Blue Eyeshadow

I used to be a very put-together women. I used to match and accessorize very very well. No longer am I that women, due to two big factors. The first, I have gained too much weight to wear my clothes, and my feet either grew with this last pregnancy, or I'm just too fat for my shoes. Which is sad, because when I lose the weight and cannot fit into my shoes, I will have to buy all new shoes. The second factor? I'm just to damn busy. I work 40 hours a week, I have three kids, a husband, and a house to take care of. I don't have to do dinners, but laundry has my name on it. So does homework, reading logs, Back To School Nights, doctors appointments, making formula for the baby, and making sure the older two don't whine and tattle each other to death. I wake up a 5:45am and I don't stop until about 9:30pm. And even then, J3 wake up once for milk at about 1:00am.

My routine is much simpler these days. On a good day, I get a shower. My husband asks me why I take so freakin long in there, it's because I am cramming two days worth of not showering into one morning. After I get out of the shower I put expensive potions on my face. (My one of two "me" things I still have. The other is my hair appointments.) I put on my clinical strength deoderant, because for some reason regular deoderant doesn't work so well for me anymore. If the baby is still happy, I will apply some eyeliner, pale tan sparkly eyeshadow, and then a green sparkly shadow along my lids. I like green. I look good in green.

That's it. I get dressed, deal with the baby, and leave for work. Do I brush my hair? Mmm...sometimes. More often than not, nope. I don't mess with a lot of the stuff I used to...hairbrushes included. Anyhow, back to the topic at hand. The eyeshadow.


My friend Laura was over a few weeks ago. She has a daughter a little younger than J2, and her son was born just two weeks of J3's birth. Her husband and mine can get together and watch UFC fighting on tv, so it all works out well. One night, we were having Girl Night. The meant that Laura did weird stuff to my face while I panicked and asked her things like, "What's that gooey stuff? Does that hurt? Does that burn? Why are you putting that on my face?! Ow, my eye!" Laura asked me, "Do you wear green eyeshadow every day?"

....."Um....yeah? Why, does it look bad?"

Laura replied that it didn't look bad, but maybe sometimes I could do something different with my eyeshadow.

"Why?" I asked. "If it works for me, then why stop?"

She then said, "Do you remember the eighties? Have you seen the women at WalMart who wear blue eyeshadow? They once said to their friend 'If it works for me, why stop?'."

So I dug out some other eyeshadow the next morning. Every day that I actually care enough/have time I apply something not green.

But only sometimes. Because green really does work for me. At least for a few more years...

Kick-Ass Hangy-Thingy

At two months, J3 loved his kick-ass hangy-thingy. I know it's called a mobile, but to him, his kick-ass hangy-thingy was "his friends". We would ask him, "Do you want to go hang out with your friends?" He was infatuated by it. The black and white images kept him entertained for hours. Okay, not hours, but precious minutes fersher. You could almost see his mind working out how in the heck to move his hands so he could grab at those things!






















At five months old, J3 finally figured out that he was now Big Enough...and oh! The delight in him finally getting to rip down his friends was a joy to behold. He has discovered that his friends actually taste pretty good too, so no problems there.

Another Year of Childhood, Gone

J1 started middle school this year.

J2 started second grade.

I cry on the first day of school as their bus pulls away...every year. This year it was twice because they now go to different schools. In a few years, it will be three times in one morning!

I'll just have to call in sick on that day.

My Eleven Year Old With Cholesterol Problems

J1 is almost twelve years old. She eats Cheerios for breakfast every morning. While watching a commercial on tv this afternoon, she looks at me and says, "Mine must almost be gone!"

I'm like "Huh?" I don't even remember what the commercial was about.

J1 says, "That guy's cholesteree was down. I eat Cheerios every morning, and the box says my cholesteree is lowered every time I eat it. So, mine must almost be gone!"

I said, "CholesterOL?"

She rolled her eyes. "That's what I said. Cholesteree."

Things My Husband Said

Me: "Do you ever regret marrying a woman who can't cook?"

Husband: (after pondering a moment...) "No. It wouldn't be up to my standards anyway."

Spite You

How fucking mean is the person who stole my pen??!!

Very very mean.

It was a good pen, a great pen! Someone took it out of spite, I know it.

Do you ever wonder who doesn't like you at work but is nice to your face?
I do.
And I know they took my fucking pen. And it pisses me off.

Rubber Ducky, You're The One

J1and J2 are home from a month at their dad's in Oregon, the longest I've ever let them go, HOORAY!
J1 seems to have developed the habit of waking up early. Every morning for the past four, she wakes up and comes and hangs out with me. Keep in mind that it's usually 5:30 or 6:00am. This morning I ask her, "Why in the heck are you up so early?"

She replied, "Uh, Mom, you're really loud when you get up."

Wha? I get up and go to the kitchen and warm up a bottle for J3. The microwave opens/closes, beeps three times and then opens/shuts again. Husband can sleep through it. J2 sleeps though it and her room is the closest to the kitchen. How is it that the preteen with the bedroom furthest away and door shut can hear it?
No matter, I will take advantage of the situation. J1 sat in my room and played with J3while I... (get ready....are you ready??)......

....took.....

A SHOWER. In the morning! I brushed my teeth! I shaved my legs! Both of them! I am getting so excited!
If she keeps getting up early, I might be able to take one EVERY MORNING without a baby in the bathroom with me.
Holy crap. It's almost too much to contemplate.

Smokers Suck

The lady across from me, B, doesn't wash her hands anymore when she's done smoking. All day long I had to smell her stale smoke. It gave me a headache and made me sneeze.

Her mother died recently and B was out on leave all last week to go scatter ashes and whatnot. I feel like it would be rude to again ask her to wash her godamn hands. The woman is mourning and all. Maybe a small subtle can of air neutralizer might do the trick?

Phone Call Numero Uno

A client called me today crying. She could not get affordable Welfare Healthcare, due to an abundance of income. (Which, by the way, the government says is anything over $600 dollars a month for one person.)
She sniffled to me that she couldn't afford to go to the doctor!! She didn't make that much money!! She needed the other kind of Welfare Healthcare, the kind that only pregnant women get!! Or the kind that people with children get!!

Her reason for needing to do away with her $250.00 monthly share-of-cost?

She needed to see a fertility doctor because she couldn't get pregnant. She couldn't get pregnant because of the expensive Welfcare.

I wanted to explain that babies cost a zillion trillion dollars more than that each month, but I held my tongue. But I gave a good long sigh when I hung up the phone.

Answer The Phone

I sit in a "unit", which is a medium-sized room with desks and chairs, computers and a printer, and eight other Welfare Workers. Our areas are personalized; pictures, plants and whatnot littering the desks. Each desk has a phone and the unit has a Community Line, which is a phone line that is mandatory that somebody answer it. The phones ring quite a bit. I'd say that the ringing phones are a big part of the overall Unit-ness. So much, in fact, that I titled this post as such.

Each Unit has a Supervisor. Some Supervisors are great, some are shit. Thank goodness I've never had a shit Supervisor. It can make the job way more stressful. Anyhow,

N~ my Supervisor. She's fair and knows her stuff. She likes her job, enjoys helping people, is an overall good person with one fault. She refuses to take initiative with the members of her Unit when there's a problem. She tends to not be very assertive if there's a skirmish amongst the others. I love that word, skirmish.

SM~ fellow Unit Member. He's a funny guy, older man, married. He loves to answer the Community Line. The is because answering the CL allows him not do anything else. Like, working. And he smells.

L~ is an okay worker. She has a chip on her shoulder about something. But I'm not interested enough to get to know her any better. She was a bitch one day about the ones that are "supposed" to answer the CL, and pissed me off. Whatever. She fades into the background. Nothing great is on her desk.

Y~ is misunderstood. She doesn't seem to have any friends, and everyone in the building is superficially nice to her. Her marriage is a sham, her best friend is her dog. She makes snide comments. For some reason, I really like her. I think she's funny, and I think she feels sad. There's something about her that people just don't like, but it doesn't seem to bother me. She knows her stuff, works hard, but her people skills leave something to be desired.

T~ is whiny. She whines about her life in a trying to be nonchalant attitude way, and I can see through it. She's nice and always willing to help when somebody needs it, but she's a complainer and a gossip. If someone is willing to gossip to me about others, I wonder what she says behind my back.

A~ is a larger woman, sweet and knows her resources. She's not afraid to get to the bottom of any bullshit a client is telling us. I have no problems with her. Scratch that- she keeps her radio a little louder than I like. Mine is on the same station, but softer. Why don't I turn mine off, you ask? Because I shouldn't have too, dammit. Moving on.

K~ is a quiet man, does okay work and keeps to himself. Frequently he says amusing things and we all have a good laugh.

U~ is a helper, a do-gooder. She has the weight of the world on her shoulders and she likes it, it fuels her.

B~ is a newbie. She's a smoker. She sits right across from me and when she comes in from her break she always smells like smoke. It bothers me. It bothers me so much that I asked her to start washing her hands when she comes in from her breaks. She apologized and agreed, but sometimes she forgets and it bugs the shit out of me. I really really hate the smell of smoke. I write suggestions to the Suggestion Box that read, "The law says smokers must stay 20 feet away from doorways. Let's reinforce this, shall we?" and other snide remarks. I sign my name.

Then there's me, Brokemom. I have a rubberband ball on my desk. I have pictures of my husband and children on my bulletin board. I am organized. I answer my damn phone.

The Stupidest Thing I Heard Today

Scenario: I am speaking with the AT&T Customer Service Representative. Let me just add (before I continue) that these people are robots. They say the same things over and over and fucking over. I get frustated and annoyed and I want to cry and hang up the phone.

Me: Can you explain this part of my bill blah blah etc?

Robot: "The section amounts here are different than other people's amounts because different amounts are there."


WTF? No kidding.

The Lie

I've been lied to. Such a simple, small thing...but with such huge ramifications.



They always look so happy, mooing and chewing cud and joking on about this and that. Green grass, sunny skies, all is well in good ol' cee ae ell aye eff oh are en aye ae. It's real! It's the real deal!

Such falsehoods!

I tried cheese from Wisconsin and it was BETTER. Creamier, tastier, it was the best cheese I've ever eaten in my whole life. No joke.

I feel betrayed.

Not Even Close To Yum

I ate eel. It was not yummy in the slightest. It looked funny, too.


I am so not adventurous.

Yum?

I ate moose meat. It probably would have tasted like beef, except for the fact that I knew it was moose. I only ate a little bit. I didn't really care for it...again, because it's moose. Not that there's anything wrong with moose, mind you. I almost wish I hadn't been told what it was before I ate it, so I could have eaten moose with an open, clear perspective.

Things I Like About Where I Live

It smells good when I walk in. And it's cooler, and airy, so I always breath in one breath deeper when I walk in. I get a very satisfied feeling while doing so. As a result, I keep the place clean. Not just cleaner than before or cleaner than usual because people! People! I have never really been a great housekeeper. I'm very cluttered. I have my own organizational method. So the house is clean and smells good.

The kitchen is larger than any kitchen I've ever had. I hadn't realized up until now how small the previous kitchens actually were. This kitchen makes me want to try new things. That's a good kitchen.

The bedroom is cold and has a fan that makes a noise that drowns out the world when I'm trying to sleep. The bed is huge and when I take a nap it's all mine. I can stretch out and snore and forget about the baby for just a little while. Husband will entertaining J3 and I am out.

J1 and J2 each have their own rooms which are kept clean. (The bathrooms are clean too. I can't get over the Clean Feeling.) They are happier with their own space, and as a result they bicker and argue all the freakin time because that's what siblings do! But at least I can send them away from each other sometimes.

I can take a walk outside with the stroller and J3. J2 tags along and we talk about which neighborood cat will let you you pet it, and why don't clouds talk, and if we should taste the cherries from the tree along the road. (We do. They were sweet! And you could just spit out the pits in the street!)

The backyard has grass and roses and trees. Okay, two trees. It's not 13 acres worth of trees, but at least there are trees. The backyard roses also include my favorite kind, not sure what they're called, but they're purple and smell fabulous.

Finally, I have a porch where I can stick my turtle collection. They're keeping the house safe. Keep on truckin', Turtles.

7x365 Leonard

Leonard was an elderly man who lives across the street with his wife. He had the nicest lawn on the block.
I was an industrious child, and I liked to be creative in the kitchen. This usually involved a recipe from a cookbook that I would tweak to "make it better". This resulted in foodstuff that the dog wouldn't even eat.
I had a plastic wagon that I would cart around the neighborhood filled with my Flourless Cookies and my Beer Muffins. I would go door-to-door selling my treats for .50 cents a pop.
Leonard always bought one. I hope he never ever actually ate them, but what a good sport!

6x365 Mr. Robathan

Mr. R was my math teacher in my sophmore year of high school. I wasn't a great student, but I was cute and charming. My friend Kristi and I would sit in the back of the class and make fun of the day's lessons, write notes back and forth, and decorate our binders with stickers.
We could tell that we exasperated the crap out of him, but we kept his class interesting, and he never really did get angry.

5x365 Mrs. Hyatt

Mrs. Hyatt was a the Speech Therapist at my elemetary school. I had a lisp, and in third grade I was told to go every Tuesday to a small trailer at the back of the school. In this trailer I would sit with Mrs. Hyatt and practice my 's' and 'z' sounds until I could thay, I mean say them properly. I got star stickers on each level of sounds that I made.
I still lisp sometimes, but only when I'm excited or angry.

4x365 Mrs. SF

Mrs. SF lived a few houses down from us. She had a daughter named Amy who was in college. When Mrs. SF would go out of town, she would ask me to care for her dog, Sassy. Sassy was a Dalmatian, and had a tail that, when whipped across my legs, hurt like a bitch.
Caring for Sassy including walking her, putting out food and water, and picking up her poop in the backyard. For this I was paid $5 a day. Pretty good wage for a 12 year old.
One day while caring for Sassy, I was bored. I starting snooping around in their house. It felt wicked then, but looking back on it now it wasn't very bad...wrong, yes. I watched 'Pretty Woman' on the VCR and then it wouldn't eject! I picked through Amy's clothes and found a bikini top that I actually borrowed for a few days and then returned. I didn't actually have the boobs for said top, but I was hoping for some encouragement from the top.
I think that Mrs. SF figured out what had happened, because she never asked me to care for Sassy again.

Things My Husband Said

"This isn't pot. Your dad just smokes high-grade oregano."

3x365 Lisa Tripp

I was in third grade, she was in second. Lisa lived across the street in an ugly house with a kick-ass cement pond in front, where we would collect frogs eggs and tadpoles. We would play Barbies together.
As a third grader, I was very proud of my Barbie collection. I had lots of them, clothes, jewelry, etc. One Barbie even came with her own little makeup case/purse, which had real eyeshadow in it!
One day while we were at her house playing Barbies, I had to go home for something, so I left my Barbies there with Lisa. I was going to pick them up the next day. Lo and behold, when I came to get my suitcase of Barbies, things were missing. Earrings, fancy dresses, a turquoise fur wrap...a turquoise fur wrap, people!
I asked her for my things, and she claimed she had no idea what I was talking about. She wouldn't budge from her story. I never got my Barbie items returned. And we were never really friends after that either. Huh.

2x365 Mrs. Gregory

Mrs. Gregory was my third grade teacher. I don't remember much about her teaching style, other than learning to love to read. I still love to read, any book, any time, and I credit Mrs. Gregory for forging this bond with books.
She would read to us during class, after lunch. She would read books like A Light In The Attic by Shel Silverstein and The New Kid On the Block by Jack Prelutsky. I remember her reading aloud The BFG by Roald Dahl. When I see these books I think of her.
I wish I had taken the time years ago to find her (she's retired) and let her know how much she influenced my life. I'm afraid that she's dead, honestly. I remember her as old, and that was over 20 years ago.

1x365 Courtney Owens

Courtney was in my fifth grade class. She had a blonde pageboy haircut and a snub nose. She was mean mean mean to me. She would insult me, taunt me, get the other girls and boys to get in on it and laugh at me together. I hadn't considered myself to be any less popular or any less pretty or any less smart than anyone else ever until she came along.

The fifth graders took a week-long trip to Environmental Camp every year. Before we left, we were asked to write down on a piece of paper the five people we would want to share a cabin with. I wrote down my friend's names and was so excited. The teachers put me in a cabin with Courtney and her chummy group, all who had a great week making me miserable.

I would cry after school when I got home. My mother would tell me that Courtney was jealous of me and that's why she was so utterly mean.
I didn't believe her then and I don't believe her now.

Sometimes I wish we would meet accidently. Would I have the nerve to ask her why she was so hateful to me? Would she remember? Would she even have a reason?

My House In The Middle Of My Street

Don't you wish you had a washer and dryer like these? No, you don't! Because if you did, you'd have a backache from all of the bending it requires to load and unload the damn things. Water saver, pish!






What's that under the foil in my fridge? I'm certainly not going to peek and find out....

Don't you wish that while on maternity leave I had gone and organized the garage like I said I would? Fersher.

A Day In The Life of J3

Mmmmm....milk. Milk milk milk, I love milk. (burp)

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Milk! mmmmm (burp)

Oh no naked aaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Hey, milk! I love milk, milk milk. (burp)

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.


Hey! Hey! I'm awake now! Where's my milk?! Gimme my milk!! No Daddy, don't eat my toes, I want milk!

No, I don't wanna be naked again!! Dammit, where's my milk?!!!

Mmmm, milk! (burp)

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

My son, my third-born, my last child, my "baby" for always, is the cutest freakin darn baby, I tell you what. Let's brag about him finally!
Ahem.
He has the softest baby hair, brown in color. His eyes are sooo dark, I have to call them "maybe brown" because they're definently not blue, but is it me just wanting him to have his daddy's eyes? Who knows! We'll wait and see.

When he is hungry, he cries this cry that sounds like, "Uh-huh, uh-huh, uh-huh" like he's agreeing with you. This comes in handy when you ask him a question, any question! Example:
"J, do you want one of those 'baths' that you absolutely hate? You do? Great!"

or

"J, do you want to go to the Titty Bar? You do? Great!"

I have been peed on more now than ever before methinks. It's like a little sprinkler, just watering away! Oh look, pee I mean there it goes again oh dammit pee everywhere! And I hate it because then I have to change his clothes and he cries (which is the only time other than bath time when he does cry because we hold him all the time!) but I always laugh because how can you not laugh at that? I can't lie down and pee all over my neck, now can I?

It's strange to me the circumcision talks we've encountered, on a side note. We elected to not have J circumcised. (okay, I just agreed with what Husband said because I left that decision for him. I don't have have a penis, not my decision to make.) When the nurse at the hospital mentioned it, then the pediatrician, then the Appointment Giver Lady at the pediatrician's office, fine whatever not a problem. But they almost seemed like they were trying to push me into it. They kept talking about it even after I replied to their, "Are you having him circumcised?" with a polite "No, thankyou!" They kept on about the procedure and how much they were and under 10lbs blah blah blah. I already said no! Leave his penis alone fercryinoutloud!

Anyhow. He is just so so sweet. I just sit nursing him and stare into his eyes sometimes. He has a dimple in one of his cheeks, not the same side cheek as the dimple on his Daddy,however. And he has to squinch up his cheeks just right for me to see it...but it's there and I get excited every time I see it, because in my visions of Future Unborn he always had that dimple! His nose is kinda big, but I think his face will grow into it. He can put his thumb in his mouth and his middle finger up his nose at the same time!

He's too small for most of his clothes still, so I like to grab his empty footie jammies at the end and say, "My feet, where are my feet?" And I laugh and know that he is laughing too, but on the inside.

Loathing the Loafs

You've seen it, I know you have. Don't deny it.

"Dad, I want a Go Phone!" says unattractive Loaf Jr.

"Lemme sleep on it!" sings older-than-old Mr. Loaf.

Mrs. Loaf comes in carrying...what is that, meat? Mrs. Loaf chucks a leg of lamb or whatever into the freezer singing about no surprise bills to pay.

Loaf Jr. wrinkles up his face in a way that utterly annoyes the shit out of me, and he and Papa Loaf sing about the joys of getting the Go Phone.


GO away, Loaf Family commercial, I cannot take much more!

Waiting Game

I had forgotten about this...the waiting for a new person to enter your life.
Knowing that this little person will change everything, will disrupt routines and throw everything into uproar. Knowing that everything will change, my life, my daughter's lives will forever be touched by this moving entity in my womb, whom I cannot see or hear, but I instinctively know. I know he doesn't like me to "push him around", because when I try to poke a foot or baby butt, he moves away from my touch. A little personality all his own, and not even born yet...

This little miracle, as every child is, who forever ties two families into one.

A little boy who will hold my heart in the palm of his hand, my forever youngest child. So much change, but I am in limbo, waiting....knowing he will arrive soon, but when?
The last few weeks are the hardest.

Δεν το συμπαθώ

I am not finding this pregnancy to be to my liking. That's a nice way of saying that I really don't love it. Heck, I'll be honest. I don't even really like it.



My other pregnancies were different, I really enjoyed them. So what if I was 17 with my first? And had a cheating drunken husband the other? Is that why it's different? I'm older? More out-of-shape? Testosterone floating in this unborn Boy Child, whereas my two Girl Children and I were blissfully floating the estrogen sea?



I dunno'. But, for lack of a better term, it sucks. Here, let me tell you all about it, since it seems I've been suffering some creative block lately.



First Trimester: I'm nauseous all the freakin' time and I never throw up. I nibble on crackers all day long, and as a result of this carb overload, I gain a singnificant portion of my total weight gain. My breasts are huge and painful in an omg gethtefuckawayfromthemori'llkillyou kinda' way. I cannot handle the least bit of sugar. I've never been a really big sugar eater, but I sure notice when I eat "too much", and that is just about everything. A soda. A piece of candy. I feel my glucose levels soaring and dipping with each meal or snack I eat. I am uber-emotional and I cry and I cry over everything. I am exhausted. I am not tired, but just plain worn out. Walking across a parking lot is more than I can handle some days, to do something that requires more, like grocery shopping? Nuh-uh. The bouts of "holy shit what am I doing having another baby at this point in my life" talks to myself are broken by sonograms of an...alien thing. Yes, it is a baby, but....not yet. I am pushy and demanding and I don't take any shit from anyone. I yell at strangers at the gas station who piss me off. I am brisk with coworkers and clients at work. Strangely enough, they chalk it up to pregnancy hormones. I go through two bottles of Tums.

Second Trimester: By god, first day into it I feel better. Day two into this trimester and I am still feeling good. My energy? It's back. I am able to walk around with friends and The J's and trick-or-treat on Halloween. Sugar levels are balancing and don't seem so noticable. At about day five I stop marvelling at how damn good I feel, I just go with it. I feel normal again. My breasts are still huge and sore, but tolerable most days. My ass has almost doubled. My feet swell and look like puffy bread rolls. Sonogram picture shows a penis, which is what we want, what we long for to complete our blended family. I don't have cravings, except for ice to crunch, which has been with every pregnancy. The cold crunchy ice satisfies me like nothing else. I drive my coworkers nuts with the crunching. I have to pee all the time, which the ice does not alleviate. I buy my Tums at Costco.

Third Trimester: This is now. I am feeling tired again, I want to come home and take naps. I am grumpy and emotional and I cry. I am constipated and my legs cramp and I get heartburn from absolutely nothing. I feel heavy and turning over in bed is a chore, as is getting up five times a night to pee and dealing with my cat who will get up on the roof and then forgets how to fucking get down. This baby is twisting and turning and kicking and wiggling and it annoys me sometimes...but when Husband puts his hand on my belly and talks to Boy Child, my annoyance melts away. Three more months of getting bigger and peeing more and then the thought, the reality of actually giving birth again...I am considering tubal ligation, because I never want to do this again. My family will be complete.

Healing

The man I love is a complicated man...but who isn't "complicated" in some way, right?
He cares for animals. He likes babies. Animals and babies seem to...gravitate to him, it's weird and I'm jealous. Old people like him, men and women both. I could go on and on of the things I love about him, but I won't. Who wants to hear that? (Rhetorical question)

There has, however, alwyas been something about him that worried me. He was always a little angry. Always a little unhappy with his cards in life...always walking and testing and missing something. Always just not calm enough. Rarely enough to really seem scary....but I say "rarely". And "rarely" happened. And it was. But this something was never enough to really point out what was the main problem...never enough to demand a change, a more equal give-and-take reather than just 'take'.

The man standing in my living room is a very different man. Same good qualities, same delicious smell and his kiss that takes my breath away...but he's melted somehow. (Are visions of The Wicked Witch going through your head now?) It's as if he's just softened, mushed up around the hard edges. I could use analogies. Like a big weight has lifted. An empty glass partly filled up. But I won't. (But I just did!)

And again, the melting (melting!) is not enough to pinpoint, nothing to comment on yet. The sense of haste, of urgency in everything this man did, everything he had in life, has gone. Poof. Poof! It's only been two days, and I can see it. I'll be cautious. But I'm relaxing myself, and I can see where I can do a little less "take" also. I'm giving just a little more, listening and discussing and just enjoying what we have, not enough to pinpoint. But enough.

As a mother, my heart and my children are the same. When they get stiitches, so does a little part of my heart. My heart tears up when one of them cries, with every retelling of schoolyard snubs, it bruises.The same heart, it sings along with my daughters at every bedtime song, and dances in each ballet recital. I had never thought about how a Dad would feel without his children. But now that I wonder...well, it seems stupid to even wonder.

I won't dare to hope that my life and relationship will be perfect from now on, I'm not expecting rainbows and sunshine and faeries all the fucking time, fersher.

But I can hope for the healing that happens when a Dad hugs his children for the first time in over five years, when he and his son watch a ppv UFC fight on a Saturday night. The healing that happens to every parent's heart when they put their child to bed at night and they know that tomorrow will bring more.

"Pretend" Story Number Two

A woman came in to apply for food stamps. This woman looked awfully familiar...hmmm...where had I seen her before? Ah ha! She looked exactly like a woman who had worked here a few weeks ago, but with a different hairstyle.
Let's backtrack a little bit. I was in a training class with a few new people. One of the women, we'll call her Threnody, did not seem the type to be working here. She was very verbally abrasive and bias and opinionated. Don't get me wrong, I love opinionated people, even if their views are different from mine. It's just that in this job, one has to be unbias towards clients. And Threnody was not. Threnody worked there for a month or two and then quit, stating she was "headed for greener pastures".
Okay, so as I was saying, this women looked like Threnody's twin sister in a bad wig. She had a different name and a social-security number to go with that name. She had a story of woe. Well, guess what a person needs to get food stamps? A story of woe, and a picture ID. Yep, you guessed it. The worker who was interviewing her gave her food stamps.
When the interview was over, we clued Worker in on who we thought it was. All was not lost, part of the interviewing process in being fingerprinted. Guess who's also in the fingerprint database? County workers. We all waited with bated breath.
Lo and behold, this woman and Threnody had matching fingerprints! Amazing! The Welfare Police were called down. After Threnody was questioned (and claimed not to know how she got there) and her husband was called from work to come down (who she refused to recognize), Mental Health was also called over.
We're not sure what happened after that. Confidentiality and all that. We workers have our theories though...was she crazy? Having a bad day? Or something else?

"Pretend" Story Number One

An older lady walked into the Welfare Office. She looked to be about in her late fifties maybe? Anyhow, she had a belly on her. (I'm not making fun of older fat people here, gimme a sec.)
The lady announced to everyone that she was...pregnant! She was very proud of this news, kept boasting and talking about, how, "even though I'm old, I'm keeping this baby!"
She seemed a little strange, but it might have been the fact that she looked like a grandma and she was pregnant. Huh.
Before the woman could continue with her application interview though, she left. Where did she go? Why, she went to the bus-stop right outside to catch her bus. What did she do before she got on the bus, you ask? She bent down and gave birth to a pink pillow "baby" before she got on the bus.

Something Nice

After reading a comment posted from my last entry, I got to thinking...I never do post anything nice about work. I never talk about the good stuff that happens, or the parts of my job that I actually enjoy. So, here goes:

1. I like sitting at a desk in an air/heat controlled room.

2. I like asking nosy questions.

3. I like weekends off, and working a set 8 hours a day.

4. My typing skills have improved considerably since I started working there.

5. I enjoy how many different types of people I meet. I meet old people, young people, ones with families and ones without. I see people who have lost, and people who have found. I am an observer of different events in people's lives, be it deaths or births, new jobs or new opportunities. Everybody has a different story, no two are the same. I have learned tolerance and to be patient.

There are more reasons, but I'm not going to list them yet. I'll save those for when I'm haivng a bad day, just to take a little look on the brighter side of things.

The Stupidest Conversation I Had Today

Scenario: Welfare Worker (me) at desk answering phone and talking to Clients

Ring! Ring!
WW: "Government Land, this is Welfare Worker!"
Client: "Hi, this is WhinyMom. How come my cash isn't what it was last time?"
WW: "Well, rules change over time, as do budgeting methods blah blah just because."
Client: "Yeah, but how come it's not what it was last time?"
WW: "Income was used in your case, and that amount is averaged over blabble blabble and so you got eleventyten dollars."
Client: "But how come it isn't how much it was last time?"
WW: "You.have.income. You.have.a.job. The whole point of welfare is to get.a.job. so your cash aid goes down, and then you are what we call being self-sufficient. You've done what you're supposed to do!"
*click* WhinyMom hung up on me.

What Your Food Stamps Won't Buy You

Your food stamps will not buy you a Vanilla Bean whatever with whip at Starbucks. You can try, but your card will not work. You can slide your card again, but it won't work the second time either.

They will not buy you a hot sandwich at the deli. If you order a hot sandwich, and then are told you cannot use food stamps to pay for it, you either pay for the sandwich or you have to forfeit the sandwich. The cashier will not ring it up as a cold sandwich "so's you can use them stamps".

Can't buy beer. Or cigarettes. Asking the guy in front of you in line if you can pay for his stuff if he'll "buy you some cigs in trade" is called welfare fraud. If I knew your name I would report you.

Take-n-bake pizza? Sure thing. As long as you take it and bake it. At home. If you have them bake it for you, you forfeit the pizza. Take it...and bake it.

Food stamps are for food items, people. Food. Not diapers. Not aluminum foil. Not birthday candles! Yes, I know they're to put in the cake, but a candle is not a food item!

Following these simple rules, guidelines even, will save us all some time in the checkout line.

Happy Colombus Didn't Discover America Day

Columbus Day is here again! Good! Great! Let's celebrate a day about a man who sailed around in a big boat and found a new land for the people!

What. the. fuck.

Let's celebrate a day for a man who sailed around until he "discovered" a land where people were already living.
Then he pretty much stole their land, took all their shit, and gave them new diseases which almost wiped out an entire population.
Super. Happy fucking Columbus Day.

Five Things We Learned At Work Today

1. Joel and I are both anti-banana.

2. If I wear my flat brown shoes I will shock the bejeesus out of myself on the copy machine. Every time.

3. Crying will get you what you want. No, not really! Tricked you! You can try though, whatever.

4. Watering the plant after it is dead will not help. Giving it away to a coworker, however, will magically bring it back to life...if you can explain to coworker why you are gifting them with a dead plant, that is.

5. Talk sweetly to the IT man and he will crawl under your desk to plug back in your moniter. Talk snippy to him and he will...well, I think he still has to do it, but maybe not as fast.

Why It Takes So Long

If you're in my city, you wonder why it take so long for your worker to get your welfare done. I'll tell you.

Your worker gets to work at 7:30am. Spends 30 minutes listening to voicemails and going through Inbox. At 8:00am there is usually a training or meeting of some kind that lasts until 9:00am. At 9:15am your worker gets an application, and spends 15 minutes gathering the "before" information. (This could be finding your case, checking your income, etc.) Worker than conducts interview until about 10:15 to 10:30am, if it went smoothly with no hidden complications. Worker than has another interview, same deal, hopefully done andback to desk by lunchtime, which is 12:00pm.

Lunch lasts until 12:30pm. Another 30 mintues is spent going through voicemails from that morning, and if Worker is lucky, actually returning those messages. At 1:15pm comes another application, and again an hour later.

Wow, it's 3:30pm, where did the time go? Worker will go back to desk and again field voicemails, most of them from people who have been calling all morning wondering why hasn't my worker called me back auugh omg wtf??.

If your worker is exteremely lucky, they will manage to sneak in a few minutes of processing your case over a few days. The more messages you leave? It doesn't make your case go ANY faster. It actually makes it go SLOWER, because we're spending all of our processing time listening to your fifteen whiny fucking messages about how your friend got her case done faster than yours!

I'll bet your friend didn't call 30 times and hang up after every other one. I do have CallerID. I know it's you.

Welfare Rules

1. Don't offer to show me your hideous oozing smelly gaping wound. I know you need to see a doctor. You wouldn't be here just for fun. Don't show me, it won't make your case go any faster.

2. Don't offer to show me your tattoos. Yes, I know I have tattoos, and under other circumstances I would love to discuss body art, but please don't start unbuckling your belt while asking me if I want to see something. This will make me panic and call Security.

3. Turn off your fucking cell phone. I don't have time for you to answer personal calls. Why would you want to tell everybody who calls you that you're at the welfare office?

4. Your screaming child is not my problem. It is your problem. Ignore them, go ahead. However, I will remember you and your little monster, and I will make a note in your case for the next worker that reads "Children not welcome at interview."

5. Remember what you told the previous worker just a month ago. Everything you told them is in the case. I know what you said, and changing your story and blatantly lying about it is going to get you one thing...I'm gonna' send Fraud out on you just because I can.

Follow these simple Welfare Rules and we'll all get along that much better.

I'm Awake Godammit

I love the weekends and the weekends love me. What did I get done this weekend?
Lessee....got home from work about 5pm Friday. Crawl to bed, sleeeeeeep until Satuday morning 9am. I get up, manage to stay awake until 11am. Then sleep some more. In fact, I sleep until Sunday morning. (There are intermittant periods of peeing during all this, don't worry. I do have to pee quite frequently.)
What are the children doing all this time while I'm passed out? I don't know, I'm sleeping, okay?
So on Sunday I wake up at 10am and take the girls to get doughnuts. Yum, doughnuts, back in bed at 1pm, sleep until late Sunday evening, when I get up to eat a sandwich and some crackers. And then some TUMS, because everything I eat gives me heartburn.
Back to sleep until Monday morning, 'bout 10:30am. I get up, manage to make it to WalMart with the girls to buy shaving cream and pencils. While I'm there, I buy bread and milk and cereal, because I know that this is my only trip to town I have energy for, so I better make it worthwhile. I buy some Smarties too. What the heck.
I manage not to crawl back to bed until 2:00pm. And I sleep. And I sleep. I wake up at 5:30pm, throw the take-n-bake pizza in the oven (which I also had gotten in town. How resourceful I am.) and feed the children.
I then sit in a fog on the couch, feeling like crap, because that's how I feel all. the. time. Fiance asks me when I'm going to the doctor because "this sleeping thing is not normal." Getting up to get a drink, my mother confronts me with questions about when I'm going to the doctor, because "this sleeping thing is not normal." They're in cahoots. And I'm just fucking tir--
-zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

Lost Soles

When I am driving and I pass a random shoe on the side of the road, I wonder how it got there. Why is it just lying there? How does one lose just one shoe on the side of the road?

The Sun'll Come Out....

Tomorrow I get an ultrasound to see the baby. I know it won't look like a baby. A blob, with a heartbeat. It'll be smashing good fun though.

It's My Party and I'll Cry If I Want To

The emotional ups and downs of pregnancy are pretty sneaky. One minute, I'm fine. Happy yay look at the pretty sparkles of life...and the next mintue, I don't feel well, I'm crying and an emotional wreck. What am I crying over? Who knows? I cried last night because we needed to go to Home Depot and it was late and...well, that's it. I just started crying over nothing. I wasn't tired, I had just woken up from a five-hour nap!

Fiance cannot handle this emotional trainwreck that I call 'First Trimester Train'. He gets this look in his eyes, like a deer in the headlights of an oncoming car. He can see what's coming, and he's helpless to stop it. He gets nervous and panicky and does the wrong thing to stop the crying. If he would gather me up in a hug and tell me everything is going to be okay (it doesn't matter if he doesn't know what I'm crying about, because I don't know either) then I would get it out of my system (at least for the next thirty minutes) and be allright. But he doesn't. I'm not above asking for a hug if I need one, don't get me wrong. But him commenting on what he has to look forward to for the next eight months while backing away down the hallway is not helping me handle this very well.

In my previous pregnancies, in the first trimester, sex is good and fun and muti-orgasmic. Not so this time, not so. Leave me alone, get away from me, not interested, no way huh-uh. This is making Fiance somewhat grumpy, and combined with all of the crying, I feel bad for the guy. But not bad enough to do something about it, because I feel like crap.

Crap crap crap.

A Little Bit Pregnant

BrokeMom is pregnant. (Don't you love it when I type in third person?)
It wasn't an accident. It wasn't on purpose. Oh no, the flashing sticker dream was...what, a premonition?
Let's call it a surprise. Which we were, Fiance and I. Very very surprised. I still don't know how I feel about it. Starting over, now? Little J is six, Big J is almost eleven! To start over now, with the diapers and the feeding and the crap that babies seem to accumulate! Am I crazy?
Don't answer that.
The sleepness nights, preschool and kindergarten and learning to read and tie shoes, hell, first he or she will have to walk and talk!
I am very overwhelmed right now. Luckily, the J's are camping with their father right now...gives me time to absorb the whole situation with minimum interuptions.
I am crazy. But I cannot honestly say that I don't want this baby. I want this baby with all my heart.
Crazy-shmazy

Apparently

I don't pay attention to warnings. At least, not as much as I should. have.

Warning?

I had the weirdest freakin dream. I have a lot of weird dreams, but this one was very odd. So odd, in fact, that I am writing it down.

In my dream, I'm just...there. As I usually am. And I look down at my leg, and on my upper leg is a patch/sticker. The sticker is flashing red and yellow, and on it is a drawing of a uterus.

Like so:

And near the uterus (I know it doesn't look like a uterus, but that's what it was) were two eggs floating from each ovary.

Like such:

And so, after looking at the flashing patch, I knew that I was ovulating on both sides and if I got pregnant I would have twins. I start looking all over the house for Fiance to have sex with. (C'mon people, it's a dream. No way in h-e-double hockey sticks do I want or need twins)

Happy Fourth

Happy Fourth of July! The man I'm going to marry just informed me that he has not been married once, but twice! And he has not two children, but three!


Where are the firecrackers??!!

Brokemom's Spa Guide

Jacuzzis are hard to maintain. First, you have to make sure the water level is right. Too low, and you're gonna' fry the pump/filter. Too high? Grab your 'norkel cuz the waves are a'splashin'!
Then there are the chemicals to deal with. Luckily my city has a very friendly and helpful Spa Store, or we'd have a swamp by now.
The maintainance is worth it when you can grab a glass of your favorite whatever (mine happens to be Diet Pepsi and Malibu rum) and soak away your troubles while looking at the stars. And smacking away mosquitos.
Oh, and don't forget to tell everybody that they'd better shower before they hop in...ring-o-grime-spa is pretty nasty.

To Save Some Land. And a House.

It's done, it's over. It's just the beginning. On Friday I signed mortgage papers.Lots of them. I had no idea how much paperwork a mortgage generated. But I've done it. My credit was good and my income was better, I am now joint owner to House and 13 acres on which House sits. When my mother eventually passes, House will not fall into probate, it will be mine. Well, and the bank's. Then I can delegate to my brother and then, my and his future children.
It is a pretty big power trip, that I saved this. Brokemom likes being needed, don't you know that?
I am being good to House. The refinancing enables House to get a new roof, and central heat/air. Okay, okay, and a jacuzzi. Sheesh! What's a girl gotta' do to get a jucuzzi soak around here?

Farewell, Cramped and Dusty Apartment

I am at the end of the moving out and cleaning of Old Apartment. I can't help but sit in the living room sometimes, in the midst of scrubbing boogers off of walls (one of the J's is getting a talking to fersure) and rubbing stains out of the carpet, and I think to myself...
Well, I think about how damn fucking proud I am of myself. That apartment represented my strength and courage and independence. I took myself and my daughters out of a bad bad situation, and I created a place that was mine. I paid for it, not the government, not anybody else. I kept it clean. I learned new things. I faced some tough times.
I have some defining moments in my life, moments where I knew that my choice would forever alter my life. The first I can remember? When I decided to have a baby at 17. And the best thing? I've never regretted it, not once. Lessee, another? The fateful day when I decided I didn't want to be a Welfare Mommy anymore. Look what that has brought me! I met the man I am going to spend the rest of my days with when I got a job. And now that I have a better job? Well, what's not to love? My paychecks have four digits before the decimal point. I work during the day, I get weekends and holidays off. I have a freakin' retirement fund and health insurance. And I help people.
Goodbye, Old Apartment. Goodbye, crackhead neighbors. Goodbye, dirty screaming neighbor children. It's been fun.

Wishes

Happy Birthday to Brooke Ash in Ventura, California. You are loved and thought of every.single.day.

Things I've Done Lately

Refinished and stained an oak entertainment center

Simultaneously held a garage sale while staining said entertainment center

Wrote this just so I could brag about my entertainment-center-staining abilities

New Old Home

We're here, in our new old home. Color samples transferred from paint can to wall. (More specifically: from Home Depot to the porch, back to HD to get the tint correct and then back home, oh wait one more time is it perfect yet?) Most furniture moved in, old apartment still not empty. (Would we miss the things remaining?)
I feel like a new chapter in my life is beginning. My two children are growing up healthy and happy, and for the most part, well-mannered. They're old enough to entertain themselves. I can take a trip away from them and not worry too much. Fiance is a Super Construction Build/Fix Stuff Man whom I trust. I have a job that I love. The size of my paychecks boggles me sometimes, compared to where I was 14 months ago. Granted, there have been pitfalls along the way (downgrading my internet connection, no cell signal, the fucking mosquitos!) but overall, no complaints.
Hmmm...things are too happy, aren't they? This is the lull before the storm. I'll bet my transmission falls out tomorrow. On the other hand, how can things get better? I know, I'll win the lottery.

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!!


!!!

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.

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.

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 lady...to 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.

Something's Broken

I have daydreams sometimes about what it would be like to be so angry and frustrated that I break dishes. Until yesterday, I've never actually done it.
I threw a bowl down in the kitchen. It shattered, creating a huge dangerous mess.
It felt fantastic.

Wanna' Donate To The 'Spay My Slutty Cat' Fund?

She's yowley and moany and noisy and destructive and godammit she's noisy and annoying! It makes me want to 'accidently' let her outside so she can get her slut on, but we all know what would happen then, don't we? As I'm a firm believer in the whole spay-and-nueter 'greater purpose' thing...I just get to sit here. And listen.

Cash'll do. If you please.

"It's Like Feminism Never Even Happened"

I have to admit something. I watch American Idol. And tonight, I am more than mildy annoyed with how the boys and the girls are treated. Granted, with the exception of Tubby, the boys cannot sing...but Paula told almost every single female contestant that they "looked great out there". Does anyone mention to the boys how great/fabulous/attractive they look? This pisses me off for so many reasons.

Something I Found...Late.

Are you considering having children? To determine whether you are truly prepared for the experience, we suggest you take this set of simple tests...

MESS TEST:
Smear peanut butter on the sofa and curtains. Now rub your hands in the wet flower bed and rub on the walls. Cover the stains with crayons. Place a fish stick behind the couch and leave it there all summer.

TOY TEST:
Obtain a 55-gallon box of Legos. (If Legos are not available, you may substitute roofing tacks or broken bottles.) Have a friend spread them all over the house. Put on a blindfold. Try to walk to the bathroom or kitchen. Do not scream (this could wake a child at night).

GROCERY STORE TEST:
Borrow one or two small animals (goats are best) and take them with you as you shop at the grocery store. Always keep them in sight and pay for anything they eat or damage.

DRESSING TEST:
Obtain one large, unhappy, live octopus. Stuff into a small net bag making sure that all arms stay inside.

FEEDING TEST:
Obtain a large plastic milk jug. Fill halfway with water. Suspend from the ceiling with a stout cord. Start the jug swinging. Try to insert spoonfuls of soggy cereal (such as Fruit Loops or Cheerios) into the mouth of the jug while pretending to be an airplane. Now dump the contents of the jug on the floor.

NIGHT TEST:
Prepare by obtaining a small cloth bag and fill it with 8 to 12 pounds of sand. Soak it thoroughly in water. At 8:00 PM begin to waltz and hum with the bag until 9:00 PM. Lay down your bag and set your alarm for 10:00 PM. Get up, pick up your bag, and sing every song you have ever heard. Make up about a dozen more and sing these too until 4:00 AM. Set alarm for 5:00 AM. Get up and make breakfast. Keep this up for five years. Look cheerful.

PHYSICAL TEST (WOMEN)
Obtain a large beanbag chair and attach it to the front of your clothes. Leave it there for 9 months. Now remove 10% of the beans.

PHYSICAL TEST (MEN):
Go to the nearest drug store. Set your wallet on the counter. Ask the clerk to help himself. Now proceed to the nearest food store. Go to the head office and arrange for your paycheck to be directly deposited to the store. Purchase a newspaper. Go home and read it quietly for the last time.

FINAL ASSIGNMENT:
Find a couple who already have a small child. Lecture them on how they can improve their discipline, patience, tolerance, toilet training, and child's table manners. Suggest many ways they can improve. Emphasize to them that they should never allow their children to run riot. Enjoy this experience. It will be the last time you will have all the answers.

When I Invited You Over For Lunch I Was Gonna Eat You But I Changed My Mind

The First Playdate

Little J has a playdate tomorrow with a friend from school. I am not panicking right now because:
One) After-dinner drinks

Two) I don't have to be included in the playdate. Friend's mom asked if she could take the girls to the movies, and since I forgot to ask if could come too, I guess I'll sit this one out. Darn.

Three) The woman actually seems like someone I could be friends with. She told me that when I drop Little J off, I could come a little early...long pause...and I said, "and for why?". She said, "Well, to check things out and...uh..." I finished her sentence "and make sure you guys are okay people?"
She said, "Yeah, I'll hide all the weird stuff before you get here!"

By Golly, She Did It

I made spaghetti tonight for dinner. No one complained. There was no gagging or "oops my bowl overturned onto the floor and no thanks I don't need more".
Fiance even told me it was tasty.
Let us commemorate this day, shall we? Brokemom cooked dinner and everyone ate it. Oh dear, wouldn't it suck if we all got food poisoning later? But that won't happen. Life wouldn't be so cruel...

Things I Thought Worthy of Snapping

Look, a homeless man sleeping on the street! It's 1:00 pm! Gee he must be tired!

I was on Rodeo Drive, baby!

Kickass Hard Rock Cafe in Hollywood.

Vacation

Silence hung like a shroud above them. The motel room, cheapened by the promise of 'nonsmoking', was chilled with the ghost of a heater and a wide 3story high corner view of Ventura. The passing vehicles from the nearby freeway were the only sounds.

The boy was not coming she thought. Her opinion of the boy had changed, warped slightly by the silent treatment so suddenly imposed; darkening the horizon like the ugly gray clouds gathering in the evening sky. This vacation, so awaited, such trials and tributes about the whole affair! ..only to sit in a chilly inpersonal motel room and be confronted in each passing moment, with every passing breath - but the boy was not coming.

She looks at the man sitting by the window overlooking a main road and a gas-station. He sits and sighs and watches. She knows this is not going to get any better. An earlier flight will only inconvenience them of sleep and a $200 ticket-change fee. Yet the thought of watching a small part of the man's soul die, here, in this city of noise and confusion and deception was not unlike watching a small animal be tortured and being unable to help. She kept thinking about the heater and how if it were warmer in here things wouldn't seem so macrabe.

The man sang a line of no-tune words that he hates this place. He hates this place.

She thinks longingly of the nearby beach and the mall, but dismisses them almost guiltily. The man has been strong until now, fueled by the thought of seeing the boy. With each passing figure, each car, the man waited maybe not even hoping any longer. In suspended animation because to lose all hope at this moment will be to believe absolutely that the boy was not coming.

She awakens in the dark to the man's sobbing. She can almost feel the thick heat, the salty tears on her own cheeks and she falls asleep listening to tear-choked sorrow.

What a horrible boy she now thinks. The boy did not come.

Playdate Shmaydate

Have I mentioned that I'm kinda' antisocial? No? I'm the mom who, when attending a birthday party for my child's classmate, would rather go hide in a corner and read a book. Or rifle through my purse. Or stare at my hands. Anything rather than actually try to make small talk with another parent. Because I'm not good at small talk. I say things that I myself find totally and completely amusing, but in retrospect, they are only amusing to me. Or people who know me really well. Which leads me to my current dilemma...
A mom of one of Little J's classmates stopped me while we were picking up our kids after school. She proceeded to tell me that her daughter "talks about Little J all the time", and that "we should get them together for a playdate." I smiled, made the appropriate noises, and exchanged numbers. And felt like a girl being asked out on a first date. My palms were sweaty, my heart raced, and I felt light-headed.
What in the hell am I supposed to do on a playdate? The kids play, yeah, but that means I have to talk to her mom. I'll start blathering on about something I find witty, or make a "witty" comment, and from then it's all downhill because I can't shut my fucking mouth! The playdate will end in uncomforatble silence with fake promises of, "Oh, we'll have to do this again soon!", but we won't mean it. We'll go our seperate ways and Other Mom will subtly hint to her daughter about another little girl in her class who looks like a good friend. The next time we bump into each other picking up the children, there'll be embarrassed smiles and talk about how busy we've been, and gosh isn't the weather nice today.
I am not a Playdate Mom, I'm the Drop My Kid Off and Sit In the Car Mom.

Diary of a Plant Killer

From this...

...to this...

Green Is The Way To Go

So, I am getting serious about this whole exercise thing. I need to be healthier, and sitting on my ass just isn't cutting it anymore. So I went shopping.
No wait, let me finish! I didn't go shopping as an exercise plan, I went shopping to help me with my goal.

Here's what I bought:

New walking/running shoes
Sporty new tanktop to match shoes (but I paid full price which pisses me off)
ipod which matches said shoes and tank and is engraved with my name

I am ready to go. Almost. The ipod has been shipped, and I have explained ten times to Fiance why Fiance needs to answer the door when someone knocks, as it will be the FedEx person. In anticipation of ipod, I wore shoes and tank and went on a bike ride this afternoon. See what a motivator new exercise clothes can be? Because I've been eating better lately, I've also lost 9 lbs so far...I can't see the difference, but the scale can.

Sometimes the image of my ipod will flash through my brain, and I get so excited I spin around and chant "ipod ipod ipod!" And then I get a little worried, because the ipod is only 1.6 inches big, and I am constantly losing my cellphone, which is, by comparison, much larger.

Sometimes...

...I am so full of anger and frustration, I want to feel as though this ring on my finger is burning, and I try to imagine that feeling so I can yank it off.
But it never does burn, it just sits there comfortably.

Is That The Garbage Man?

There was a man digging through the dumpster outside of my apartment this morning. He arrived in a car that was obviously sick, as you could hear it coming minutes before it arrived. I watched with interest through the bedroom window to see what he would dig out.

When he left his haul included:

a stuffed bear with the tag still intact
a stuffed turtle (which was so cute from a distance)
numerous plastic bottles and cans (when he pulled out the half-full Gatorade I said, "Oh please please don't drink that." He didn't, he dumped it.)
a bag of something edible (not sure what it was)

Good to see the garbage is going to someone who needs it. I mean, really, it takes nerve to dumpster-dive. Nerve and need.

Is There Anthrax On Me?

Alright, so today was pretty funny. And sad. I can't help it, it was more humorous than sad. My client this morning was bipolar schizophrenic. He saw and spoke to people that I couldn't see or hear. All of his mail is being sent to him with anthrax on it. A Native American woman is following him from Gresham to here and she won't give him his money, because she is involved with the terrorists and George Bush. He was a nice guy, and it pained me to see him so not...okay, I guess is the word. I was able to elicit more information from him than the last worker had, and he was sweet enough to ask me, "Are you sure you didn't get any anthrax on you?" after I handed him his papers back. He told me that everything was okay as long as I wasn't wearing a wire. (I told him "Not today.")
I couldn't get much helpful information from him, but it was obvious he needed medication. So I granted him MediCal and got him a Homeless Bag (contains blanket and pillow, etc.) and sent him on his way. I couldn't give him food stamps, as he was getting food stamps in three other states.
It annoys me that in order to grant someone else MediCal, someone who is "okay", we require so much information; if we don't get it, too bad so sad, no MediCal.
On the other hand, I kinda wish I could just hang out with him for awhile. I'd like to hear more about the things he sees and hears. Seems like it would be very intriguing.

My Authority

A few days ago while picking up the J's from school, I noticed that Big J sure did look rosy-cheeked and doe-eyed. In fact...on closer inspection, I deduced that she was wearing make-up! Mascara, eyeshadow, and blush. I didn't say anything. I gave her a weird look, but kept my mouth shut. I could tell that she had gone to some effort to wipe it off. The only make-up I really let her wear is lip gloss. Go lip gloss crazy, whatever.
The next day? Yesterday. Again, when picking them up I noticed she was wearing make-up! It didn't look bad or overdone, and someone who didn't give birth to her wouldn't notice, I'll bet. I couldn't help myself, so I asked "Uh, are you wearing makeup? You're not allowed to wear makeup to school."
She replied, "I didn't wear it to school. I put in on during afterschool care. And some of it's mine and some is Courtney's. By the way, I wore some yesterday that I did put on in the morning and you didn't notice."
Crap. She had me there, if only on a technicality. I had a talk with her on the way to the truck about how makeup doesn't make her "more pretty" and how "less is more" and how one can "catch diseases from sharing eye-makeup". She nodded her head and looked interested.
"So can I buy my own mascara so I don't have to use Courtney's?" she asked.
I still don't understand how it happened...but somehow, she got me to agree that she could wear brown mascara and light eyeshadow. I put my foot down on the blush, telling her that in this cold weather her cheeks are naturally rosy and anything more would be an overkill. I'll think of something else before Spring arrives.
When I think about the conversation in my head, I do a "Whatwhatwhat?! Your daughter is ten! What are you thinking?!"
And I can't answer myself. I don't know how it happened! She's growing up and it's hurting. She doesn't look ten, when my friends meet her they wonder how on earth I have a twelve year old. That's no excuse though, now is it?
So I told her this morning (when she came out wearing tasteful brown eyeshadow and asking to use my mascara) that as long as she promised me she wouldn't look like a "hoochie-whore", I was okay with it.
But I'm SO not. But only on the inside. Because I know to nag would spark a rebellion, and she's way too young for that.
I 'm pretty sure.

My Ninth Christmas

When I was nine years old, I wanted a kitten more than anything. I would pray every night for Santa or God or Whoever to bring me a kitten. I remember really wanting an orange kitty, but my parents remember it as a gray kitten.

Christmas morning, I awoke to the sounds of meowing coming from the living room. Meowing? Nah, couldn't be...could it? I thought my dad might have been teasing me. I crept out to the living room, and under the tree was a big white box with a red bow. The box had holes punched in the lid.

I can see it in my mind like it was yesterday,that is, if yesterday was 18 years ago. Inside that big white box was the cutest, sweetest, most adorable little gray kitten I had ever seen, and I fell in love instantly. After picking up that kitty and letting him scoot around the house, I decided he did exactly that. So I named him Scooter.

Scooter slept in my bed with me, under the covers, down by my feet. He would chew on my toes very gently, and I loved it. My parents knew not to sit on the lower half of my bed lest they sit on Scooter.

To my eternal shame and sadness, when my parents divorced I stopped seeing Scooter. I was 16 and into being a wild teenager. I lived with my dad and Scooter stayed with my mom. Sadly, one day my mother broke the news to me that she had had to put Scooter to sleep. I was seventeen and pregnant, and very emotional. Things with my mother were still pretty rocky, and to ask questions or show emotion near her was not something I was going to do. I didn't ask her to clarify, I just accepted it and cried in the privacy of my room. I still cry sometimes. I've got tears in my eyes while I'm writing this.

Every so often I dream about Scooter. The dreams are weird, strange. They always have something to do with Scooter bleeding from his behind or underneath. Although we're on good terms now, I don't have the nerve to ask my mother the reason why she had Scooter put to sleep, if in fact that is what happened. (When they had to get rid of my brother's dog-also due to the divorce-she told him that they had found the dog "a nice farm to live on". Years later she told me, "Don't tell your brother but the dog had to go to Haven Humane.") Somewhere inside I think I know that something bad happened to Scooter, and I don't know if I can take that pain of knowing he was hurt. And the thing that kills me? I never got to say goodbye. And if she really had him put to sleep because of an illness, and not an accident, then knowing that she didn't let me say goodbye would certainly have an effect on my feelings towards my mother.

The dreams though...they've gotta' stop. I need to be at peace with this somehow, and I'm not sure how to find that peace.

I've Stopped Asking

In my chosen career, I meet a lot of different types of people. Some of them are drug felons, some are homeless, some are parolees of some type or the other. Lots of people from all areas of life. During the interviewing process, I can pretty much ask the client whatever I want that concerns their life-situation.
Instead of asking, "Oh, you just got out of prison? What was your conviction?" I now just ask, "Are you a convicted drug felon?" (Drug felons cannot get food stamps. Sex offenders may.)
I got tired of finding out that my client is a sex offender. I have to be impartial in my job, and I cannot treat any client differently from any other. But when I find out that the person sitting across from me has been convicted of hurting someone, especially a child, I can't help it. Outward, my demeanor does not change. But on the inside? On the inside, I get so frustrated that I have to help someone who hurt a child. I'm a mother, I know the danger. I can go on the Megan's Law website and see my client's picture and what their offense was.
As a mother, I want to scream and say things like, No you can't have food stamps! Why in the fuck should you be helped after what you did?!"
But I can't. And I don't. So I've stopped asking, if just to save myself the thoughts that every mother thinks. "What if it were my child?"

Please Step Away From The Kitchen

It has recently come to my attention that I am a deplorable cook. It's not that I thought I was a great cook, heck, even a good cook. It was when Little J wouldn't eat Ramen noodles because they tasted "like yucky pickles", that I started to wonder...
There was the infamous Pork Chops evening. It started out well, and smelled delicious, if not a little lime-y. When it came to actually eating it for dinner though...um, jeez, I don't even want to go here...it was gross. I put one bite in my mouth and promptly spit it out. I didn't even aim for the trash or a napkin, it needed to be out of my mouth right then. After spitting it out of his mouth, my fiance remarked on what a "strong citrus flavor" it had. My aversion to anything lime-flavored continues to this day. I smell limes and I gag on the inside. Okay, and sometimes on the outside.
Just last night was Mac and Cheese night! How can you screw up mac and cheese, you ask? It's very simple. Just make sure you let the noodles burn slightly in the pot before you drain them. That's it. I just gave up after that and called for pizza.
Big J has had to learn to make Ramen herself, out of necessity. Little J loves ramen noodles, which is fantastic, because they're like, what, ten cents a package? Apparently there's a certain way to make them that I haven't figured out. Boil water, check. Dump in noodles, check. Noodles get soft, add seasoning, yadda yadda. What the fuck is the problem?! Do I not boil correctly? It's freakin' Top Ramen for fucks sake! See, I get all agitated and start spewing curse words when faced with my inabilty to prepare noodles for a five-year-old!!
I can remember as a child "experimenting" in the kitchen. I would take a little of this and a little of that, and think I prepared something absolutely scrumptious. Who doesn't like beer muffins? Cookies made without flour? And my particular favorite...rock soup. The dog wouldn't eat it, any of it. He backed away, whining, from everything. Dumb dog!
Are there cooking classes for kitchen-challenged women? I should have known there was a problem when my Home-Ec teacher gently suggested woodshop...

What's Sad...

...is when I can have a lengthy, in-depth, lively discussion with a bunch of eight and nine-year-olds about playing The Sims2. And we all learned something new.

A Floating We Will Go

I bought a boat yesterday. Those of you who know me, I know what you're thinking. "A what? Does that say 'boat'? Why on earth did she buy a boat?"
I bought a 1973 Chris Craft boat that has a 350 Corvette engine in it. It goes fast.
I know, I know, I haven't answered the glaringly obvious question yet.
Last summer we went out on a nearby lake with said boat and had a great time. When the owner wanted to sell it, for a very affordable price, well...heck, why not? I mean, who doesn't want a boat?
Certainly not I. Me?
We can take the boat out this summer and find great camping spots, far away from the drunken fire-happy morons we seemed to find last summer. I can say things like, "Hey, we're going out on the boat this weekend, wanna' come?" Or, "Mr. SoandSo, would you like to go waterskiing next weekend?" Even better is "Girls, would you like to invite a friend to go boating?"
BrokeMom is a boat owner. Who'd a thunk it?


^
^
There's a link to a picture of the boat I bought...but rest assured, I got a better deal than $13,000. Good grief did I.

_______teen and Pregnant

In my job as Welfare Worker, I get four new applications a day. This means four new families in crisis, and they all want something "Right Now". Some want food stamps, some healthcare, some want cash. Along with every person is a different situation, different lifestyle, and different "stuff". Now, I have to be impartial in this job. A big part of interviewing for the job was talking about how to deal with situations that I might not necessarily agree with.

Last week, I saw a 16 year old pregnant girl. She wanted Welfare Healthcare to go and get an abortion. When I see these young pregnant girls, I want to cry. First, I wonder why in the heck they weren't using birth control. Then the voice in my head says, "You got pregnant at seventeen. You weren't using birth control." When the girl tells me that she wants to terminate the pregnancy, on the inside I'm relieved. I think about what an array of choices they'll have available to them without children at such a young age. I offer the girls what resources are available to them (counseling and whatnot) and work my ass off to grant their case so they don't have to miss thier abortion appointment.

16 year old girl called me this morning and told me that she has decided to "keep it". Inevitably, the next question out of her mouth (out of all thier mouths) is "When can I apply for cash aid?"
Rather than terminate the pregnancy, graduate highschool and make something out of herself, she wants to have a baby at 16 and live on welfare.

That stupid voice! It says, "You decided to have a baby at 17. You were on welfare. And look at you now! You didn't let it hold you back forever, now did you?" The strange thing is, when I see a client who comes in to apply for Welfare Healthcare and knows immediately that she is going to continue with the pregnancy, I tell her this:
"Don't let anyone tell you that you can't do it. It's hard, but you can. Know this."
It's just irritating when they wobble back and forth. But I don't say a word out loud. And you know what? Whatever her choice, when she's leaving, I tell her "Good luck." Because whatever the outcome, and whatever choice she makes, she's going to need it.

Confessions

There was a lull in the bedroom. While shopping, a sexy black nighty caught my eye..."Ah-ha!" I thought, "This'll do the trick!"
It most certainly did do the trick.I let him fuck me in it four ways to Sunday...and then I realized that the actual wearing/sleeping in the nighty was not great. The straps itched!
No matter, I saved the tags. And I returned it. So if you are heading to Old Navy in my area, you might wanna' rethink that whole Black Nightgown Size L thing...

To The Ex-Wife

Dear Ex-Wife,

I spout off a bunch of crap about how I "can't judge you because I don't know you", and how I'm "sure that you had your reasons for doing what you did", but c'mon...we both know it's bullshit. I judge you. I think that you're a horrible person. Yes, I'm only hearing one side of the story, but that side is pretty incriminating!
You took the children "on vacation" and never came back. You then told the children that their father wanted nothing to do with them. Don't deny this, I've heard it straight from your son. Your ex-husband knows you lied, your son knows you lied, and your daughter will also know you lied. Oh hey, guess what? The courts are going to be involved soon, what are you going to do then?
The man I am engaged to used to be a very sad man. (This is the same man whose children you stole, in case you're wondering.) I consider myself to be a pretty crafty woman, and I took it upon myself to find two "missing" children. I never thought I'd say this, but thank goodness for MySpace! The Sad Man is now a Glad Man, and your lies have been uncovered.
On a personal note...how could you? How could you?! No matter the differences you and he had, what gives you the right to take them away? I've talked to your son, and he remembers what life was like with his father, he remembers the life-lessons that his father taught him. What did you think you were accomplishing by doing what you did? Did you think your children would thank you later? Did you think you wouldn't be found? Seriously, what in the fuck were you thinking?!

Sincerely,
BrokeMom

To The Denny's Waitress

Dear Underpaid Denny's Waitress,

Brunch was delicious, we enjoyed it very much. You were right on top of the sodas and napkins, and didn't blink an eye when we asked for yet more syrup and an extra plate.
Had I any cash in my wallet, I would have left you a little something near the ketchup bottle, however, I have neglected to go to the ATM lately. I meant to add on a tip to the bill when I paid with my debit card, but strangely enough, my debit card was sitting at home in my pants pocket. Flustered, I paid the bill with my MasterCard...without a tip.
Boy, were those pancakes delicious though!

Sincerely,
BrokeMom and Family

What's Write For Me

I miss the anonomous blogging. I miss writing for myself, without worrying if people who know me will be reading this.
I write to let the creative juices flow. I write to clarify situations to myself, for myself. I write to purge, to let it out before I overflow. I write for those who cannot, or will not. I write to be one voice out of millions...but it's my voice. I write to hear the voice.
I write to see, to hear, to touch what means the most to me.
I write because I can.