Working Hard For The Money

 

When I listen to music, I am a lyric person.  You can have the greatest melody in the world, but if I find your lyrics to be stupid or annoying, your song will go on my most hated list.

There have even been a few songs lately that have come REALLY close to bypassing “Barracuda” by Heart.  MOST ANNOYING SONG EVER.  But that song nor it’s extremely close competitors  are what this blog is actually about.  It’s about a certain song that just makes me want to slap Pitbull and Neyo.  What the heck kind of names are THOSE anyways?

Growing up, I remember a lot of songs about hard work.  You know, those songs that may have complained about it, but were about being responsible anyways?

Remember these?  “9 to 5” by Dolly Parton?  “Jump in the shower and the blood starts pumpin'. Out on the streets, the traffic starts jumpin'.  With folks like me on the job from 9 to 5.”

“Manic Monday” by the Bangles?  “Have to catch an early train.  Got to be to work by nine.”

 

“Working for a Living” by Huey Lewis?  “Hey I'm not complaining 'cause I really need the work.  Hitting up my buddy's got me feeling like a jerk.  Hundred dollar car note, two hundred rent. ”

 
“Working for the Weekend” by Loverboy?  Well, hey, the name says it all there.  That’s what us working people do.

“Working Hard for the Money” by Donna Summer?  “She'll never sell out.  She never will.  Not for a dollar bill.  She works hard.  She works hard for the money.”

Now we have “I knew my rent was gon' be late about a week ago.  I worked my ass off, but I still can't pay it though.  But I just got just enough  to get up in this club.”  Um, what?  You can’t pay your rent but going to a club is top priority.  I. WANT. TO. SLAP. YOU.  Ok, so maybe this song is close to being as annoying as “Barracuda.”  Or maybe not, because it probably won’t still be around in 20 years when all the people in the club are homeless and want to slap them too.

Life is hard work.  It’s not always about having fun.  Sometimes it sucks.

That’s why they have wine.  And it’s a lot cheaper to drink it at home. 

 

 

The Weight of the World, At Least of Mine

I am not a vain person.  My favorite places to buy clothes are EBay and Goodwill.  I can’t remember the last time there was something on my feet that didn’t have a Crocs emblem. (Ok, so I have a broken toe and can only comfortably wear a particular pair of flip flops, but still…)  I get my hair cut at Super Cuts.  I only shave my legs once a week.  I’ve never, and I mean NEVER, plucked a single eyebrow.  Not a single one.

So why am I suddenly so obsessed by my weight?

As I’ve reached menopause, I’ve put on a few pounds.  I’ve lost my rear end, it either fell off somewhere while I wasn’t looking or was run over by a steamroller.  Whatever was there, however, was somehow recovered and relocated to my belly.  At the age of 46, 3 weeks from 47, my body apparently figured out I had long past puberty and for the first time in my life I have breasts larger than those of a 12 year old boy.  The result of all this?  The wardrobe I had so thoughtfully put together with my wins on EBay no longer fit me.  Six months ago, I had a blazer collection to die for.  Tonight, I made myself get rid of all those things I could no longer button, and, well, I don’t think you can call one blazer that only closes if I hold my breath a collection.

A couple months ago I had come to terms with my body.  I started getting rid of tight clothing and buying stuff bigger.  I actually own more than one bra, and I didn’t have to buy them in the little girls department.  I accepted that I was getting older.  My husband claims I look better (though I’m not sure I’m really buying that, I do know he loves me anyways).

And then a few weeks ago, my mother came over.  My 70 year old mother, who is 3 inches taller than me.  “Mom, wow, did you lose weight?”

“Yes, you are the only one to notice!  I weigh XYZ pounds!”

XYZ pounds.  Hmmphh!  3 inches taller and 10 pounds less.  She is 70, she is supposed to be heavier than me.  And, well, she always has been.  I’ve always been the thin one in the family.  Then she adds that my sister lost weight too.  It’s not supposed to be this way!

So, yes, I am 20 pounds more than I’ve been for most of my life, 20 pounds more than the weight I was in high school.  Heck, 40 pounds more than when I was training for a marathon.  (How was I even healthy then!)  And I don’t know whether to accept it or obsess over it.  I eat good, I’m not even sure what I can change.  In the past week I’ve hardly eaten, but the scale hasn’t even moved. 

Last night, I bought some larger tops on EBay.  Tonight, I put my too small blazers in a bag and put them in the car to take to Goodwill.  Tomorrow I’ll still watch every calorie I eat.

Growing old.  That’s why they have wine!  Wine gets better with age, somehow I need to accept that people do too, even if we are more full bodied!

Why My Vote Is Not Wasted

Let’s take a little quiz.

If you told your child a good serving was 2 brownies, and instead they ate 10, would you:

1.  Never make brownies again and start a campaign to make brownies illegal.

2.  Complain that now there is no way everyone in the family could have an equal amount of brownies because there were only 12 to begin with, and make more brownies.

3.  Tell your child to eat the other 2 brownies so you could put the plate in the dishwasher, knowing that if he wasn’t already sick to his stomach, he would be then, and would learn his lesson.

My answer, I would pick #3.  He might not get it right away.  Heck, he might even do it again, maybe a few times.   Eventually, however, he will understand that maybe things need to change, maybe always doing the same things the same way just gets us to the same consequences.   That maybe he should do things differently if he wants a different outcome.

And to that end, when I vote Libertarian, it is not a vote “wasted” as many like to say. There is a purpose to what I do. I know that there will be no immediate dramatic change.  I know there will not be some sense of satisfaction of being on the “winning” side.  I know that the result of my actions will not in any way give me any sort of credit, not even in the long run.  I get it. 

I, however, also know that I am planting a seed or two or three.  A seed that shows there is an option other than the status quo.  A seed that shows the establishment that not everyone is happy with their representation.  A seed that helps others to understand that it’s OK to vote based on what they actually believe instead of if there is an R or a D next to a name.  A seed that shows my child that it’s perfectly alright to still like a team that you know will probably lose, if that is who stands for who you are.   

One day, those seeds will grow into a mature tree with more than 2 branches. That day may not be until my child is grown.  It may not even be in my lifetime.  But it will come.  And so I will continue to nourish that sapling and vote my conscious, and to have the peace that I did not settle for someone I did not believe in.

The only vote wasted is the one that is not cast.  One day we'll be able to have a viable choice that is not just the lesser of two evils.

Until then, that’s why they have wine.

I Think I Can, I Think I Can...Crap, This Is Hard!

I am writing this to distract myself.

Eight or nine years ago, I wanted to lose a little weight.  I tried the South Beach diet, which consists of an initial phase of eating no carbs but for some non-starchy vegetables and then slowly adding “good” carbs back to your diet, and was successful.  I lost my pregnancy weight (and it was about time, as my “baby” was 5 years old), felt better, and truly lost the sweets craving that used to be my health downfall.  I stuck with the maintenance phase easily for years, maintaining both my weight and my health.

Then I turned 40.  About that time, a woman’s hormones get bored and decide to shake things up.  They create havoc and make you do all kinds of strange things.  One of those things is, coincidentally, blaming everything on hormones and taking no responsibility for particular actions, like screaming at the cat for the bell on her collar annoying you while you are consuming an entire chocolate cake.

Recently, when most of my clothes no longer fit me and routine tests revealed my cholesterol had gone up just past the acceptable level, I decided I needed to stop blaming the hormones.  So….I’m on day two of Phase 1 of South Beach, and I am finding myself plotting how to steal the hash browned potatoes and bread from my son’s plate and hide it under the squash and chicken sausage on mine.

Day 1 was not so bad.  I ate cottage cheese, raw veggies and hummus, almonds, and cheddar cheese.  I was full and I was happy and I was proud of myself for taking control of my health.

Today didn’t start so bad either.  This morning I boiled some eggs, making some extra for later in the week, and for lunch I made chicken salad with leftover chicken breast, celery, nuts, and just a smidge of mayo.  I snacked on baby carrots mid-afternoon.  Again, I was feeling good. 

Until about 2 hours ago.

At that point I had an almost uncontrollable urge to eat an entire bag of potato chips.

Instead, I grabbed a few more of those carrots and went outside to finish the Halloween decorations.  That’s when the visions of pasta and bread took over my brain.

I came back in and cooked dinner, trying so hard not to tear just a little bite off the bread or take a bite of potatoes.  I had to walk away and read a little about the benefits of a low carb diet to reinforce myself, and grab some more carrots a couple of times (good thing I stocked up), but I made it through.  I need to wash the dishes though and I’m scared to go back into the kitchen.  I don’t know what I might do.

Oh, no, it just occurred to me I still have to pack my son’s lunch!  This might be too much.

That’s why they have wine.  Too bad I’m not supposed to have any.  Well, maybe one glass wouldn’t hurt….

THIS Is Why They Have Wine!

My day started like a character in the remake of Groundhog Day.  Bright and early at 7:30 am I turned on my computer and logged into work, to start the day exactly as I did yesterday.  There are only so many times you can test the same issues, over, and over, and over, before you go crazy.  After all, they say the definition of insanity is repeating the same thing and expecting a different result.  Hmmm, I just realized I get paid to do that.  So that is why they have me work at home, so no one can hear my screams!

Then, about 9, I left for my physical therapy appointment.  Physical therapy that I do twice a week to try to alleviate the pain from a herniated disk in my back that impinges a nerve and causes not only pain but numbness, pain, and weakness in my right arm and hand.  Physical therapy I go to at a place that is specifically for orthopedic problems, houses doctor’s offices, testing facilities, labs, a surgery center, and of course therapy.  A place where many of the patients are on crutches or in wheelchairs and some too injured to have a hard time just making it through their day.  A place where it took me 20 minutes of driving around the parking lot, over, and over, and over (well, this seems to be my theme) to even get a parking spot, and I made it to my appointment with one minute to spare.

So we’ve gotten to 9:30 am.  People shouldn’t even have to be out of bed that early.

Once in therapy, because I was actually feeling pretty good, they added some weight work to my routine.  And now, well, I no longer feel so good.

After a bit more of my Groundhog Day of work, I went to do school pick up carpool.  In a monsoon.  I literally could not see what was 5 feet in front of me and was saying the same prayer, yes, over and over and over again, that my poor little Mustang would not hit a puddle more than 6 inches high because I did not want it to die, nor did I want to.  It didn’t, and I may have been stressed enough to have caused some of the tight neck muscles I now have, but I’m alive.  This was my day’s highlight.

I finished work and went to empty the litter boxes of our two cats.  I discovered that my son’s cat, whose litter box is in his bedroom, had, well, some stomach issues today and didn’t quite completely make it to the box.  As I was taking the box and the mat outside to wash it, I told my son to get the vacuum and clean up the litter that was on the floor.

“Can you get the vacuum for me?”

What?!  Child, if I have to get the vacuum for you at this moment, I just might smack you upside the head with it.  Teenagers just don’t have any clue when it’s the wrong time to express their teenage attitude, do they?

In the midst of all this, I was making dinner.  I decided to get fancy today and use diced tomatoes in the meatloaf instead of ketchup.  This was not the best idea, and one I’m NOT going to repeat over and over.  Soupy meatloaf isn’t exactly the goal I was striving for.

And this, my friends, this, this is the real reason they have wine.

And very large helpings of mashed potatoes.

 

Island Escape

This past weekend, my husband and I did something we’ve never done:  after two and a half years of marriage, we took a vacation without the child.  Really, he even went on our honeymoon with us, so this was all new territory.

So I did what any woman who has never gone away alone with her husband would do, I Googled “best romantic getaways” and, alas, one of the things I ran across was a bed and breakfast within driving distance, on Amelia Island in Florida.  It was a historic mansion built in the 1800’s, grew their own organic herbs and veggies on property that they used in their food, in the historic district of the island, near the beach, offered a romance package, and, well, they had a wine social every evening at 5:00.  In other words, my idea of heaven.  It was perfect.  For me.  Downside, it was a complete non-smoking property and my husband enjoys his cigars in the evening.  I did my duty and found some other places….the beach, Savannah, St. Augustine, and gave my husband all the details, including the non-smoking bit of info, though I knew that could be a deal breaker on my choice.

And so we decided on Lido Key, on the beach, in a large chain hotel.  Luckily that only lasted about 5 minutes, because I have an amazing husband who knew what my heart was set on.  I made the reservations at the Fairbanks House before I even took a shower the following morning, romance package included of course!

Friday, we headed out on our journey, arriving about 4 hours later at our destination.  It was a beautiful day, sunny but not too humid, a perfect beginning to our weekend.  We entered the wonderfully restored home, cheery and clean but with all those Victorian era touches and décor that transport you to a different time.  Teresa came out and greeted us, and went and got the key for our room, which was actually the attic of one of the three cottages adjacent to the main house.  Our cottage was previously the home of the caretaker of the estate.  As she was ready to walk us out, Bill, her husband, reminded her it was 4:00, time to get ready for the 5:00 hors d’oeuvre and cocktails, and so he walked us to our room.  The cottage had a private porch for our use, with a cat sleeping next to one of the chairs.  I felt right at home.

We entered to a beautiful room, with chocolate covered strawberries and a bottle of wine waiting on the counter, a large king bed, and a two-room bathroom which was half the size of our entire suite, containing a huge Jacuzzi tub and Victorian sofa in the first room, and the regular bathroom with shower in the second.

We decided to just hang out in the room for a while, after the long drive, and then attend the 5:00 social hour.  In the meantime, we read the guide to the property, which was written very humorously and was quite entertaining in itself.  I did inform my husband he could smoke his cigar, he would just need to stand on the public sidewalk, and we found that we did have wi-fi, the network was named after the Beatles, and the password was one of their songs….you could guess it or if you gave up you could ask.  My husband insisted on guessing, and, well, we still don’t know the password.  There are a LOT of Beatles songs.

The social hour was well worth our time.  That night only two other couples attended (there are 12 rooms at the B&B), but we had a great conversation.  You had your choice of beers, wines, and  soft drinks, and Teresa had made Florentine toast points, Italian sausage in puff pastry, and cheese and crackers with raspberry chipotle sauce.  I believe I gained 5 pounds in that hour alone.

After dinner, we walked the two blocks to the historic downtown area.  We walked around the shops, one of which I now have memorized after my husband looked at a pair of shoes at least 4 times in our weekend there.  He did not buy them, but upon coming home he immediately looked them up on the internet.  Yeah, I’m not the show person in this house!  We looked for somewhere to eat and found a restaurant a block or so off the beaten path, Cafe Karibo, with an outdoor patio and musicians.  They were busy, full, and had a wait, but for the table directly in front of the band.  We took it, and enjoyed some great food and entertainment.  After dinner, my husband bought me a unique necklace I liked in one of the shops, I believe in his campaign to prove he is the most romantic of the two of us.  (Actually, he is, I’m Miss Practicality, but it’s fun to compete, so don’t tell him I said so.)

Both of us are not anything close to morning people, but we decided to turn in early so we could enjoy breakfast at the house the next morning, served only from 8-9:30.  Coffee, juice, fruit, quiche, scones, sausage were on the menu for the day. We didn’t need lunch later.

After breakfast we walked to the marina downtown, and watched two pods of dolphins swimming very near shore, went in some more shops, including the aforementioned shoe store, ate ice cream and chocolate covered pretzels, and of course in one store I had to buy a book on the hauntings and ghost stories of the area.  I read the entire book while we sat in a cigar lounge (I did my research ahead of time, I take care of my husband!) that afternoon and wrote down all places in walking distance from our accommodations, which was most of them.  It was probably at this point that my husband proved he is the most romantic of the two of us (but, shhh, that is still a secret) because he did not visibly let on that it was a little annoying that the ghost hunting became my obsession for the rest of the day.  Upon returning from the cigar lounge, we did hang out in the room a bit, but then the tour was on and I made him walk with me to all the haunted spots within a few blocks, with plans to visit a few more after dinner as they were near the restaurant we would be eating at that evening. (For my dear friend Rita, that blog is coming next!)

We returned in time for the social hour, um, of course as there was wine, and met some more couples.  In our conversations, we found that two of the women, who had never met, were from the same tiny town in New York and that one of the men was at the Baseball Hall of Fame the same day we were this past summer.  And, believe it or not, that I’m not the only one who found the place by Googling “best romantic getaways!” Such a small world!  I really am not actually usually a small-talk, social type of person, but I really enjoyed the social hours.  It didn’t hurt that we had some wonderful homemade corn and black bean salsa with chips and baked brie with raspberry chipotle sauce to go along with it.

Part of our romance package was a voucher to use for dinner at a one of the local restaurants, and we ate at David’s, a steak house, for which our hosts had made reservations for us and even informed them of my food allergies.  It was a nice atmosphere, great steak, and they finished off by giving us chocolate covered strawberries.  After dinner we looked at the remaining haunted locations on my list, and returned to the room, where there were homemade cookies waiting for us.  Yep, I think I gained another 8-9 pounds that day!

We went out and sat on our porch, and when I posted a few haunted pictures on Facebook, a friend reminded me of my Ghost Radar App.  Yep, I had gone all these places and forgotten to use it, so my poor husband had to watch me play with that for the next few hours!

We slept in the next morning and missed breakfast, though we both wondered what we may have missed out on.  And we both had a wonderful time, and are already thinking about our next adult-only getaway.  Maybe even to the same place, but this time in the main house.

It’s not only a wonderful thing to spend time alone with your spouse, it is necessary.  That’s why they have wine.  And it’s even better served with great food at a great place.

 

It's About Your Child

A few moments after I texted my son’s father that it would be OK if he stayed there this weekend until Monday since school starts on Tuesday, I read a couple of posts online regarding what should the father be responsible for financially.

Everyone has an opinion, but, really, how can any of us give an answer regarding a relationship whose details we know nothing about?  We live in a world where we want everything spelled out for us – what days you see your child, who should pay for a haircut, who should provide insurance, who should pick up a child from school.  And we want someone else to make those decisions and to have them written in stone, or at least on paper that is filed with the court.

Is this really what parenting should be?  It is sad that relationships fall apart, some for very darn good reasons, but should we condemn our children to a life of “But that’s what the paper say?”

I have those papers.  I was required to, had no choice, you get a divorce and have children there has to be an agreement.  Our agreement says my son’s dad gets him every other weekend from Friday after school until Sunday at 6, and for a few hours on Wednesday evening.  There is something about alternating holidays thrown in there too, because it’s really important to drive your child to another town to spend Groundhog Day when the rest of the weekend is designated to you.  I don’t think we’ve ever followed that schedule to the T, not one single week.

According to a majority of people, I should tell my ex that my son can’t stay this weekend till Monday, that it is not in the papers.  Well, that is, unless I’m getting extra child support in return (to cover his costs while he’s not even with me) or an exchange for a particular day or if he pays all the school tuition or sends me on a spa vacation. 

Why?

Child custody is not about you.  It’s not about your ex.  It’s not about a lawyer or a judge or what a bunch of strangers on the internet think.  It’s certainly not about a piece of paper.  It’s about your child.

It is important for my son to spend time with his dad, so I let him go extra days if he chooses.  It’s important for my son to get to baseball practice and games and school and to attend events he wants to go to, so his dad lets him stay home with me when the schedule makes that more conducive.  Sometimes our work schedules make us have to shift things around.  The courts don’t know, we don’t file papers every week to accommodate the schedule.  No one is checking up making sure he is home every Sunday at 6 or that he has left for his dad’s after school.  My ex and I do not owe each other anything for doing what is best for our child.

And I don’t even care about the money.  It’s just money.  I had to convince a judge to order less than the state ordered amount, and I had to fill out a bunch of extra paperwork to do so.  I did so because I want my child to be able to have experiences with his father, for his father to be able to afford a nice place to live and a car to drive and gasoline to get to the places he needs to go without being so stressed out about it he can’t enjoy the time with his child.  I want him to be able to buy him gifts, to take him out to eat.  He occasionally gives me money for extra things, but that is his choice, not something he owes me.  The relationship with his dad is something that has no price.

I made the decision to be responsible for a child the moment I chose to engage in an act that could create one, no matter what might happen in the future.  I chose to put him in private school, I cover the costs.  I chose to let him play travel ball, my financial responsibility too.  I don’t want to make my child miss out on opportunities because his dad may not be able to pay part of it.

If you share a child with someone you no longer have a relationship with, please, make your decisions based on your child.  I know there are some jerks out there that just want to make it hard for their ex’s, and sometimes you have no choice, but if you ARE the jerk parent, I hope you can change for the sake of a much younger person who looks to you for guidance.

Last night when I asked my son if he wanted to stay an extra night at his dad’s, he said he didn’t know what to do because he didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.  I questioned him on who he thought he was hurting, and he was afraid his dad would be upset if he stayed home, or his stepdad would be if he went.  (My feelings, he’s good with those being hurt, apparently!)  I explained to him that we are grown ups, it’s not about us, and if our feelings our hurt that is something WE need to get over because he is not responsible for how we feel. 

If he was feeling that way when we allow him to make choices and focus on him, imagine how a child feels who has to do whatever the paper says, no matter what.  They don't need added stress.

My son chose to go to his dad’s, and told me he loved me, and added that I should be happy I was getting rid of him.  I’m not.  Well, maybe for a couple hours.  He knows I’m just happy if he is.

That’s why they have wine.