Friday, September 30, 2016

No Words

Well, that title is misleading. I have LOTS of words. They are just not nice words.




That picture sums it up.



Keepin' It Real

I just returned home from picking up a couple things needed for the upcoming Boy Scouts popcorn sale this weekend.

I don't know the other parents that well because Ryan was the main scout parent last year. This year we have two scouts so my parental involvement will necessarily increase since they'll be in two different dens. Packs. Groups. I don't really know what they are called.

As I was driving to the house in the hills to gather the card table and Square card reader, I noticed the homes got larger, and larger, and larger. There weren't cars in the driveways because they have three and four car garages and their cars will fit in said garages or both of the occupants are at work because it’s the middle of the day.

Not everyone can be a lady of leisure like myself, writing at 1 o'clock in the afternoon just for the hell of it. Hmm, maybe I should pretend I'm writing this at night because Ryan will eventually read this.

I'm not what you would call the best hausfrau. I keep a decent house, a cluttered and clean house. If you look really close, past the clutter you may notice the surfaces under the clutter is actually quite clean.

Baseboards? Clean. Trim around the doors? Clean. Light switch plates? Clean.

When I see a stack of papers to be sorted or laundry to be folded or food to be cooked the grime in the corners of the kitchen sink calls to me. The dog hair that gathered like tumble weeds since I last swept two days ago calls to me. Those teeny tiny specks of paint that splattered on the floor in our bathroom from ten paintings ago - likely the previous owner - taunts me. I. Must. Clean.

Hm, that was quite a tangent.

I think driving in that neighborhood caused me to evaluate my life choices. Not finishing my nursing degree. Letting my license as an LPN lapse because - ugh - I hated it. Not figuring out something else to do that would pay more than I could make as a receptionist. Social work would be awesome. It would also require a degree and the work would be hard and fulfilling but still with crappy pay. Meh.

I have an acquaintance, who by all appearances is very prim and proper, once said that if something happened to her husband the only thing she thinks she could make money at would be selling her body. My eyes bugged out and my jaw dropped before I laughed. I'm sure she could earn quite a living as an escort - she’s gorgeous.

Then it occurred to me that if something terrible happened to Ryan, and I had to go back to work, the money as a receptionist wouldn't cut it. I couldn't even be a stripper. There are so many reasons why. I can't dance, provocatively or otherwise. I have two children. I'll let you figure that one out. I would have to be the discount stripper. The one who keeps it real. A friend said, “Nah. You could just go to one of the clubs on Highway 99.” Gee, thanks.

When we first moved to Beacon Hill there was a woman who had a one man, er, woman, operation out of the back of her van. I called that van the hooker-mobile. She was definitely a discount prostitute. Well, I can't say for sure she was a prostitute. She could have been selling drugs and her clientele was 100% male.

As all of these thoughts were swirling through my head, as most of my thoughts are wont to do. I thought of the clothes I was wearing and the car I was driving in this affluent neighborhood.

Last night I sat on my couch and mended these super tiny holes in the shirt I am wearing now. If you look closely, or not closely, just in my general direction you could see I did something to my shirt. I can afford a new shirt and I didn't have to mend it or the two sweaters that I did last night; I could have just bought new ones.

Ryan would probably like it if I did that as my state of dress could reflect poorly on him. He is the one who brings home the bacon after all. I just can't be bothered to go shopping. It’s such a chore. Drive to the mall, walk the mall, get lost in the mall, try on 20 shirts only to find one that I like or 20 that I love and are really freaking expensive.

When I'm at Costco buying a flat of fruit and 50 pounds of birdseed I always swing through the clothing section. If I see a shirt I like, I'll throw it and two of the same in different colors in the cart. Two birds. One stone.

We got rid of the minivan this summer. Good riddance! Kind of. Sure it had horrible gas mileage but oh the space! Having a minivan is like having a living room on wheels. Everyone has their own quadrant. Children with their own quadrant can’t reach the other to hit or steal toys.

So I was cruising in this neighborhood of considerable homes, one might even call them McMansions, in our sweet ride: a 2004 Pontiac Vibe. Don't be jealous of my well-loved and well-used car. I do not worry even a little bit about someone denting it.

You know what I really like to do? When someone is clearly taking up two parking spots because they don't want anyone near their precious car I will squeeze my twelve-year-old ride in as close to the line as possible. See? I can be a jerk, too.

We did buy a nice car this summer, a 2014 Lexus. It's the nicest car either of us has ever owned. I really, really like it. And I love when the Pontiac Vibe is parked next to the Lexus 450H in the driveway.

Keepin' it real, folks. That's what we are doing.

If I could have had a glimpse into my life now as an adult when I was a little girl I would have thought I was a millionaire. Nice home, fancy car, baby grand piano, expensive shoes, vacations and fancy food. If I want green beans I buy fresh green beans - not the canned stuff. See? Fancy.

My first home was tiny. TINY. There were five of us in a two-bedroom house. My current garage is bigger than the house I grew up in. Many of our neighbors did drugs. I saw pot for the first time when I was four or five; saw it smoked for the first time when I was five or six. I thought, “Why are they smoking out of a pop can?” Oddly enough I've never smoked pot even though it wouldn’t have been that hard to come by. I think assumed if I did I would end up like some of my neighbors.

Maybe I should delve deeper into why I feel so uncomfortable and out of place when I'm surrounded by affluence. But I guess it's all relative. Who knows, someone could feel uncomfortable in my house. I would have felt uncomfortable in it when I was a little girl. It's a middle class home in a middle class neighborhood. Maybe that is why I'm such a crappy housekeeper. I want to bring everything down a notch as to make others feel comfortable in my home. Somehow I don’t think Ryan would buy that excuse.

Oy. That’s quite a lot to put out there in my first post in… let me see… five years! Wow. If I really wanted to I could take advantage of this quiet house and meditate and try to understand these uncomfortable feelings I’m having. Or… I could get up and clean behind the fridge because it has suddenly become very loud. There’s probably a mountain of fur under it that is blocking the motor.

Yeah, I know what I’m going to do. Everyone in my house is going to be so pleased with our quiet fridge.