Wednesday, December 21, 2016

Quit Being an LB



When Phyllis Nefler calls a parent meeting for Troop Beverly Hills to concoct a plan for selling cookies, her best friend, a glamorous romance novel writer, laments, "If all you're looking for is money, then why don't we all just buy a thousand boxes of cookies."
Phyllis says, she thought of that too, but realized it defeats the purpose, which is much more than raising money, but teaching your kids not be an LB.

Thats a term my brother taught me, "LB" which stands for "lil' bitch," and is generally used to explain someone who is acting like a whiney asshole, and is bringing everyone down. When I was young, my brothers, sisters and me would lounge in front of the TV for hours. We'd rise from our state of rest only for fresh-from-the-oven bagel bites. When my dad would come in the house after work, we'd all go tense because we knew he would never get on board with this scene of inactivity.

And he wouldn't. He'd usually look upon his fleet of lazy children, silently scowl, walk into the other room, and we would get the false impression that he is totally cool with us spending our Saturday on an eight hour TV bender. Minutes later, he'd walk in the room and command, "Turn the TV off. You need to move the wood from the front of the house to the side of the house."

Then we'd all moan under our breath, taking out our frustration on each other, with a shove and "get out of my way" shout, and then start a work line where we'd spend the next two hours walking chopped wood from the front of the house to the side of the house, for no reason except my dad doesn't want his kids to grow up and be LBs. Weeks later, he'd come home and ask us to move all the wood back to where it was stacked in the front of the house. And so on.

I'm with my parents this week, sleeping on a blow up mattress with my two kids. A fourth of the mattress' air escapes when I put the cap on it, and there is a slight leak somewhere because after a couple hours, we are all sleeping on the floor. George wakes up frequently throughout the night screaming for no apparent reason then to test my strength in containing any involuntary reaction to be abusive. I practice visualizing us back at home, where he is in his bed, and I am in mine, sleeping soundly. But waking up in the dry Carson City desert, after sleeping a couple hours on the floor of a room that's last seen a vacuum in 2012, my throat and nose clogged with dust bunnies, I guzzle eight cups of water and then onto coffee and take on a day which has become much less active now that my kids are old enough to keep themselves busy, running around like a pack of wolves with their four cousins.

Last Christmas there was always something to do; snacks to make, potty mess to clean up, something to organize, or a tantrum to extinguish. Yesterday I was so hapless, I spent eight hours laying around and eating. I went to bed traumatized by the dud of a day I had, and said, "Im going to read a book tomorrow. I can't go on doing nothing!"
Yesterday I took two long ass walks. The first was with my brother and sister's families. The second was an emergency walk, I initiated after watching George waywardly wander through the room, leaping on furniture, looking like he was going to climb the TV stand with the hope of body slamming the coffee table. I could have carried on, eating a dozen more mini powdered donuts while staring at the ceiling, but he needed to run.

As we started down the path I chatted with my sister on the phone. We hung up, and then George and I walked, looking for rabbits. When we reached the end of the path, I reached in my pocket for my phone so I could get a picture of him with the city background. I put my hand in the deep pocket and pulled out a knitted cap, two sets of gloves, three little kids socks, and Starbucks napkins, but no phone.
I knew I had the phone when we started on the walk, so it fell out somewhere in between here and where I hung up. I regretted buying the camouflage otter box case because it was only fourteen dollars on Amazon, knowing if it were case side up, it'd blend into the brush and dirt. I found the phone glistening in the dirt right around where I hung up. George and I high-fived, then I went to take his picture, but the phone died as I opened the camera.
We then came upon a family of deer. There was about eight of them, and they looked huge, motionless, staring at us. I picked up George, and was a little frightened, as we said, "Hi deeeer," creeping away. I couldn't shake the image of them walking towards us, then quickly charging, a short distance stampede. The path soon turned to cement, and we entered the neighborhood. I turned around and saw a little deer peek its head out from behind a stone wall to look at us.

This morning, after George woke me up, we joined the bustling part of our family thats on East Coast time, I grabbed a book from the shelf, The Epic of Gilgamesh. Harletts seem to be the most useful tool of the time, and proclaimed, "I will not eat any of those fucking corn syrup donuts, or guzzle diet coke like it's water." A couple hours later my mom came out of her room singing, and I reiterated how I couldn't be a glutinous couch dwelling jabba the hut sloth today. She shook her head at me, dismayed, and said, "You stop being a complainer, and lay down on that couch and relax."

I know what she meant by "complainer" so I sucked it up, grabbed some donuts and fell into an armchair, tossing the book to the side and started watching rain drops hit the window and ground.


Saturday, December 10, 2016

5 days late

Will I ever stop crying
My period is five days late. I have pms symptoms and wasn't feeding into the possibility of pregnancy too much, so after I thought of the perfect baby name, and how we'd arrange the kids room, and how my car needs more space, I figured I'd pee on a stick. Then I could start in on the baby registry.

It came back negative which I knew deep down because I have that warm cramping feeling I get before I start. My period is just being a butt head because it wants me to carb load for all of 2017.

After work Tuesday I grocery shopped and had 10 minutes to kill before picking up the kids so I got a bagel and drove around eating it. Ten years ago I held a very firm stance that car-eating is barbaric, impatient, and terrible for digestion, but now I think of it as a mini vacation; quiet, peaceful and delicious times where I can be alone with my thoughts and food.

The night before last I felt like Rosemary's Baby's mama when I cooked up a pound of beef with an onion and began chowing down from the skillet with a 17 inch plastic mixing spoon. Standing over the stove with food dripping from my mouth, I felt like a famished cave woman who just happened upon a dead possum, and the thought entered my mind, perhaps this is more than PMS, and I am with cave child.

If there was ever a movie to avoid in the height of PMS I watched it last night. I had to practice seat clenching self control in the theater watching Manchester By the Sea, and as I went thru ten Starbucks napkins I found in my jacket pocket, wiping snot and tears from my face, I had to swallow a tennis ball of cement in my throat so I wouldn't start wailing in my fit of hysterics. If I knew what the movie was about, I wouldn't have watched it.

Around 3 am I woke up to the gate outside my bedroom being blown open and then crashing into the latch but not catching. It went on for a while, and let me sit and think about The Saddest Movie Ever Made. I found myself crying in bed, at 3am, from this movie. Can I say I was traumatized? I think the only way to treat my condition is by sad-eating a meatball sub.

Sitting in bed and crying about a movie at 3am made me disoriented this morning when I woke. I told my husband, "Kiki has to sleep in, she has her dance recital tonight and needs to be on top of her game."
He said, "It's 7:30," like it was noon, and I rolled over. Then he said, "Don't you have a final this morning?"
I flipped the comforter off me, threw on my clothes, and whisper-yelled, "Goodbye," so I wouldn't wake up my daughter as I ran out of the house.
Now I'm, sitting in front of my class, as they take the final exam I nearly slept through, and started my period without any of my period gear. My morning is is a walk in the park compared to Manchester By The Sea.

Although Manchester By The Sea had a significant impact on me, and can win all the best actor/actress awards, I hope Hell Or High Water wins best movie. That was a fucking great movie. Sing Street is my favorite movie of 2016, but like how The Namesake was robbed in 2007 (Never Forget) I think Sing Street won't get it's due recognition by the Academy (I'm saying that last part in a drawn out nasally voice, The Acaaademy.)

After this test, I'm going to pick up meatball subs, and watch Sing Street.  Then hug my kids for, oh, I don't know, maybe the next 17 hours.

Wednesday, December 7, 2016

The Price Im Willing To Pay For A Remodel


I’m planning a remodel on the kitchen. Presently, it is a small galley kitchen, and we’d like to extend it on one side, and blow out the wall blocking it from the living room. A construction/design team came over to the house; we discussed what we want and what we're able to spend.
This last part, although it was a five minute discussion, left no impression on them as they left to draw up the plans because when we got the budget last night, it's almost 50% greater than what we initially told them. I’m planning to take this estimate, give it to my kids to practice their safety scissors, then sweep it into a bucket, pee on it, and leave it outside for the skunks to have a confetti party with.

All I could say was, “You got to be fucking kidding me!” Two times during our meeting with them, they made my skin crawl, so perhaps I manifested this overblown estimate from the get-go, with my negative perception. Firstly, when they came over to talk about the plan, and we mentioned the budget, they said, “We have a guy…” (anyone who starts a sentence this way is trying to run a job on you) then followed it up with, “Who offers same-as-cash loans.”
I said, “Bitch, get out of my house. I thought I hired a fucking contractor not a loan shark.” Nah, I didn’t really say this, I just gave a patronizing smile and rolled my eyes because I put too much passive in my aggression. The designer brought this guy up again during our plan review, and brought up another payment plan option for purchasing appliances through a showroom they know of.
After hearing this second attempt at having us go further in debt, I wish I would have stood up, taken this lady by the shoulders, and started shaking her while shouting into her face, to make it perfectly clear, “I am not taking out more loans and payment plans to pay for this shit. It’s cash, or nothing. Strapping more debt onto my belt is the last thing I want, in fact the absence of more debt trumps having a better kitchen.”
I get it that everyone is trying to make dat money, but whats the point in discussing budget if its not taken into consideration, whatsoever. Then something happened that really infuriated me, the contractor, after my husband told him this is way too much for us to spend, he said, “Let me take a look at it again, and see what I can do.”

That reply, that fucking reply, has led me to say, “He’s dead to me!”
Why did he send over an estimate that can be shrunk down? I don’t like the way he’s conducting business, it should be the fairest price from the beginning, no fat to be trimmed from inflated costs because the customers using a same-as-cash loan (what the fuck does that even mean?)
It reminds me of when I called Comcast to cancel my service because I was paying close to a car payment for cable and internet. I spoke with the representative, and he said, “How about you keep your plan, and I’ll make it a hundred dollars cheaper?”
I was shocked; “How about you back pay me then the $100 a month I’ve paid you for the last year too.” It shouldn’t be legal that some people pay $80 for the same service another person is paying $200 for. If price were based individually on how much the customer is willing to spend, then I’d rather not do business with you.

Our kitchen is not is bad shape, its just small and secluded. I’m still happy, its not like we aren’t eating. The kitchen functions fine. We can take our home improvement money, and use it in other ways, like put in a swimming pool to help us through the agony of Sacramento Summer, or pave our driveway that is 1/3 dirt, or buy a new sofa since ours has surely soaked up a gallon of milk by now, or paint the walls that are tagged up with crayon and grubby hand prints.

Before I paint the walls, the kids better make me the craft project with their handprints, and the poem about how those dirty handprints on the walls are just temporary. It goes something like this: 

Yo Ma, don’t get your panties in a bunch 
This hand print is from my peanut butter lunch
One day I’ll be a grown up too
You’ll stare at this print and think of your boo

My house is relatively small square footage. I think this is a plus because it means less shit to clean, and the kids are always within hearing range. But thinking of return on investment, it would actually be ridiculously stupid to spend that kind of money on a kitchen remodel in a house our size. I am certain the contractor is aware of this fact, which is especially annoying. The value of our house currently and the value of our house after remodeling should be directly related.

You know the real estate motto, “You always get back money you put into your kitchen and bathrooms.” Well, that wouldn’t be the case if we put 40K into our kitchen. Based on square footage, we wouldn’t be able to sell our house for it’s current value plus 40K. I’m sure there is some real estate or house flipping terminology for that, but I’m just going to call it common sense.

I'm fired up, but it will burn out soon. If the estimate comes back and is still asinine, I can cool my jets by thinking of that new pool I'll be jumping in too.