Warning:
what you are about to read was written in flu induced haze. I’m hopped
up on meds and hacking up my lungs–which might account for the
incessant whining below. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it.
Hack hack.
IZ: I checked the weather forecast. It’s supposed to be in the high 70’s, low 80’s while we are there.
Me: Yeah, let’s talk about all the things I need to get before we go and how we are going to pay for them.
IZ: blank stare.
Me: You talk and I’ll listen.
IZ: miming money coming out his mouth. I’m beginning to feel like an ATM.
And I’m thinking, whatever made you think you weren’t?
IZ: So what exactly do you need?
Me: How much have you got?
IZ: Let me put this another way… if you can only get four things, what would they be?
Me: I don’t know, but they all cost $100. So fork over the Benjies.
IZ is thinking: I really am an ATM.
And
I’m thinking… this is what happens when you quit your day job and I
should have told him $200. I’ve lost my edge, I’m forgetting the
basics of negotiating.
The
downside of quitting your day
job (is there an upside?) is that all that extra income is now
gone. That’s rather obvious. Unlike a lot of other working
moms, I didn’t have the expenses typically associated with working
outside your home. I didn’t have to worry about childcare, lunch,
commuting, parking, or wardrobe. I took HOME my paycheck.
And by home, I mean it flew out the door in the form of all the extra
that makes life cushy. I don’t think we realized until it was
gone exactly
what extra meant. It pinches a lot little. Like jeans just a bit too
small. It forces you to scrounge around the house looking for a
rubber band to rig to your button for breathing room.
The
pinch
isn’t so bad–otherwise, we wouldn’t be going on vacation (why are we
going on vacation again, IZ?)–we can live and apparently vacation on
IZ’s income. (not to mention his ability to locate killer deals for the
dimes he found in the couch!) But it’s enough to make a girl
wonder. I miss
new clothes. I miss dinners out that don’t include the phrase, “Would
you like fries with that?” I miss splurging on the
kid. I miss buying little gifts for my friends for no reason at
all. I miss spoiling IZ. And then there’s the other
thing. I have a new sucking sound on my budget called this old
house. Let me tell you, our house is a whiner. HOLY
COW. You can’t take it anywhere that it doesn’t beg at the
checkout counter, “Oh please, oh please, can’t I have a new furnace?”
Or, “Seriously, you call this a yard? This is Not a yard.”
Or, “You know, I’d look so good in new siding, why can’t I have new
siding? All the other houses have new siding? WHY???”
It makes me wonder if my degree is truly worth working for
FREE
for the next year. Oh yeah, for free. NO MONEY FOR
WENDE. Which is why I’m hitting up my poor overworked sweetie for
cash now! I know all you feminists who read my tarty little page
are breathing a sigh of relief. Yes, I do understand the importance of
not being one of those women who insists on having a man around to
“support” her. Now if I would just give up trying to look like
the J.Crew models and wearing Make-up, right?
Never gonna happen sweeties,
sorry.
Oh yeah, and I miss new lip gloss. (Ok, so I’m petty and
vain. You knew that. Cope.)
It’s not like IZ
is some ogre about money. He’s hard pressed to give me any money
when his clients aren’t coughing up the cash. The joys of
semi-self employment. It’s not like I don’t have access or I’m
cut off or we are starving. I’m not, I’ve never been, and we
always have food in the house. We are blessed and I know that. Which makes me feel all the worse. It’s
not just the minor, petty, little, insignificant creature comforts
that I miss. It’s the ability to afford those things without
guilt that I miss. I say all
this cognizant that I’m about to go on a week long vacation to the SUN
and how completely whiny is that? It’s pretty whiny. I
know. But you should know that I’m going with painfully OLD
underwear. And a swimsuit my aged mother-in-law thought
fashionable that I managed to hack into a takini, six years ago.
Which I suppose makes me vain
and shallow and ungrateful. I want to believe that a year of 40+
hour work weeks will be worth it in the end. That hard work will be
its own reward. That having a Master’s degree, no matter how
useless, will be worth the effort. That I will find meaning for
my life in all this.
But you know what would help? Yeah, a new skirt from Anthropologie.
I think I will go dig in my old purses. Surely I’ll find a missing lip
gloss that I forgot I had but is just the right shade for a trip to the
tropics.
