I didn't start out with a lot of enthusiasm for Christmas this year. We were very broke. With plenty of expenses.
Like the Snow-Tire Deadline. December 15, every vehicle has to have four snow tires on.
True to form, Hubby bought his on the 14th, and slated the installation, alignment & balancing for the 15th. Well, at least we actually MADE the deadline!
But that whopped the heck out of the paycheck. He told the kids, "Everybody's getting a TIRE for Christmas."
For days and weeks, the kids bugged us about putting up a tree.
"What's the point?" I asked. "There isn't going to be anything under it."
Our employer added to the fun. Every year since its inception, McGill has paid the end-of-the-month pay (slated for the 31st) on the 23rd of December. Hubby has been working there 32 years. For his 32 years, and my 19, we've been getting that extra paycheck just before Christmas, and we've been using it to pull Christmas presents out of a hat.
But noooo - not any more. We were notified on the 15th that, oh, by the way, your pay of the 31st will stay firmly where it is, until the actual 31st of December. Happy Holidays!
I had a quilt deadline for Christmas, so instead of sewing up a storm of presents, I was quilting. That meant for me that I couldn't start making Christmas presents till the client had picked up her quilt, which she did, on the 19th. So that's when I STARTED making gifts.
I noted with what I think is called "wry chagrin" that my cousin had all the gifts WRAPPED by that date. Sigh. Maybe next year.
Well, Santa pulled down a miracle. The EX gave Hubby back his support payment for the month of December.
See, the kid he's paying support FOR has been living here, with US, for six months.
"Has she found religion?" one of our pals asked.
I don't know. But we did find ourselves with a Christmas after all - complete with tree, food, and gifts for all.
Nobody was more surprised than me!
Sunday, December 28, 2008
On Being Gainfully Employed
So, on December 16, my eight-weeks period of Rest (HA!) came to an end. I was back at work.
It was nice to get out of the house. Nice to see the people I work with again. I still remembered how to turn on the computer this time... And they'd saved me a JOB to work on!
A loverly color brochure, with pictures taken specifically for it, and working with C, who is SO SENSIBLE about cutting text to the minimum...
I'd say my usual things like: "This brochure serves the purpose of a business card. You don't need to show how many credits each program is, just show 'em the exciting bits!"
...And she GOT IT! I love C. She "groks" things.
Everybody liked my weird fold design...
Anyway, there I was, second day back at work, and I get a tap on my shoulder. It was Hubby (who - you guessed it - works in the same building as I do). I looked up at him. "Yes?"
"Can we eat," he said.
I looked at the clock. It was past two o'clock.
"OMG!" I exclaimed. "I didn't even notice it was past feeding time!"
We grabbed our grub from the fridge and headed off to the lounge. The instant I stood up, I felt all rubbery, and realized...
"OMG! I didn't even eat BREAKFAST!"
Now, to some people, this wouldn't be noteworthy. For ME to miss not just one feeding time, but two, and IN A ROW, could be front page news! I haven't attained my "mature" profile by being a picky eater!
Not only that, but my astrological sign is LEO.
Lion.
Ever seen a hungry lion?
Want to be the guy that feeds the lions at the zoo, and MISS two feeding times, in a row, and try to go in there to feed them? I thought not!
I quipped at my boss, "See what happens when you give me something FUN to do?!"
Ah yes. I'm back at work. And loving it.
It was nice to get out of the house. Nice to see the people I work with again. I still remembered how to turn on the computer this time... And they'd saved me a JOB to work on!
A loverly color brochure, with pictures taken specifically for it, and working with C, who is SO SENSIBLE about cutting text to the minimum...
I'd say my usual things like: "This brochure serves the purpose of a business card. You don't need to show how many credits each program is, just show 'em the exciting bits!"
...And she GOT IT! I love C. She "groks" things.
Everybody liked my weird fold design...
Anyway, there I was, second day back at work, and I get a tap on my shoulder. It was Hubby (who - you guessed it - works in the same building as I do). I looked up at him. "Yes?"
"Can we eat," he said.
I looked at the clock. It was past two o'clock.
"OMG!" I exclaimed. "I didn't even notice it was past feeding time!"
We grabbed our grub from the fridge and headed off to the lounge. The instant I stood up, I felt all rubbery, and realized...
"OMG! I didn't even eat BREAKFAST!"
Now, to some people, this wouldn't be noteworthy. For ME to miss not just one feeding time, but two, and IN A ROW, could be front page news! I haven't attained my "mature" profile by being a picky eater!
Not only that, but my astrological sign is LEO.
Lion.
Ever seen a hungry lion?
Want to be the guy that feeds the lions at the zoo, and MISS two feeding times, in a row, and try to go in there to feed them? I thought not!
I quipped at my boss, "See what happens when you give me something FUN to do?!"
Ah yes. I'm back at work. And loving it.
Sunday, December 14, 2008
... but, would a jury of my peers convict me?
Okay, so, a couple of weekends ago, I had a laundry intervention.
I had gone downstairs in the hopes of putting on some laundry.
The way to the washer and dryer was blocked. A solid wall of piled laundry, laundry baskets, gym bags, blankets, boots, and hallowe'en decorations prevented access to the machines.
I ranted a few minutes, uselessly, then burst into tears and ran upstairs, where I took action. I called my friend K. I begged her to come over and view the devastation.
See, in OTHER people's houses, whenever you go in, the owner says "oh, please, excuse the mess!"
Only, there's no mess.
In MY home, however, there IS a mess.
Of BIBLICAL proportions.
See, Hubby and his two DNA replicants moved in around 13 years ago, and from that day to this, have behaved as aliens occupying my home, heedless of my pleas and protestations. They shrug their shoulders, they roll their eyes, and they use that amazing phrase that solves all their problems for them:
"It wasn't me."
Yeah. Right.
So my friend K came over and surveyed the battleground with me. I asked her one question: "Am I overreacting?"
She stared, slack-jawed for a few minutes before comforting me in her arms and saying, "No, you're not overreacting Deb. You're not imagining it or making it worse than it is. It is catastrophic. No human being should live like this."
I felt an immense surge of relief, and the tears of gratitude flowed faster than the tears of frustration had done.
From there, we went to the living room and called in the troops for a family meeting. We discussed personal cleanliness, respect for ourselves and for each other and for the house. There was whingeing and whining, and a lot of finger-pointing and many "It wasn't me"s... but in the end, rules were made.
From now on, all aliens do their own laundry.
No dirty clothes, and no clean clothes, are to be placed in any shared space.
No laundry can be started without being completed.
No-one is to sabotage anyone else's laundry-in-progress.
I continue to do linens. You should have seen the faces when it was suggested that each of them receive their own selection of towels and sheets! The horror! The humanity! Being adolescents, they're quite comfy with the idea that they will pick up their clothes from off the floor to wear out to school and work, but the thought that they might have to use a damp, smelly towel after their 45-minute showers.... Well, they were very happy to let me continue to do linens.
Buoyed by the success of the laundry intervention, I went through the kitchen and diningroom last week, removing tools, wires, electronic parts, CDs, DVDs, plugs, screws, nails, books, magazines.... In short, everything in the kitchen and dining room now belongs to the category of FOOD, and THINGS THAT GO WITH FOOD, like pots, pans, cutlery, napkins, etc.
So you can imagine my reaction today, when Hubby brought one of his new snow tires and new rims into the livingroom.
I piped up immediately. After all, one must nip these things in the bud!
I said, calmly and quietly, "Are you intending to put the tire onto the rim?"
Hubby said "That was the general idea."
I replied, "Well dear, the place for that is the basement, not the living room."
Hubby got the mat from the front hall and threw it on the living room rug. "It's okay," he said.
"Um... no it's not, dear," I said politely but firmly. "You have a workshop downstairs..."
"It's not big enough," he said flatly.
"... And there is also a nice clean section of floor in the laundry room, which is also in the basement," I continued.
He replied by throwing a wrench and a long yellow tie-down on the floor beside the tire.
"You intend, then," I said, "to continue to work on the tire, in the living room?"
"Yup," he said flatly.
I got up and went in search of my cell phone, which has a picture-taking function. I took a picture of the mat, tire, rim, tie-down, and wrench in the living room.
A few minutes later, as Hubby was bent over the tire, I took another picture.
I emailed the pictures, with the captions "Yes, he's doing this in the living room," and "Save me!" to his brother and a friend of mine.
I said to Hubby, as he was pounding away at the tire, "You know, I'm pretty sure you brother is not permitted to bring tires and rims into his living room to work on them."
No reply.
I said, "I'm pretty sure my friend R isn't allowed to, either."
No reply. Hubby now stands up and attempts to get the tire to go into the rim by rocking violently from side to side while trying not to fall.
I hear sounds of Stepkid yawning and stretching in her room. "Hey, Stepkid!" I call out. "Come and see your Dad making a fool of himself!"
"Shut up," said Hubby.
"Well, you DID make an appointment for tomorrow, right? And they have all the necessary tools, and you don't? And you have to pay them anyway?"
The reply was a soft growling sound.
"Well then, darling, I think you should stop this nonsense before you fall off and hurt yourself. Put it away, and go do something useful."
No reply, not even a gutteral one.
Stepkid came in to inspect. "What are you doing," she demanded.
"What does it look like?" Hubby snapped at her, stamping his feet on the tire.
Stepkid watched for a moment and then got up on the tire with her father. Instantly, she recognized the futility of the venture and alit. "Forget it, Dad, it's not going to happen," she said, exiting the room.
Eventually, Hubby did get down off the tire, only to try using the tie-down in a different position. I watched without comment as I did my quilting, for about ten or fifteen more minutes. Finally, Hubby got himself a cup of coffee and sat down. He looked at me soulfully.
"I don't suppose you'd be willing to help me do this?" he asked.
"You suppose correctly, dear," I answered. "Put it away. Put it out of your head. You're always complaining you have no time to do anything around here. Well, you have six or seven hours to play with today. I don't care what you do, as long as it's useful and productive! Go fix the shoe stand like you wanted to. Do some laundry if you wish. Build a fire in the fireplace. Vaccum the sawdust from your workshop. Build something. Do some stained glass. Sort your books. Read a book. Have a hot bath. Punch a hole in the wall for the washer's new position. But GET OVER THIS."
I got a glare and a growl.
So, my question is:
Is YOUR husband/father/brother/whatnot permitted to play with tires in YOUR livingroom?
What would YOUR or YOUR MOTHER'S reaction be if your dad/spouse/whatnot tried to do this sort of thing in the livingroom?
And finally,
Would you convict me?
I had gone downstairs in the hopes of putting on some laundry.
The way to the washer and dryer was blocked. A solid wall of piled laundry, laundry baskets, gym bags, blankets, boots, and hallowe'en decorations prevented access to the machines.
I ranted a few minutes, uselessly, then burst into tears and ran upstairs, where I took action. I called my friend K. I begged her to come over and view the devastation.
See, in OTHER people's houses, whenever you go in, the owner says "oh, please, excuse the mess!"
Only, there's no mess.
In MY home, however, there IS a mess.
Of BIBLICAL proportions.
See, Hubby and his two DNA replicants moved in around 13 years ago, and from that day to this, have behaved as aliens occupying my home, heedless of my pleas and protestations. They shrug their shoulders, they roll their eyes, and they use that amazing phrase that solves all their problems for them:
"It wasn't me."
Yeah. Right.
So my friend K came over and surveyed the battleground with me. I asked her one question: "Am I overreacting?"
She stared, slack-jawed for a few minutes before comforting me in her arms and saying, "No, you're not overreacting Deb. You're not imagining it or making it worse than it is. It is catastrophic. No human being should live like this."
I felt an immense surge of relief, and the tears of gratitude flowed faster than the tears of frustration had done.
From there, we went to the living room and called in the troops for a family meeting. We discussed personal cleanliness, respect for ourselves and for each other and for the house. There was whingeing and whining, and a lot of finger-pointing and many "It wasn't me"s... but in the end, rules were made.
From now on, all aliens do their own laundry.
No dirty clothes, and no clean clothes, are to be placed in any shared space.
No laundry can be started without being completed.
No-one is to sabotage anyone else's laundry-in-progress.
I continue to do linens. You should have seen the faces when it was suggested that each of them receive their own selection of towels and sheets! The horror! The humanity! Being adolescents, they're quite comfy with the idea that they will pick up their clothes from off the floor to wear out to school and work, but the thought that they might have to use a damp, smelly towel after their 45-minute showers.... Well, they were very happy to let me continue to do linens.
Buoyed by the success of the laundry intervention, I went through the kitchen and diningroom last week, removing tools, wires, electronic parts, CDs, DVDs, plugs, screws, nails, books, magazines.... In short, everything in the kitchen and dining room now belongs to the category of FOOD, and THINGS THAT GO WITH FOOD, like pots, pans, cutlery, napkins, etc.
So you can imagine my reaction today, when Hubby brought one of his new snow tires and new rims into the livingroom.
I piped up immediately. After all, one must nip these things in the bud!
I said, calmly and quietly, "Are you intending to put the tire onto the rim?"
Hubby said "That was the general idea."
I replied, "Well dear, the place for that is the basement, not the living room."
Hubby got the mat from the front hall and threw it on the living room rug. "It's okay," he said.
"Um... no it's not, dear," I said politely but firmly. "You have a workshop downstairs..."
"It's not big enough," he said flatly.
"... And there is also a nice clean section of floor in the laundry room, which is also in the basement," I continued.
He replied by throwing a wrench and a long yellow tie-down on the floor beside the tire.
"You intend, then," I said, "to continue to work on the tire, in the living room?"
"Yup," he said flatly.
I got up and went in search of my cell phone, which has a picture-taking function. I took a picture of the mat, tire, rim, tie-down, and wrench in the living room.
A few minutes later, as Hubby was bent over the tire, I took another picture.
I emailed the pictures, with the captions "Yes, he's doing this in the living room," and "Save me!" to his brother and a friend of mine.
I said to Hubby, as he was pounding away at the tire, "You know, I'm pretty sure you brother is not permitted to bring tires and rims into his living room to work on them."
No reply.
I said, "I'm pretty sure my friend R isn't allowed to, either."
No reply. Hubby now stands up and attempts to get the tire to go into the rim by rocking violently from side to side while trying not to fall.
I hear sounds of Stepkid yawning and stretching in her room. "Hey, Stepkid!" I call out. "Come and see your Dad making a fool of himself!"
"Shut up," said Hubby.
"Well, you DID make an appointment for tomorrow, right? And they have all the necessary tools, and you don't? And you have to pay them anyway?"
The reply was a soft growling sound.
"Well then, darling, I think you should stop this nonsense before you fall off and hurt yourself. Put it away, and go do something useful."
No reply, not even a gutteral one.
Stepkid came in to inspect. "What are you doing," she demanded.
"What does it look like?" Hubby snapped at her, stamping his feet on the tire.
Stepkid watched for a moment and then got up on the tire with her father. Instantly, she recognized the futility of the venture and alit. "Forget it, Dad, it's not going to happen," she said, exiting the room.
Eventually, Hubby did get down off the tire, only to try using the tie-down in a different position. I watched without comment as I did my quilting, for about ten or fifteen more minutes. Finally, Hubby got himself a cup of coffee and sat down. He looked at me soulfully.
"I don't suppose you'd be willing to help me do this?" he asked.
"You suppose correctly, dear," I answered. "Put it away. Put it out of your head. You're always complaining you have no time to do anything around here. Well, you have six or seven hours to play with today. I don't care what you do, as long as it's useful and productive! Go fix the shoe stand like you wanted to. Do some laundry if you wish. Build a fire in the fireplace. Vaccum the sawdust from your workshop. Build something. Do some stained glass. Sort your books. Read a book. Have a hot bath. Punch a hole in the wall for the washer's new position. But GET OVER THIS."
I got a glare and a growl.
So, my question is:
Is YOUR husband/father/brother/whatnot permitted to play with tires in YOUR livingroom?
What would YOUR or YOUR MOTHER'S reaction be if your dad/spouse/whatnot tried to do this sort of thing in the livingroom?
And finally,
Would you convict me?
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