money & happiness

Money can't buy happiness... but you can be more comfortable unhappy.
Money can't buy happiness... but neither can being broke.
Money can’t buy happiness, but it sure can buy lots of things that contribute mightily to happiness. credit  

We have money. I've said this before. Not uppercase "M" money, but working hard money. Were I still working, we'd have more money. LOTS more. And dual income families, guys my husband works with, people I used to know? They have a lot lot more money. But we have money. Enough that both of us could buy a brand new car, this year, with cash, outright. Not a BMW but a reliable little Hyundai, or perhaps a sweet Honda. Sweet meaning darling not saaaawwwwweeeeeeeet as in “holy hell, that is SWEET” Generally when the bills are due we don’t fret.

So there’s nothing to worry about…right?
Sad? Buy yourself a treat.
Unhappy? Go shopping. Get a pedicure. Get your hair done.
If only I had money I’d be happy.
I guess so.
I used to think that way too.
I’m not happy today.
I wasn’t yesterday.
I’d like to be tomorrow.
Buoyantly happy. Not content.
I want Happy.

Some people say it’s because I thrive on stress, others say I’m insecure, you might find me anxious, too much time, bored. You can analyze it however you want. If you care to that is, although I can’t imagine why you would.
Or perhaps you think I should be.
Happy that is. Because you would be.
As in “If we had money right now, everything would be fine.”
Maybe.
Maybe not.
You’d be less stressed. About money.
You’d meet obligations, have things, of course.
And maybe you’d be happy today.
But sooner or later life encroaches.

 This isn’t a happy time for me. I wish I could tell you it was.
We could argue that it’s my state of mind, that I’m holding myself back, that I’m ungrateful, that you’d handle it better.
Sure.
Let’s go there.
Maybe you could.
Maybe you are great.
Maybe you are all zen, all knowing, all content.
Maybe your answer is take that money and BUY happiness.
A trip
A new car
A bigger house.
"hire a sitter" "you need to get out" "go to the gym, you'll feel better"

maybe.

or in my case, maybe most definately not.
Because for me, I can't buy my way out of this.


Here’s a little thing. I am capable of happiness. Fantastic joy.
Great bounding leaps of affection and energy and happiness.

I just don’t get there much.
Do I need …Drugs? Therapy? Communing with god?
nah.

I’m not happy because shit’s in my way.

And I don’t mean metaphorically, as in “There’s so much shit to do I can’t be happy”, I mean literally. There is always shit in my way.
Hairclips, headbands, towels.  Scraps of paper, draws filled to bursting, clothes that don’t fit, mitten’s that don’t match, goldfish under the car seat and laundry piled atop tables.
Boxes of things stored for later, photos and Christmas cards.
Chargers.
Cell Phones, camera cords – now ipods and ipads, more and more shit.
Food bought not eaten, sippy cups waiting to be filled. Syringes and medicines and ear droppers and used tissues and birthday party favors and all.sorts.of.shit.
Shit.
Shit everywhere.
There are books written, like The Happiness Project that talk about simplifying, decluttering. I live that way. Lived that way. There are tidbits saying "Volunteer, give back" been there. I've DONE IT. And you know what, I'm STILL not happy. Because it's not about money, it's not about time, or sex, or body hair (really, hirsute much lately?) It's not about wanting MORE to make me happy.
it's about needing LESS.

I want shit out.

Prior to my marriage, prior to kids I lived in a 480 sq foot apartment for 8 years. No storage until, no cable, no fancy dishes, no second set of kosher plates. No nothing. Me and my paltry square footage. And I may not have been happy there either but I could manage the shit out of that life.

This life?
Pissing me off.
Rent this, buy this, download this, caretake this. Listen to this, read this, record this, absorb this. Do this, go here, take a picture of this, upload this, bake this, store this, reuse this. Keep track of this, care about this, love this. Email me if you love me, post on my page if you care, send thankyous if you are grateful, return my call. Find a new house - you have money. Buy a new car because you can. Decorate because you should. Don't be cheap. All your problems would be over if you had a bigger house.
To store things.
To hide things.

We need to buy a new house.
"Need to"
Because this one is too small.
If we were broke, we'd stay. And make it work.
But we have the resources.
Ergo we "must" move.

So contrary to everything, and I need to let go of the past, it's time to move.
To buy again.
To buy more.
To fill it with more.

Oh you are getting a new house, that will make you happy.

If you don't know me by now...you will never never know me, ohhh, ohh ooo oo.

everyone knows it's windy aka Gladys Kravitz

The wind was blowing so hard last night that it woke me.

We live in New England, at most we get snow. No flooding, no hurricanes, no crazy tropical storms. No real wind storms. So when we do, it's like snow in Georgia. It's noteworthy.

On my tiny little 18 house sidestreet, fully half boast a flag in front of their houses. Not set in the ground like a vfw post, but mounted to the porch. And for a bunch of people who can't be bothered to talk to one another, present company excluded, folks are remarkably cheery in terms of flying the flag. It's like 10 years ago, someone joined the flag of the month and all the other housewives joined in.

I hate to be the last holdout actually. Me likes me a leprechaun flag come March 17.

So this morning across the street, through the kitchen window, we saw the American flag down. Laying on the snow.

Doug mentioned it in passing.
I fretted.

"You can't just LEAVE it there" is what I said. "It's like...mean or something."
My husband said it was too early to tell the neighbor.
So me, obsessively, every 20 minutes looked at the clock.

"Seriously?" he said.
"Seriously"

So with a sigh he put his shoes on.

"It's like, it's like the last hallmark of respect" I said.
Out he went.
In he came.
"What did you do?" I asked.
"I rehung it" he gestured into the air, indicating the mounting gear on the side of a pole.

"Isn't it not supposed to ...?" I paused searching my feeble third grade memory banks "Aren't you not supposed to hang it after it's touched the ground?"

And he looked at me, coffee in hand, bemused.

"Yeh well, technically you're supposed to burn it but why don't you explain to the neighbors why we're out burning their flag at 8 am Saturday morning."

Good point.

No more looking o'er the ramparts of the window sill.

who lived in a shoe

There was a young couple (almost middle aged)
who lived in a shoe (box sized house)
who had the money (lowecase m)
but didn't know what to do.

They looked at houses
far and wide
and wanting to compromise
was points for their side.

They peaked into attics

and looked into sheds
but couldn't find a home
with enough beds  (rooms)

Dillengtly they checked
daily on line
was a home with a garage
THAT hard to find?

Indeed it was
and renters are coming
the stress of it all
leaves this wife a' bummin.

upon the seat of a bicycle built for two

my husband and I have this thing - every time we see a man on a bike we start yelling out guesses... "Up ahead, on your right" and before we get too close a look we have to call it.


"homeless guy..."
"veteran..."
"fitness enthusiast...
"environmentalist...'
"asian..."
"dui"

I mean, there's a reason grown men wear all that Lance Armstrong gear. Otherwise we all think you're a swill ass.

So it's ongoing, possibly not funny, but one of those things you do. Like calling Tuesdays "Laundry Day" even though it's been years since you had so few clothes that you did laundry once a week.

So me, yesterday, 9am. Driving my daughter to preschool. Suburban side street. Up ahead, man on a bike. No point playing but I speculate anyway.

Off in the distance...
plaid carhartt jacket, furry cap, earflaps, jeans.
I'm thinking "Workman"
and strapped to the front I see a toolbox. Or a crate. Something red. Snap-on?
I'm thinking roofer, maybe laid off, sidegig today.

Closer.
Closer.
And then he pedals by.

With a full-on red white & blue case of budweiser bungeed to the front of the bike.
And two on the back.

And not a twelve pack mind you. I'm talking a suitcase of cans - at least two, possibly a third at 9am, on a Wednesday, on a nothing road going god knows where.

Now THAT'S dedication.
Go big or go home, you mad fucking hatter. I'm guessing DUI.