We had some dudes come over this morning from a Major Home Improvement Retailer to give us the skinny on replacing our shitty windows. Our house was built in the 50s, and I'm reasonably certain no window has been upgraded since then. Of course our delightful MHIR salesperson drew up a quote with their "recommended" window brand, which comes with the top-of-the-line quality windows and a 20 year warranty to boot. That's all good, but I'm not planning to die in this house, and if we happen to sell in less than 20 years, I'm not really interested in giving our buyers my window warranty and getting little to nothing back on that particular investment. So I had him re-do the paperwork with the standard, subpar, shitty windows, because at this point, we could tape plastic Target bags over holes in the walls and be better off. The end figures were a lot better than I'd originally anticipated, but still about five times what we can reasonably afford. We've decided to go ahead and replace at least the windows in the three bedrooms (one child's window won't open; the other's won't close), figuring that's where we lose most of our heat and therefore, cash. And at least now we know what it will likely cost to replace the windows in the rest of the house, and next year's tax refund is earmarked for that purpose.
I'm still nervous about handing over that kind of cash given our financial situation at the moment. We're surviving--but barely. Our situation is such that in the event of an unexpected major expense, we would be up shit creek sans paddle. We're not able to make much of a dent in our credit card debt, either. I had hoped to have all of that out of the way by the end of this year, but considering I'm spending about twice as much on gas just to get to and from this fantastic new job of mine, it's not going to happen.
And I feel guilty about it all. I feel like I put us in this position because I'm too big of a baby to suck it up and take one for the team. Yes, my last job was dehumanizing, demoralizing and made me want to kill myself on a regular basis--but at least we were starting to make headway at the salary it paid. I'm definitely happier in my current position, but the cash situation is stressing me out to the point I have to wonder...was it worth it?
Ben had an interview at one of his former employer's competitors last week. The prognosis is positive that they will at least call him back for a second interview. He's hoping an offer for a substantially higher salary is a possibility. I certainly hope so. But just like I don't plan our budget around the child support payments that may or may not be made, I can't count chickens that are yet to hatch and feel good about it.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Friday, February 12, 2010
I Don't Like You, Either.
Don't take it personally. I don't like anyone today.
I woke up this morning at 5:25 a.m. when my alarm clock went off. At 5:27 a.m., my husband got up to pee. I stayed in bed and contemplated how much I hate the sound of him peeing. About how much it irritates the shit out of me the way he's obsessed with the toilet in our bathroom, and will stand next to it for no fewer than five minutes every time he flushes it rather than just FIXING IT and being done with it. About how everything he's done for the past week has made me want to hit him over the head with a cast iron skillet, cartoon-style.
It's not him. It's me.
Correction--it's not me, either. It's February.
February!
I don't like myself, either. Last night, the toddler did what non-talkers do instead of saying "no thank you, mother, I don't particularly desire to be held at this moment"--meaning he clawed me in the face and put a nice scratch on my upper lip. It doesn't look like the scratch of a non-talking toddler, it looks like herpes. And I have a healing zit mere centimeters from that spot, so it really looks like herpes. And I need a haircut. And I'm pasty. And dry. And I feel fat as hell. I made it through the workday without sugar, but then I came home and had a Tootsie Pop (thanks, Bob) and 170 calories' worth of Dove bar.
I don't like my kids. We have no babysitters, period, so our opportunities to coexist as adults with any interest in one another are rare and far between. I was thinking tonight what a cold, lonely, "you're on your own" sort of world parenting is in this society of ours, and how if we could just get one evening a week alone without our children, our outlook on the world (and certainly each other) might improve exponentially. I thought about how relaxed and calm our lives would be if we didn't have children--we'd probably both hit the gym on our way home from work, then come home refreshed and rejuvenated, ready to hit the shower, come out clean, and spend a quiet evening cooking up a fabulous dinner together, which we would eat leisurely either in front of the tv (adult programming, not Nick Jr.) or in a dimly-lit dining room. Or in bed. Whatever. You know, like we used to do, when the older child was at his biological father's house and before we decided to spawn one of our own. And so clear was this image of the perfect evening, so simple, so brilliant, in my head, I damn near wept over it.
Then I walked in the house and saw the toddler, butt in the air, attempting to pick up his binky from the floor using only his mouth. And then I remembered how damned sweet and precious and cute he is, and his older brother too. And then I felt guilty. And descended further into my downward spiral of self-loathing.
I found a new food blog today. I'd be in love if not for the fact this blogger also lives in NYC, also doesn't appear to have a full (or part) time job aside from blogging, and has ample time to create some of the most delicious looking things I've seen this side of Dean and Deluca. What the hell? I thought people in NYC lived in tiny little shitheap apartments with $5000 a month rent and kitchens the size of the one in Barbie's townhouse. Apparently they all have better kitchens than even mine, have more gadgets than I will ever own (this one has her own cherry pitter), and have more free time and disposable income than I will ever have, ever ever ever. She probably has a nanny, too.
Bitch.
Oh, February, you suck so bad. When will you end (don't anyone say "16 days" or I'll take you hostage, swear to God) and release me from your frozen grasp? When will you allow my eyes to see daylight once again? Every year I swear I won't make it through another winter, and every year, I do...but it keeps getting harder.
I woke up this morning at 5:25 a.m. when my alarm clock went off. At 5:27 a.m., my husband got up to pee. I stayed in bed and contemplated how much I hate the sound of him peeing. About how much it irritates the shit out of me the way he's obsessed with the toilet in our bathroom, and will stand next to it for no fewer than five minutes every time he flushes it rather than just FIXING IT and being done with it. About how everything he's done for the past week has made me want to hit him over the head with a cast iron skillet, cartoon-style.
It's not him. It's me.
Correction--it's not me, either. It's February.
February!
I don't like myself, either. Last night, the toddler did what non-talkers do instead of saying "no thank you, mother, I don't particularly desire to be held at this moment"--meaning he clawed me in the face and put a nice scratch on my upper lip. It doesn't look like the scratch of a non-talking toddler, it looks like herpes. And I have a healing zit mere centimeters from that spot, so it really looks like herpes. And I need a haircut. And I'm pasty. And dry. And I feel fat as hell. I made it through the workday without sugar, but then I came home and had a Tootsie Pop (thanks, Bob) and 170 calories' worth of Dove bar.
I don't like my kids. We have no babysitters, period, so our opportunities to coexist as adults with any interest in one another are rare and far between. I was thinking tonight what a cold, lonely, "you're on your own" sort of world parenting is in this society of ours, and how if we could just get one evening a week alone without our children, our outlook on the world (and certainly each other) might improve exponentially. I thought about how relaxed and calm our lives would be if we didn't have children--we'd probably both hit the gym on our way home from work, then come home refreshed and rejuvenated, ready to hit the shower, come out clean, and spend a quiet evening cooking up a fabulous dinner together, which we would eat leisurely either in front of the tv (adult programming, not Nick Jr.) or in a dimly-lit dining room. Or in bed. Whatever. You know, like we used to do, when the older child was at his biological father's house and before we decided to spawn one of our own. And so clear was this image of the perfect evening, so simple, so brilliant, in my head, I damn near wept over it.
Then I walked in the house and saw the toddler, butt in the air, attempting to pick up his binky from the floor using only his mouth. And then I remembered how damned sweet and precious and cute he is, and his older brother too. And then I felt guilty. And descended further into my downward spiral of self-loathing.
I found a new food blog today. I'd be in love if not for the fact this blogger also lives in NYC, also doesn't appear to have a full (or part) time job aside from blogging, and has ample time to create some of the most delicious looking things I've seen this side of Dean and Deluca. What the hell? I thought people in NYC lived in tiny little shitheap apartments with $5000 a month rent and kitchens the size of the one in Barbie's townhouse. Apparently they all have better kitchens than even mine, have more gadgets than I will ever own (this one has her own cherry pitter), and have more free time and disposable income than I will ever have, ever ever ever. She probably has a nanny, too.
Bitch.
Oh, February, you suck so bad. When will you end (don't anyone say "16 days" or I'll take you hostage, swear to God) and release me from your frozen grasp? When will you allow my eyes to see daylight once again? Every year I swear I won't make it through another winter, and every year, I do...but it keeps getting harder.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
A Sad, Sad State of Affairs
There is a reason why February is only 28 days long. They try to sneak that 29th day in there, but they're only brave enough to do so every 4 years. The reason is simple--if February were any longer, we would all fucking kill each other by the time it was over.
February is, by far, the most horrible of the 12 months. It's cold. It's dark. It's gray. It snows every fucking day. You get slapped in the face the first week with a reminder there's still SIX WEEKS left of this winter drudgery (and then they insult your intelligence by expecting you to believe it's the fault of some Rodent Of Unusual Size). Your kids are off school for Presidents' Day, which is possibly the dumbest "holiday" ever conceived of--yet you are still expected to go to work because real businesses don't close for Presidents' Day. You could, of course, take a vacation day, because who doesn't want to take a vacation day on a Monday in the middle of February? Or maybe you're one of the lucky ones (like me) who work in the banking industry or some government-related job and you're off that day--congratulations, you get to spend the day stuck in the house with your kids! Yaaaaay!
Don't even get me started on Valentine's Day.
Actually, VD (as I prefer to call it) is the one bright spot in this wretched, wretched month. Because my husband and I agreed not to sweat it during our first year together, so the pressure's off. I buy a few cheap packages of valentines for my kids to pass out at school, a bag of Tootsie Pops for the older one to pass out with his, a couple of 3-4 piece candy hearts and a card for each kid, everyone's happy and I'm out 5, 6 bucks tops. And everywhere you go, there is candy. Candy in hearts. Candy in the shape of flowers. Candy in the shape of body parts. Not just candy--CHOCOLATE. Your beacon of light in the fog-shrouded evening that is February.
Yeah, I haven't been to the gym all week. I went on a post-dinner binge tonight that included a few rice cakes, some hard-boiled eggs and a toaster strudel (for starters). I'm pretty sure the last 10 pounds I wanted to finally get rid of is now the last 15 (possibly 17). I haven't been to the gym since Sunday.
Nobody loves me, everyone hates me, I guess I'll go out and eat worms.
As soon as I can find a shovel strong enough to dig them out of the frozen earth.
February is, by far, the most horrible of the 12 months. It's cold. It's dark. It's gray. It snows every fucking day. You get slapped in the face the first week with a reminder there's still SIX WEEKS left of this winter drudgery (and then they insult your intelligence by expecting you to believe it's the fault of some Rodent Of Unusual Size). Your kids are off school for Presidents' Day, which is possibly the dumbest "holiday" ever conceived of--yet you are still expected to go to work because real businesses don't close for Presidents' Day. You could, of course, take a vacation day, because who doesn't want to take a vacation day on a Monday in the middle of February? Or maybe you're one of the lucky ones (like me) who work in the banking industry or some government-related job and you're off that day--congratulations, you get to spend the day stuck in the house with your kids! Yaaaaay!
Don't even get me started on Valentine's Day.
Actually, VD (as I prefer to call it) is the one bright spot in this wretched, wretched month. Because my husband and I agreed not to sweat it during our first year together, so the pressure's off. I buy a few cheap packages of valentines for my kids to pass out at school, a bag of Tootsie Pops for the older one to pass out with his, a couple of 3-4 piece candy hearts and a card for each kid, everyone's happy and I'm out 5, 6 bucks tops. And everywhere you go, there is candy. Candy in hearts. Candy in the shape of flowers. Candy in the shape of body parts. Not just candy--CHOCOLATE. Your beacon of light in the fog-shrouded evening that is February.
Yeah, I haven't been to the gym all week. I went on a post-dinner binge tonight that included a few rice cakes, some hard-boiled eggs and a toaster strudel (for starters). I'm pretty sure the last 10 pounds I wanted to finally get rid of is now the last 15 (possibly 17). I haven't been to the gym since Sunday.
Nobody loves me, everyone hates me, I guess I'll go out and eat worms.
As soon as I can find a shovel strong enough to dig them out of the frozen earth.
Monday, February 8, 2010
Mostly Shitty with a Chance of Suck
That pretty much describes our weather. No, we don't have 8 feet of drifting snow on the ground like our compadres on the east coast--but to be fair, it's not like they all live in a climate where that's unheard of. If Florida got 8 feet of snow, I'd feel sorry for them. Well, not really, because they NEVER get 8 feet of snow or any snow for that matter, so on the ridiculous chance of an Act of God wherein they got 8 feet of snow, it'd be pbbbbbbttt on them. But east coast? Nah. Don't feel sorry for them.
Especially not since we have ice. Ice, ice, baby. And just as it wasn't good on the charts, it's not good on the streets, either. And since the temperatures are barely supposed to climb out of the teens until Wednesday, tomorrow isn't looking so great, either.
So I was really good eating-wise all day until I had a Snack Attack around 2:30 and went to the machine. I stuck in my dollar and selected Sun Chips. Reasonable. Except my package got stuck on the little metal corkscrew thingy and I wasn't about to let A DOLLAR go down the tubes. So I stuck another dollar in and got two bags of Sun Chips. I told myself I was going to save the other pack, but I knew damn good and well that bag wouldn't make it to see 3:30.
And I was right.
Then I came home and ate not one but TWO helpings of cheese ravioli with peas and bacon for dinner. Did I mention the chips and pineapple salsa my husband and I munched on while we were cooking said pasta?
And it's cold and shitty enough outside that I don't want to leave the house again. As much as I really do want to go to the gym, it's painfully cold out. The kind of cold that makes you fold in two as soon as it hits you. That, coupled with the icy roads...yeah. Call it a day.
Maybe I should just resign myself to a Bad Eating Day and spend the evening on the sofa, under Super Blanket, eating crap and candy. Except I don't think we have any chocolate. Except my husband could always make me a malt.
Mmmmm...malt.
Especially not since we have ice. Ice, ice, baby. And just as it wasn't good on the charts, it's not good on the streets, either. And since the temperatures are barely supposed to climb out of the teens until Wednesday, tomorrow isn't looking so great, either.
So I was really good eating-wise all day until I had a Snack Attack around 2:30 and went to the machine. I stuck in my dollar and selected Sun Chips. Reasonable. Except my package got stuck on the little metal corkscrew thingy and I wasn't about to let A DOLLAR go down the tubes. So I stuck another dollar in and got two bags of Sun Chips. I told myself I was going to save the other pack, but I knew damn good and well that bag wouldn't make it to see 3:30.
And I was right.
Then I came home and ate not one but TWO helpings of cheese ravioli with peas and bacon for dinner. Did I mention the chips and pineapple salsa my husband and I munched on while we were cooking said pasta?
And it's cold and shitty enough outside that I don't want to leave the house again. As much as I really do want to go to the gym, it's painfully cold out. The kind of cold that makes you fold in two as soon as it hits you. That, coupled with the icy roads...yeah. Call it a day.
Maybe I should just resign myself to a Bad Eating Day and spend the evening on the sofa, under Super Blanket, eating crap and candy. Except I don't think we have any chocolate. Except my husband could always make me a malt.
Mmmmm...malt.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
The Right Direction
Here is today's "Weight Log" from my account at Calorie Count:
Notice the line goes down. As it rightfully should, given I have busted my own balls all week.
Here's to continuing the trend.
Notice the line goes down. As it rightfully should, given I have busted my own balls all week.Here's to continuing the trend.
Super Sunday
Yeah, I couldn't care less about the Stupid Big Game or the commercials or whatever. Although I'm sure I'll be forced to endure it because I do, after all, live with a dude. So that said, I am looking forward to the commercials. As much as they're paying for them, they oughta be good.
More of that fluffy white shit in the forecast for today. My morning tomorrow is going to suck. Dare I say I'm getting used to it? At least I have a Fivebucks gift card with $16 left to spend, so I can spend that hour-plus in my car with good coffee. It's the little things, you know.
I'm going to go to Target today to spend some more Money I Don't Have. We've got a dude coming out next Saturday to give us an estimate on new windows. I think I'm going to have him break it down to a room-by-room cost. Hey, we're paying $30 for the damn estimate, it's going to be worth my money. At best it looks like we will end up replacing just the windows in the bedrooms this year, but that will be a worthwhile investment for sure. It will be delightful to be able to actually open (and close) our bedroom windows and have fresh air coming in (instead of bugs).
I'm also going to the gym today. It's a straight cardio day. I just hope I can make it a whole 50 minutes.
More of that fluffy white shit in the forecast for today. My morning tomorrow is going to suck. Dare I say I'm getting used to it? At least I have a Fivebucks gift card with $16 left to spend, so I can spend that hour-plus in my car with good coffee. It's the little things, you know.
I'm going to go to Target today to spend some more Money I Don't Have. We've got a dude coming out next Saturday to give us an estimate on new windows. I think I'm going to have him break it down to a room-by-room cost. Hey, we're paying $30 for the damn estimate, it's going to be worth my money. At best it looks like we will end up replacing just the windows in the bedrooms this year, but that will be a worthwhile investment for sure. It will be delightful to be able to actually open (and close) our bedroom windows and have fresh air coming in (instead of bugs).
I'm also going to the gym today. It's a straight cardio day. I just hope I can make it a whole 50 minutes.
Friday, February 5, 2010
3 Piggy Opera
Monday evening, I was going through Bob's school bag (and the 9 million pieces of paper the school district insists on sending home even though very few students live in homes without Internet access) when I came across the event calendar for February. I was checking for any news on a talent show (it appears this may be the first year without one) when I noticed an entry for Thursday 2/4 - "2nd Grade Performance - 3 Piggy Opera - 6:30pm."
Say what?
"Bob, is this '3 Piggy Opera' something you're supposed to go to school for?"
(Incoherent mumbling)
Mm-hmm. "I'll email your teacher tomorrow to find out for sure."
Sure enough, a notice had been sent home some time ago, but Bob's mysteriously never made it to our house. The second notice, stapled to his planner by his teacher, came home on Tuesday. Indeed, the 2nd Graders were to be at the school by 6:15 on Thursday to present their program, which they've apparently been working on for the past six weeks.
Bob seemed entirely not thrilled. References to the "stupid pig opera" were made, but no reason for this disdain were offered. Finally, Thursday morning, he admitted to Ben he was "a little nervous."
At first it seemed ludicrous. Bob has always been an extrovert and never known a stranger. Bob has never passed up an opportunity to act ridiculous for a laugh. Bob was in the talent show last year, for pete's sake.
That said, Bob's extrovert behavior seemed to take place during his manic periods, and over the past year, he's been increasingly self-conscious around people he doesn't know. And even though he was in the talent show, I was on stage with him, and even then, he seemed to freeze up more than I'd expected.
We went out for pizza prior to the show, and he was happy and chatty and ate like, well, a pig. When we got to school, he advised me I was to go find a seat while he went to his classroom. I watched him walk down the hall, confident, without any obvious apprehension.
Then I watched as he filed onto the stage with the rest of his class. His eyes scanned the room, and then he seemed to physically shrink a good three inches. Maybe four.
Holy crap--my kid has stage fright.
Still, he made it through, and he certainly wasn't the only kid who looked like he'd rather be at the dentist. Afterward, he was almost giddy with relief at having the whole business behind him. On the way home, he told me the reason he doesn't like to smile on stage is because "I feel stupid."
Today, I got the results from his gifted program testing in the mail. He tested in the 98th to 99th percentile in all but one area, where he tested average. The notice stated the tester felt his actual result would have been higher but he was hampered by either anxiety or just a simple lack of knowledge because of his age. But the part that really threw me--his math scores place him at the 3rd grade, 7th month level. A full year and then some ahead of where he actually is.
If he didn't look just like me, I'd swear he was an alien.
Say what?
"Bob, is this '3 Piggy Opera' something you're supposed to go to school for?"
(Incoherent mumbling)
Mm-hmm. "I'll email your teacher tomorrow to find out for sure."
Sure enough, a notice had been sent home some time ago, but Bob's mysteriously never made it to our house. The second notice, stapled to his planner by his teacher, came home on Tuesday. Indeed, the 2nd Graders were to be at the school by 6:15 on Thursday to present their program, which they've apparently been working on for the past six weeks.
Bob seemed entirely not thrilled. References to the "stupid pig opera" were made, but no reason for this disdain were offered. Finally, Thursday morning, he admitted to Ben he was "a little nervous."
At first it seemed ludicrous. Bob has always been an extrovert and never known a stranger. Bob has never passed up an opportunity to act ridiculous for a laugh. Bob was in the talent show last year, for pete's sake.
That said, Bob's extrovert behavior seemed to take place during his manic periods, and over the past year, he's been increasingly self-conscious around people he doesn't know. And even though he was in the talent show, I was on stage with him, and even then, he seemed to freeze up more than I'd expected.
We went out for pizza prior to the show, and he was happy and chatty and ate like, well, a pig. When we got to school, he advised me I was to go find a seat while he went to his classroom. I watched him walk down the hall, confident, without any obvious apprehension.
Then I watched as he filed onto the stage with the rest of his class. His eyes scanned the room, and then he seemed to physically shrink a good three inches. Maybe four.
Holy crap--my kid has stage fright.
Still, he made it through, and he certainly wasn't the only kid who looked like he'd rather be at the dentist. Afterward, he was almost giddy with relief at having the whole business behind him. On the way home, he told me the reason he doesn't like to smile on stage is because "I feel stupid."
Today, I got the results from his gifted program testing in the mail. He tested in the 98th to 99th percentile in all but one area, where he tested average. The notice stated the tester felt his actual result would have been higher but he was hampered by either anxiety or just a simple lack of knowledge because of his age. But the part that really threw me--his math scores place him at the 3rd grade, 7th month level. A full year and then some ahead of where he actually is.
If he didn't look just like me, I'd swear he was an alien.
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