July 27, 2004 | Job? Huh?

The time has come for me to resume my job search In Earnest. I resolved to take the summer off… remember my plans for this summer and how great it was going to be? It’s been just like I pictured it! Except not at all! Because it turns out that a hysterectomy can really throw a kink into your beach plans. You wouldn’t think you’d need a uterus for building sandcastles or anything, and really it’s not the uterus itself, but the post-surgical time period where you hope for death for about five weeks just does not put you in a frolicking, beachy mood. Who knew?

Anyway. August is nearly upon us. Chickadee starts school on September 1st. I have about a month to find myself a job. My resume is ready and the panic attacks have returned. All I need to do now is… get a job.

It sounds so simple. It is so anything but. I am remembering why I stopped this routine back in May.

Here’s how it goes: Sit down at computer, bring up Monster, search on jobs in the immediate area. Note that I am either not qualified for or break out in hives at the sight of 99% of the listings. Hey! Failure Analysis Engineer! That sounds like it’s right up… oh, that’s not what I thought it was going to be. Failure Engineer, maybe. It’s the analysis part (and the requirement for a degree in Engineering Physics) where I fall a bit short. Okay, no matter. Who needs dumb ol’ Monster, anyway? I’m gonna search America’s Job Bank. Except that, on AJB, I can’t search just by area. I need a keyword. Okay. I try various combinations of keywords that yield no matches until I find myself typing keywords like “royalty” and “dictator” and “piles of money” in idle frustration.

(After that, I switch to trying to Google the ex’s new woman based only on her first name and the newest snippet of info–gleaned because she gave the children musical toothbrushes–which is that she is a chemist for a large health and beauty conglomerate. Strictly speaking, this is not standard job search procedure. Also, there are a lot more chemists out there with that name than you might think. I got bupkus.)

And so my hour of job hunting leaves me with… zero leads. Would anyone like a copy of my resume? I’m a highly qualified and experienced engineer, if it happens to be the year 2000. If you’re picky and want current qualifications, I write. Lots. And often. About nothing. But that’s sort of an art, you know. Also I am an expert shopper, genius room designer, television critic, ice cream connoisseur, micro-manager, bargain maven, and–with the correct hormone patch on my derriere–relatively bright human being. It really seems to me like I ought to be able to shoot a little higher than assistant manager at Taco Bell. And yet, here I sit.

A month is a long time. I’ll find something. Something with decent pay, that I don’t hate. Right? These things have a way of working themselves out, I know. And any amount of woulda-coulda-shoulda-ing my career choice, staying home with my kids, my marriage, my divorce, any of these things, doesn’t change that. But I still think it’s a crying shame that there are no local job openings for royalty.

Retail Therapy

(Or, It’s Really Hard To Take A Flattering Picture Of Your Own Leg.)

You asked, and you shall receive. Because I am all about the giving, and the love, and most importantly, publishing multiple pictures of my feet on the internet.

Well, here it is. I do believe even Martha would be proud of me. These are shoes that no sane person would buy. These shoes were originally $46–which is probably a deal for Nine West–and they are constructed of approximately $.65 worth of raw materials. $.35 of that? Is just for the sequins along the straps. Which I was unable to capture well in the picture. Because I was far too busy wondering why my leg ended up looking like it belonged to a large woman named Helga. But taking a picture of your own leg, when you are, you know, attached to it, and trying to turn it at such an angle that the beauty of your frivolous shoes can be properly beheld, it’s hard. I considered letting Chickadee snap my picture, and then I had one of those flash-forward moments to her sitting down to dinner with her dad and saying, “This morning Mama let me use the camera! She had me take a picture of her in her pajamas with some really spiky heels on! And then she put it on the computer and sent it to everyone!” And really, that just seemed like a can of worms not worth opening.

So you are just going to have to trust me when I say that not only do I not have Helga legs, in these shoes, my legs go from average to yowza in the time it takes me to buckle them. (When I’m not contorting my ankles to photograph my shoe on my foot, of course.) It’s really a pity that these shoes are going to live on the closet shelf. On the other hand, I’ve never had a broken leg and am not really eager to have one, so maybe it’s a good thing….

July 26, 2004 | Retail Therapy

Apparently today was my day to spend money on things.

First of all, this morning as the children were eating breakfast from our endless supply of poptarts (because when I run out of poptarts there is much gnashing of teeth and roaring), I realized that we had No Food. Poptarts are not food. They would work for breakfast, but I had been staring down the barrel of a grocery run for about a week. My first clue was when I offered Blue Box for lunch yesterday and Chickadee started to cry, “Not macaroni and cheese again!” My six-year-old. Said she was sick. Of mac and cheese. That’s dire straits, right there.

So I did a quick run-down of the area. No milk. No bread. No yogurt. One egg. No fresh fruit. No cheese. No ham. No turkey. No salad. No goldfish. If anyone was wanting ketchup and mayo on a Ritz cracker for lunch, I was all set; but other than that… not so much.

Off to the grocery store, where I filled my cart with various goodies that either the kids won’t eat or I wouldn’t be buying if I was a better mother. Ha! Just kidding! It’s not like I was buying bags of sugar, for crying out loud. Did you know that many popular sugar cereals are now coming in reduced sugar versions? It’s great. There are reduced sugar Froot Loops and Cinnamon Toast Crunch (both favorites around here), and they make me feel all warm and fuzzy until I remember that it’s probably the artificial color I should be worrying about rather than the sugar, and then I feel so conflicted that I have to say, “Oh LOOK! It’s Spiderman on the box!” And then Monkey commences with the Little Boy Elation Death Grip on the box and I know that despite my most wholesome intentions I could never get out of the store without purchasing that cereal, so I may as well stop worrying about it.

I bought bananas, to hide in fruit smoothies… and veggie medley, to garnish dinner plates and allow me to pretend that my children eat vegetables. It turns out that I spend a lot of money on food that I either throw in the garbage or try to pretend doesn’t exist. What a wonder that I don’t enjoy my forays to the supermarket more.

I also fell hook, line and sinker for the enormous display of “Buy 1 get 2 FREE!” on Coca-Cola six-packs. It seemed like a great way to try out the new C2. It’s gooooood. Damn them and their half-sugar soda. I already regret having tried it. I’d finally made my peace with diet soda, alternating between Pepsi One and Diet Coke with Lime. Sure, neither one is as good as a traditional Coke, but I was at peace with them and–more importantly–I wasn’t adding any calories to my life. Now they come along with their regular-Coke-tasting soda, the bastards. I will have to horde my stash and only drink them under the most severe circumstances. Like when I have a migraine. Or when I’m out of chocolate. Or if my TV breaks (for real, this time).

My grocery store also does this very amusing thing that I like to refer to as the Meat Lottery. There are regular prices on items, then there are “Shopper’s Club” discounts that change each week that you get with the little thingamabobby you keep on your keychain, then there are these random instant coupons on meat. To play Meat Lottery, you walk down the butcher’s case and look for the large red “Manager’s Special” stickers on a package of something that isn’t tripe or tongue. These coupons start at $.50 and go up to about $4.00. On a good day, a jackpot in the Meat Lottery will yield me half a deep-freeze full of supplies. Today? $2.00 off on ground beef. Good enough. Burgers for dinner!

Eventually I was done shopping, and came home and filled my fridge and my fruit basket and my pantry. Then I balled up the eleventy hundred plastic bags I’d brought my stuff home in and tried to stuff them behind the kitchen trash can where the other eleventy zillion plastic grocery bags live. The trash can jutted out of its normal spot from the force of all those plastic bags, and for the millionth time I considered throwing the extras away (no! bad for the environment!) or bringing some of them back to the store to recycle (no! too complicated and requiring of advance planning!). Oh well.

That was this morning. This afternoon, the sitter showed up, and I went out to browse clearance at a large department store. I found an adorable little necklace with Chickadee’s initial for a pendant on clearance for $4. It was surrounded by gigantic bling-bling rhinestone intial pendants roughly the size of Chickadee’s head, and I nearly missed it, sitting there all unassuming and tiny and cute. That goes into the stocking-stuffer pile for Christmas.

After some debate I also treated myself to a pair of sparkly, strappy, come hither black heels. They were 85% off. I will probably never wear them, because such shoes would be a bit of overkill for playing Meat Lottery or driving the kids to the pediatrician, I think. But they were a perfect match for a sparkly, strappy, sexy outfit I got at that same store, also at 85% off, two years ago. (That outfit? Still in my closet with the tags on. But trust me, it’s killer.) It occurs to me that I may not miss having a mate quite so much as I mourn the retirement of all the really fabulous clothing in my closet. I mean, the ex never took me anywhere, but at least I got to get dolled up for the company Christmas party once a year. The grand total between shoes and necklace? $15ish. And if you saw the shoes–and the outfit–you would totally agree that I needed them.

I picked up the mail when I returned home, and I had a package! Oh boy, a package! Wait, I don’t remember ordering anything. I don’t recognize the return address (EI Inc.?). Maybe I won something! I shook the box a little. It rattled. Hmmm. I was halfway through opening it when I remembered that I’d called in refills for all of our prescriptions to the mail-in service. That rattling would be the sound of antihistamines and other medications. Not so very exciting. And while I love the convenience and reduced cost of the mail-in service, it tends to mean a large bill all at once. Three months worth of medication for three people who are all on at least one daily med. My family is the reason drug company moguls drive fancy cars. It didn’t help that I’d used up my previous three months of migraine medication during the Week Of Migraine Hell, as my chosen migraine prescription costs about the same as cocaine.

This evening, as I was throwing about twenty burgers on the grill (oops… guess that was a bigger package of ground beef than I’d realized), I wasn’t fretting over the money I’d spent today. I was enjoying watching the kids play in the yard, practicing walking in my 4″ heels (just in case), and calling friends to beg them to please come over for dinner.

Detritus

Just for Genuine, who is always wanting nudie photos and has apparently offered to ride up on a white horse purely for comedic value, I offer you the source of my freakish power and spotty self-assurance. Behold, and be amazed!

Detritus

The sun rises on Monday morning, and I am sane again. Phew.

Thanks for the kind comments on my post from last night. Logically, intellectually, I am fine. Emotionally, even, I’m mostly fine. The thing about being lonely is that it’s not a constant thing; it lurks and jumps out and bites you every so often. But it’s all good. Just think how much more I’ll appreciate the love of my life when he finally shows up! (If I don’t deck him and say, “What TOOK you so long??”)

This afternoon I’m giving myself a little gift. The sitter is coming for a couple of hours and I’m going out to do… ummm… not really sure, but I’m going out without the kids. I reasoned that up until yesterday, I’d been planning to pay someone to tend to the lawn, and now that I’ve mowed, that freed up some spare money. Besides, I love our sitter–as do the kids–and I even feel a little guilty that I often pray she starts getting ugly. She’s fourteen now and totally gorgeous. There’s that whole life-sucking boys thing so many pretty girls succumb to. I figure we’ll only get to have her another year, maybe two, unless she gets really bad acne or something.

Anyway, I am woman, hear me roar… or more likely, see me go clearance shopping… but whatever, it’s about a little nurturing for me. Which is also why I gave myself my first post-surgical pedicure last night. It’s much easier to be brave with blue chrome toenails, ya know.

July 25, 2004 | My name is Grumplestiltskin

… the kids and I played “if we don’t start cleaning this place up, Mama’s head is going to explode.”

I’d say that for a Sunday, today was a total success.

We got up, we ate, we went to church. Where there was a VBS “demonstration,” which involved any teachers and willing children who’d attended this past week’s festivities going up front to sing along on some VBS songs with the band. So I sent Chickadee up with the other kids (no point in trying to tear Monkey away from his coloring), and she came back to me a verse later. She didn’t want to sing alone. (The other twenty people up there weren’t cutting the mustard, I guess.) So I went up with her, and we sang and did the required motions to each song. I am so very pleased that I wore a nice shirt and a skirt and my sexy sandals (okay, maybe I should not have been wearing my sexy sandals to church, anyway) to stand in front of the congregation with my arms in the air going “na na na na na na! na na na na na na!”

We came home and had lunch, and then realized that the tidiness situation at Casa Mir had reached Code Red. I set the kids to work on the playroom and family room with the gentle reminder that anything that was still on the floor after the allotted time was going to be vacuumed up. It’s amazing how motivated even the laziest child can become, upon hearing that. So! We tidied, I vacuumed the entire lower floor; I considered vacuuming upstairs (because I was feeling pretty good) and then decided I’d better not push it. I brought the vacuum up to remind myself to vacuum the top floor tomorrow. I did dishes and cleaned the kitchen.

Then the kids wanted to play outside. I let them out, only to watch them disappear in the tall grass. Hrm. Okay, I feel alright, I should try mowing. So I mowed most of the lawn. (When the kids lost interest in taking every single toy out of the garage and leaving it in the driveway for me to kill myself on, I called it good and went back inside with them.) After a rest and a snack I still felt okay, so I cleaned the bathrooms. Then after dinner Chickadee and I cleaned her room (which had become frightening) and sorted her miscellaneous belongings into the new storage cart I’d bought her at–where else?–Target.

This is the best I’ve felt since my surgery and the cleanest the house has been since I was left to fend for myself. Yay!

But… you knew there was a but, right? There always is, with me. And that goes double for Sunday nights. *sigh*

I had The Talk with the ex about Chickadee’s meltdown last night, and he was appropriately concerned and apologetic, I guess. But he was still very reluctant to talk to me at all about Inga (at least I have a name confirmation now), saying, “You’ll just have to trust my judgement.” To which I snarkily replied, “Oh, like you trusted my judgement the night you called me up screaming because there was a car in my driveway?” He did admit that this is a “serious” relationship, and that probably he handled the meeting badly. Chickadee spoke with him for a while and I heard her sounding not very happy… I overheard “Well I’m not used to her, Daddy, and you’re just gonna have to give me a little time to be!” and I was very proud of her. But after the phone call I pulled her onto my lap and asked her if she felt better, now that she and Daddy had talked about Inga, and she replied, “I don’t want to talk about her any more” and stomped off.

That wasn’t really the tidy resolution for which I’d been hoping.

Setting aside my concern on my daughter’s behalf, now that it’s Sunday night and I have precious little left to clean and I can no longer direct my ire at Excellent Purchase (my television has a really nice crisp picture, by the way), I’m left with my own baggage. And as shallow and whiney as I know it is, I am stunned to hear that my ex is in a “serious” relationship while I’m still single. I’m not jealous in the sense that I want to have him, but certainly jealous in that I wish I had someone.

That would elevate my Dumbass status to Loser Dumbass, by the way. Just in case you’re keeping score.

I know that when the time is right I will meet someone. But in case you hadn’t noticed, patience is not my forte. But grudge-holding? I’m great at that! And while the conscious part of my brain says “Good for him, I hope they’ll be happy” there’s a darker corner that whispers “Um, isn’t he the guy who blew up your life, kinda repeatedly? He doesn’t deserve happiness. Especially not before me!”

I need a bigger nametag. I think I just went from Loser Dumbass to Bitter Loser Dumbass.

The nice thing about the kind of woulda-coulda-shoulda Sunday nights that I have, is that I am probably the only person I know who looks forward to Monday morning.

My name is Grumplestiltskin

Remember that television I bought? The one that I bought because the sound was wonky on my old set? The one that came with a display weirdness, and–as it turned out–also had the same sound wonkiness? Remember how Excellent Purchase brought me a second set, with the very same problem? And then I couldn’t get them to answer my calls or figure out what to do?

Remember how I am not very smart?

On a suggestion from a friend, I replaced every piece of co-axial cable hooking up the various devices sitting on my entertainment center. Third time’s the charm! The third replacement fixed the pixelated line down the left side, and the TV is just fine. The sound is better, too.

I spent $250 on a new television and lost about four days of my life to the Excellent Purchase Television Debacle because I had a frayed piece of cable.

This entire incident has prompted me to want to fix every area of my life where I am Just Not Very Smart. Because television viewing is a metaphor for life, dontchaknow. (Well, okay, not so much, but I was in a groove for a minute there.) Next thing you know, I’ll be changing my oil every 3,000 miles and actually reading the directions that come with appliances. Scary.

Anyway. Now that I’ve bared my stupidity, and because I’m turning over a new leaf, would anyone like to tell me how to fix my stupid page display? I changed BlogSpot templates, even, in an effort to get my right-hand column back where it belongs… and even that didn’t work. Someone who understands this CSS stylesheet stuff, please, please, take pity on me and help me get my page pretty again.

Otherwise, I’m going to start sneaking into your homes and fraying your cable wires. Trust me, it’s annoying.

Uncategorized

July 24, 2004 | At least he pays child support

So the kids and I had a fabulous day; we met up with friends and ran some errands at the mall with the merry-go-round. That meant an errand, a ride on the carousel, an errand, ice cream, a couple of errands, a ride on the carousel, and then home again. Not a bad way to spend a day for the six-and-under set. Then we had dinner at our friends’ house, came home, had showers, and headed to bed.

I am not one to bill myself as the world’s greatest mom. I mean, I get the job done. Some days better than others. On certain issues I could use a lot of work. On other issues I may be slightly ahead of the curve. Who knows. As all my fellow parents know, the kids didn’t exactly come with a manual so we’re all muddling through as best we can.

Anyway. Chickadee copped an attitude with me for most of the day. At six, this is not unusual, but it felt… different. I wondered. I decided I was reading too much into things or perhaps projecting. Until my friend leaned over after a particularly mouthy exchange and whispered, “Somebody’s angry about Daddy’s new girlfriend.” Well, it was imagining until she said it. Crap. Ooooookay. I figured I’d tackle it at bedtime, if we made it through until then without me harming her.

As she got herself settled under the covers tonight I lay down on the bed beside her and asked her if there was anything she wanted to talk about. “Nooooooo.” Oh, okay then. I was just wondering if you felt okay about meeting Daddy’s friend today.

Immediate tears. Oy.

“I think Daddy likes his new girlfriend more than he likes me!” I could hear the tender music swelling in the background, I tell you. It was so corny I would’ve laughed except that it was real and my heart was bending under my little girl’s crying.

Then I realized… here I was embarking on this discussion on a night when Daddy forgot the bedtime phone call. Because his “friend” is here. We’ve been apart for about a year and a half and he’s forgotten to call a grand total of three times. Great. I said a quick and silent prayer that she hadn’t noticed the missed call. (And maybe added in a few curses towards the forgetful father….)

So I did The Right Thing. I kissed her and hugged her and told her how she and her brother are the whole world to her father and me, and how I know that no one will ever be more important to us than them, but that adults need other adults and what makes Daddy happy should make us happy too. I praised my stepmom and pointed out how happy it makes me that she makes my dad happy, and how great it is to have another person in my life to love. I even conceded (in my best conspiratorial tone) that I hadn’t known quite what to think of her when we first met, that of course I didn’t love her immediately because we needed time to get to know each other.

I did everything I could think of to act like this was a really exciting thing. And when her sobs finally turned to yawns I reminded her that she can always talk to me, and always talk to Daddy (unless he forgets to call; bastard) (no, I didn’t say that), and that we will always help her feel better.

I feel like I ran a marathon. And I have no idea if I did the right thing, or if she really feels any better. At least if this was made-for-television I’d have a commercial break to review the script.

At least he pays child support

We have our first Mystery Female update.

Chickadee reports that her name is “Inca.” I’m guessing it may actually be Inga, but who knows. Sounds mail-order-ish to me, either way.

But Chickadee’s hair was neatly combed out and beautifully done up–which is quite a change from the nest of snarls it usually is after swimming–so I’m thinking I can get behind this Inca person.

I also had a nice laugh at the ex’s expense and watched him turn all red because he parked waaaaaaay to the side of my driveway at both pick-up and drop-off, as if that would somehow prevent me from knowing about the Mystery Female in his car. I suggested he bring her in to say hello and he almost choked. Heh. And no, I didn’t even get a glimpse.

Curiouser and curiouser.