare of gladness just serves to remind me that I'm not yet too welfare-world-weary.