Money for Nothing

We waste - waste - money. We don't mean to and it sickens me but clearly we spend. I get manicures (maybe once a month?) I get pedicures (6x a year?) perhaps more. I pay to belong to a gym, as does my husband. We have FIOS, cell phones, a blockbuster online service (but we don't watch movies) two cars (gas and insurance) plus myriad plug and play devices leading to a larger electrical bill. We have label makers and headsets, and ipods and handsfree bluetooths. GPS for one car, Sirius Satellite for another.

It's awful.
I stress.
A lot.

We just finished a relatively expensive homerepair (siding and porches).

And yet.

We continue to spend.

We supplement his parents income monthly, I just wrote a check for gymnastics. I called a landscaper to fix the final piece of the home repair/renovation (unlevel side of house rendering planned for storage space useless)

I try. I try to contain things.

I don't allow bottled water (environmentally bad + waste of money. Use Brita) I try to recycle EVERYTHING (extremely stress inducing). I don't shop for Ellie (secondhand from cousin, friends or Walmart) nor do I shop for myself (oh but I should b/c my clothes are horrendous). Food I buy basics, fresh and onsale only. Takeout, we limit. Vacations? we never. Yet we spend. And spend and spend and spend.

Before I met my husband I spent 8 years in a 450 sq foot apartment. I had one set of dishes, one set of pans. Only three things plugged in - the microwave, the alarm clock and the tv. I didn't have cable, a computer, and my cell phone was considered newfangled. My Honda was 13 years old, and my tpass was well used. I was frugal - not cheap - and everything I owned could be stored, comfortably, in my apartment.

Here I am at wits end. I am like a dog circling before bed. I am George Carlin forever looking for a place to put my stuff. I am two hours into sorting a bagful - a BAGFUL - of papers. Of receipts, of invoices, of statements. Two hours in and in can't make hide nor hair nor head nor tail of half the shit I'm sorting through and it's causing my grave - and terrible - anxiety.

I am Lily Tomlin in search of a bathtub to sleep in.
I'm sure that reference is far to obscure. Even Google couldn't back me up.
What I mean is I am so friggin anxious that I'm about to break into a million pieces of glass shards if someone taps me on the shoulder and I'd feel a lot better if I could just hide in the bathtub.

The tub full of alphabet letters and special boarshead bristle shave brushes and razors that vibrate and a mirror that lights up and gets am/fm and three types of shave cream and two types of shampoo - none of which are mine because I don't believe in shampoo as the Sodium Laurel Sulfate isn't goofd for my aging coarse hair or the planet.

I blame myself but oh I want to blame Doug.
Because the more he buys and the less he takes care of things, the more I panic and try to establish order and contain things.

And lest you think me OCD and controlling, that's not it. I simply can't imagine why we have so much, need so much when it doesn't make life easier, me happier or either of us richer.

So I'm going back out.
To the office.
To continue sorting,
and filing, and stressing.
to reveiw the tangible reminders of money wasted.
Not well spent.
And to cancel Blockbuster.

When I am Old I Shall Not Wear Purple but I Will Be A Catakerous Old Bitch

I'm just ready to call Benjamin Ben, Matthew Matt and Nicolas Nick. Parents: Enough already with your narcissistic individuality. "I hate nicnames" Fine. So name your kid a one syllable name and be done with it. But please don't expect the rest of us to waste 16 vowels, 19 consonants and three syllables meticulously pronouncing your sweetums moniker.

Our Stance on Drugs in America

Tissues, wet, in front of the computer.
"Ew" I pick them up with a drier tissue.
"I'm sorry" he apologized. "I don't have a trash barrell"

Because at some environmental point in time I stopped getting trash bags at the grocery store thus no liners. Ergo the barrells go downstairs daily to be dumped, and washed.

"It's ok" I said to his rumaging back. "What are you looking for?"
"Something for my allergies." he muttered into the cabinet.
"Do we have..."
"Did you find..."
"Sudafed"

" I think it's on a lower shelf" I pointed.
He rumaged somemore.

"Down. Eat. Mommy? Ellie eat."
I picked up Ellie - binky in mouth, doggie in arms, as she thrusts her OTHER doggie, her bear, her spare binky into my arms.

Downstairs into the kitchen.
Coffeebrewing.

My husband, the mad professor, walks by ranting to himself.

"....stupid meth addicts..." rummages more in the downstairs cabinets. Gives up.
"I wouldn't care except Sudafed used to be cheap."

It Was The Best Of Times, It Was The Worst Of Times

"I've been checking your blog" she said to me "but you stopped writing."

And not for any reason. Well, time I suppose. And the heat. And being tired. Too tired to write, too uncomfortable to type onehanded as my laptop resides under the bed then on it sporadically.

I joined a gym. So that forces me up, and out, and out early. Then we go - someplace - for the remainder of the morning. Then it's home, for lunch, a snack, and then I spend - could it be an hour? - cleaning up. The snacks, the car, whatever bags I packed for the morning. Swimsuits and sunblock, juice cups and cracker packets. Cell phones and gym shoes, they tumble in then out again. I vow before bed "I'm going to start packing at night - so tomorrow is easier. But each day I climb into bed tired - thinking "I'll read email - I deserve a treat." And the packing never happens.

My father said to me "It's not easily understood - to someone who works - who works outside the home, how someone who is home all day can't return phone calls and is always busy."

Well sure. I suppose. If I were "home all day".
If I were to have a lament, any lament, it would be - it has to be "What am I doing wrong?" How do my days bleed into the next day after day. How is it I'm frantic, barely sleeping at night, marginally putting away things during the day. What pray tell am I doing? And why, for the love of god, does everything take me so long.

Oh I have tons TONS of excuses. "I get up early" "I'm at the gym everyday" "I cook from scratch" The list goes on. And it's true. Crazy true. But is it enjoyable? Is it fun? Who am I doing this for - because there are days when I forget.

So today. Where did I go wrong today?

I got up - on the cusp of 7am, marginal minutes either way. I made coffee, just a cup, moved my car, cooked a high protein breakfast (eggs and cheese, no carbs), watered the lawn, the plants, and recoiled the hose. I checked email, vmail, facebook. I quickie showed and dressed in workpout gear. I gathered Ellie, changed her bum, clothes, gave milk and a waffle, some berries too. I gathered her toys, poured us both drinks, grabbed phone and keys - and we went to the gym. For an 8:30 class. And made it ontime.

From the gym we saw Carol, in the parking lot for a few. Crayons and hugs exchanged. A trip home, a switch to my bathing suit. Repacking the bags. Suits, towels, sunblock for her. Swimmies, a snack. Sunblock for me, extra diapers and clothes. Back in the car to the playdate and pool for an hour. Plus? She was tired and I pushed her. Unhappily so. I haven't enjoyed our Monday playdates for months but I continue to go. I like the people. I dislike the playdate. But we go. Because I think I'm just being a baby. Home we arrive, and out we come. A nap for her, another quick shower for me. Off to wash dishes for over an hour from the dinner "party" the night before. Lunch for me. Get mail, water forgotten plants, go online for childcare search. Fold clothes. Child wakes. Hungry. More food prep, more clean up. Now reading books. Several for almost an hour. A phone call. a recipe idea gathered. two more calls for fresh basil. The neighbor goes for me, and we chat in the driveway. It's all to the potty. Then Daddy walks in. Early. It's dinner, the cleanup, then coloring, a call to Grandma. A tubbie. And now here I sit. Tired. From groundhog day. Hating food, food prep, the time it takes to run this house. For nothing gained but sleeping and eating.

But I don't mind. Per se. Because this is my job, and this is my life. And within the routine are moments or perfect achievement. Not that it "makes it all worth it" but moreso how do you have more moments and less wheel spinning.

Try harder? Maybe.
I think there's a passage somewhere that says the myth in America is that if you try hard enough you'll eventually succeed. Tell that to the man flapping his arms off the roof. Hey good luck there Icarus.

But I'm off on a tangent and certainly not the one I intended to segue to. The point is, in terms of priorities, I'm still sifting. Shifting. Sorting.

And I haven't been able to make everything number one.
Yet it hasn't stopped me from trying.

That's ok though, right? Because insanity was long overdue for redefining.