No Cents

After my last post I got a LOT of great support. Lots of great friends telling me that The Man was most definitely keeping the educated muthas such as myself down, lots of great friends telling me similar stories. Or even WORSE stories, which didn’t make me feel better about my situation, but did give me a sense of solidarity that was comforting.

But, as money issues often do, the student loan thing sent me into a tizzy. I HATE it. I hate dealing with money, thinking about money, planning money… so I just… don’t.

I only open my online account twice a month, to pay bills. And I put that off until the absolute last second every time. Because I haayyyyyyyyte it. HAY-TUH.

Hubs has a similar approach, called “my wife pays the bills.”

I don’t think I need to tell you where that approach has gotten us.

Funkytown.

Many of the folks who reached out to me were Ramsey-ites. Now, I am not new to the whole concept, the debt snowball thingy. I even read one of his books during a particularly long layover once. But I guess I just wasn’t ready to hear it. Thanks to some good friends, though (and one friend in particular whose opinions I respect a great deal who basically proselytized the plan in such a way that I was goddam inspired)…

Now I am.

Now I am ready to put on my big girl panties and do this thing, because it needs doing and the problems are only going to get worse if we continue to ignore them.

I used to feel strongly that my kids would have to pay their way through school, just like me, so that they would know the value of that education. But knowing what I know about how digging out of that hole has been, and knowing that higher education is only going to get more expensive, and knowing that my children are preshus snowflakes to me?  Not so much. So we need to get this shit straightened out so that we can start putting something– anything– aside for that.

So, we have started the snowball. Well. We started an excel spreadsheet. Which, you know, is a start. All goodness starts with a spreadsheet, no?

And holy cripes on a cracker what a punch in the schnozz that was.

Me no likey.

It was yet another opportunity to pick myself up off the bathroom floor, wipe off the tears, take a deep breath and move the hell on with fixing it.

It’s not awful. It could be a lot worse. It’s doable. Like losing weight, like anything worth doing, it is going to take time and hard work. But it’s possible. I see the light at the end of the tunnel. And it’s not even an oncoming train.

One of the side-effects of this little situation, however, is that he talks about how you should do whatever you can to pay off your debt. Take second, third, jobs. Sell shit. Sell plasma. Whatever it takes.

Well, um… if you know me, you know that I’m constantly taking crap out of this house anyway. AND there’s also not much I won’t do for money. But with Ramsey’s permission– NAY, insistence that I sell things we can let go of?

Let’s just say I wouldn’t leave anything lying around my house with a high street value.

I got two college degrees and all it got me is this blog and eternal violation by my student loan company.

I just got off the phone with my student loan company, and I can’t even describe how angry I am. I am so angry I am crying. I am so angry that I just want to crawl in a hole. I have no words for this angry. Only a lot of vowels. 

History: I paid my own way through college. Twice. I worked all through school, sometimes two and three jobs at a time. I had scholarships, and student loans. I went to a good public school. I graduated with honors alllllllmost on time. I did not party excessively, and I was pretty much a good egg. There were many times when I had no clue whether or not I would be able to stay in college. Times when I just took whatever classes I could get, because I could not register until the last minute– because I didn’t have the money to register or buy books. I don’t think most people knew just how little money I had to get through school, or how close I was to losing it all several times. 

In grad school, I had an assistantship that paid my tuition, room and board, and a small stipend. But of course, I still had car payments and other expenses. My assistantship required that I could not hold other employment, so I had to take loans for some of my living expenses. I went without health insurance for two years because most grad students do— it is so expensive to insure yourself, that most folks just gamble. I lost that gamble my second year of grad school, when I ended up with $2,000 in medical debt. 

If you are thinking to yourself “well, it’s a good thing you went to college so you could stay home with your kids,” here is what I would like you to do:

• Find the nearest mirror, and stand in front of it
• Look yourself in the face
• Tell yourself out loud to fuck off
• Punch yourself in the face at least twice. Hard.

Anyway.

When I left college, I had debt. Most people do. I had what is considered a fairly low debt– $22,000. Today, 65% of college undergrads graduate with an average of $25,000 in student debt. So, to owe what I owe AND have a Masters, I did pretty well.

Once I got a job, I set up a repayment plan with my student loan holder. Because I was making peanuts when I graduated (yay for the field of education!), I chose the lowest amount possible. Interest rates at that time were shit. But I didn’t have anyone standing in line to help me with that debt, so I had to take what was offered. 

And that pretty much brings us to today. Today, when I thought to myself “Man, I am THISCLOSE to paying off that student loan, I think. Lemme check on that!”

Today, I found out some wonderful gems about the “help” I received.

• My projected pay-off date is in 2020. YES. FUCKING TWENTY TWENTY. Motherfuckers. 
• On my current course of action, that help will end up costing me $21,557 in interest. YES. THAT IS ABOUT THE EXACT AMOUNT OF THE ORIGINAL LOAN. 
• Students can only consolidate their student loans ONCE. So, even though interest rates are HALF what they were when I consolidated in 2000, too fucking bad for me. So sorry. I cannot re-consolidate.
• When I asked them how it was possible that I have paid off TWO CARS in the time that I have only reached they halfway point of this loan, I discovered that it is a different kind of loan. It costs me roughly $2.43 every. single. day. to owe this money. 
• Banks will not lend you money so that you can pay off this horrible rape of a loan and pay their slightly less abusive rates instead. 

If you already knew all of this, and are judging me for not knowing, go ahead to that first set of bullet points and repeat. 

Goddammit I am so angry. 

Some of it is old anger. All through school, most of my friends had help paying for school. Many of my friends did not work. Many of my friends partied all the damn time and drove decent cars and did not shop at the Salvation Army for their winter coat. And they skipped school and made shit grades and they never had to worry that they might lose their scholarship. That made me so. damn. angry at the time. I had to work so hard and watched while other people just pissed it away. 

There are only so many times you can tell yourself that you are the better person because you knew the VALUE of college because you had to work for it. Only so many times you can tell yourself that that crap doesn’t matter. Lemme tell you, karma never rectifies this. Today, those folks live in bigger houses, drive nicer cars, etc  because they didn’t start off their “real lives” paying off student debt. 

Some of it is political anger– how in the world is this okay? How is it okay that once students make a repayment plan, they are not allowed to EVER, ever, ever get a lower rate?  How is it that a population that is so ill-prepared and ill-educated about these loans and what it will take to repay them are taken advantage of so completely? How have we built a society where you pretty much HAVE to have a Bachelor’s degree to get work, and then made entry-level jobs so hard to get? 

Some of it is anger at myself, for sure– I didn’t pay attention to this loan once I *was* old enough to make better payments. I actually didn’t even look at it, because other loans on the surface seemed to be smarter to pay off. I’m angry that I’m not a whiz at this kind of stuff.Finances are one of the areas of adulthood that it seems like everyone else “gets” but me (and I know this isn’t true, lots of us are idiots about money, but that’s what it FEELS like.)

I’m trying to get my house in order in 2012. My body, my finances, and my ACTUAL house. But it’s hard, because a lot of these issues evoke an emotional response. A great big “DAMMIT!” that I can’t really do anything about other than work to correct from here on out. It evokes feelings about how much of that crap is determined by factors that are completely out of your control, and feelings about how ignorance twenty years ago continues to fuck you over today. 

And I know that I was fortunate to be able to go to college at all. And I know that life is not fair. And I know I could have made better choices. And I know I can change things and better the situation. I know. 

But I still feel so freaking angry, you know? 

Standing On My Head

Remember last year when my brains had a quickie with some concrete? Well, we are coming up on the one year anniversary. And muthas STILL have not paid for my medical bills.

Lemme back up.

Immediately after it happened, homeslice at the store apologized profusely. He said “wow I had no idea there was so much ice back there!”

And then I came back in a few days later and he gave me some free phones.

And then I told him that I would be sending my medical bills to the store, and he didn’t say anything about that. I explained that I had no plan on taking advantage of the situation, but that I shouldn’t have to pay what was likely to be a hefty pile of medical bills just because they couldn’t put down some freaking kitty litter.

So I figured I probably needed a lawyer. I picked one out of the phone book. Cuz that’s how I roll, apparently.

The lawyer did whatever lawyers do, and folks pointed fingers, and I answered the same questions 400 times about the fall. Their insurance company called me, my insurance company called me, probably your insurance called me, too. I told the story a LOT.

Everyone told my lawyer why it isn’t THEIR fault, and pointed fingers at each other. The store’s insurance says the subcontractor who was hired to clear ice should be responsible. The “subcontractor” is just a lawn dude who needed winter work, and says the land owner should pay. The land owner says the store, as a renter, should pay.

Still, a year later, I am paying on my 20% of that bill– an amount that has four digits and cost more than bringing any of my children into the world.

I have been offered a “settlement” by the store’s insurance that is about 1/3 of the medical costs. Because of the nature of my pwn health insurance, that money would just go to them to cover the 80% their paid first.  It wouldn’t touch my part. Or the lawyer’s costs.

The insurance companies have done everything from accuse me to “just tripping and trying to make a buck” to denying that there was any ice to fall on (tell that to the ambulance drivers who also slipped on the ice while pushing me out on a stretcher.) They have blamed me for wearing “inappropriate footwear” (I was wearing snow boots), and for not watching where I was going (yeah, didn’t see that CLEAR ICE there fuckwad.)

I tried to do the right thing– all I wanted was for them to pay what they should have paid for not taking care of their property. They are damn lucky that my son wasn’t injured.

I can see that their ploy is to make this whole thing so ugly, so cumbersome, so laborious that I give up and just pay for it.

But they don’t know me.

Not at all.

They don’t know that every time my son sees an ambulance, a fire truck, or that store, A YEAR LATER, he says, “Mommy ride in wee-woo (ambulance.)  Fall down. You cwying. Go doctor.” Every time I have to reassure him that I am alright, that it was a good thing the ambulance came, and I remind him how kind everyone was. I point out the stuffed animal they gave him during the ride to the hospital.

They don’t know I dreamed about the fall constantly for over six months. In my dreams, I saw my baby, sailing in an arc across the parking lot. . My subconscious carried out the worst case scenarios– what if I had lost consciousness, what if I had died, what if he had been the one to hit his head, what if…

They don’t know that useless bureaucracy is a pet peeve of mine, and I am sure as hell not going to let my family do without just so their fucking insurance premiums don’t go up.

Nope. They don’t know me at all.

I hate how litigious we have become as a society– but I totally get it, now. If that’s the only way that things can get done, that people will Do The Right Thing, then I guess 2012 will be The Year Of Filing Suit for Chez Pair.

Bleeeeecccccchhhhh.

Why This Sucks So Much Harder This Time

When I think about how much weight I have gained,  it feels like it happened so suddenly. Like I was JUST picking out hot new jeans in a size long, long, ago.  But in reality, the last time I lost a significant amount of weight, I mean really stuck to the plan and did it, was in Fall of 2007. By Spring of 2008 I had slipped enough to gain back 10 pounds. And then I got pregnant.

For those of you keeping track at home, Fall 2007 was  four and a half years ago. So, if the average American gains 8-10 pounds a year, I’m absolutely average! Yay for mediocrity.

There was a lot that was different at that time that made sticking to WW easier for me.

• I worked full time. This made healthful eating easier for me, because for 8-10 hours a day, I just didn’t have to think about it. I did not bring a wallet to work, and I did not bring food I was not “allowed” to have. If I did not bring unhealthy food into my office, it simply was not there. Problem solved. Now, there is food in my presence all. the. time. I am a stay at home mom now, which means I have constant access to food. I have to have a lot more self-control than I did the last time.
• I was four and a half years younger. Every year after 35, it becomes harder to lose weight because your metabolism slows naturally as you age.
• I have had a kid since then. Some of this weight is weight from being pregnant with Squeak. SOME OF IT. But let’s face it, I was already 20 pounds overweight when I got knocked up with him.

That said, there are things that are working in my favor:

• I’m not sitting with my ass in a chair 8-10 hours a day at my full time job. I can go to the gym, I can go for a walk with my kids, I can do jumping jacks in my damn living room if I want.
• I have significantly less stress than I did back then. Working full time and parenting three kids in the evening was akin to having two full time jobs. I have such better balance than I did back then, and such a healthier outlook on life. How can I not? Almost every day starts with cuddles and giggles. Score.
• I can prepare my meals from the very freshest ingredients, and eat them right then.

I would say that another difference is my level of resolve, but that’s a lie. All you have to do is go through my archives right here, and you can read that I have been here emotionally before. And I don’t know why this time it will stick. I am hoping that the journey will teach me that.

I have a lot of people supporting me, including my husband who never fails to lose twice as much twice as fast every time we do this. Bastard.

I have great kids that I want to see have kids of their own– not just see it but be there for them and spoil them and see THEM graduate college.

I have a great life worth fighting for.

Round is a Shape.

So. Uh. Yeah. I’ve gotten pretty large and in charge.

I was pretty much in a state of denial about it, even though were less and less clothes in my wardrobe I could wear. I’ve refused to buy larger clothes, so I have been wearing any stretchy-type clothing in my wardrobe in heavy rotation.

On New Year’s eve night, at my SIL’s house, while everyone slept. I weighed myself. I had not done so in probably a year.

And then I sat down on the bathroom floor, and I cried.

I cried because I’ve done this whole weight loss thing over and over. I cried because I don’t want to do it again. I cried because I hate that some people don’t have to work at it, because I do.  I don’t eat secretly in the drive-thru like folks you see on TV and I’m fairly active. I just have to watch every damned bite I take. I always have– well, ever since I stopped dancing six days a week.

I cried because no one has made a one point ice cream. (And I probably also cried because I had been sick for like two weeks and I hadn’t really had any sleep.)

I cried because I was so stupid, so careless, so lazy with my health. I cried because both breast cancer and diabetes run in my family, health conditions exacerbated by obesity. I cried because the word “obese” now applies to me.

I cried because I equate the shape of my body to my worth. I know that’s not right. I know that in my brain, but… old habits die hard. I saw those numbers, and I saw that I was a worthless pile of crap.

On the bathroom floor, I spent a good ten minutes hating myself, for all of that. Some of it within my control, other parts of it not so much.  The self talk was ugly: How could I let this happen, AGAIN?  What is my fucking problem?! ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL YOURSELF IN FRONT OF YOUR CHILDREN?!??!

I sat there, hating myself with the knowledge that I weighed the same weight as when I went in for my c-section with Squeak.

Then I got up off the floor.

That hurt, because the reason I was even there– the reason I weighed myself at long last AT ALL— was that the pain in my right knee had become pretty much unbearable. Though I have had a knee injury pretty much since I broke my kneecap in the fifth grade, I know that the heavier I get, the worse it is.

I went to bed resolved.

No more hating myself. The past is the past. There is no point in going back, I don’t live there anymore.

I started back on WW the next day. I have lost 5 pounds.

I try not to think about how far I have to go. I try to remember that this is not a race. I’m trying to do this in the right way, so I don’t have to do it again.

I have fifty more pounds to lose.

I can’t believe I just typed that. But if you’ve been around here a while (and some of you have, God love ya) you know that I deal in truth. And pretending like this wasn’t my reality wasn’t helping me at all. And if you know me, I’m not really telling you anything you didn’t know– Facebook pictures don’t lie.

So here we go.

That Time I Almost Got in a Fist Fight At the Grocery Store

So, about a week ago, I was shopping at that cheap store that rhymes with Baldy. There’s no need to judge, y’all– when your kids go through four hundred cheese sticks in a week you do what you have to do to keep ‘em flowing. 

Anywho.

If you don’t know, the Baldy pulls in all kinds of characters– regular plain old folks, a preponderance of Mennonites, and then… well, crazy ass muthas. 

It is unclear whether the crazy ass mutha in the story I am about to relate is me or the other person. 

First you need a little back story on me. I am from North County in St. Louis, MO. For most of you this might not mean anything. But for those of you who know, you are nodding your head and saying “oooohhhh…. that explains a lot.” North County folks… well, we’re blunt,  and we don’t put up with shit.   We can be kind and sophisticated and smart and all that, too. But in NoCo, we’re famous for being kind of trashy. As in, snatch the weave off your head trashy. 

I haven’t lived in NoCo for a looooong time. For the most part, I keep myself in check. I am civil and nice and most people who know me have never seen the White Trash side of me. But you really can’t take the NoCo out of the girl. When Hubs sees my head start rolling, he knows the NoCo is about to make an appearance. 

So. Back to Baldy. 

When you are checking out at the Baldy, the cashiers are lightning fast. I mean, they haul some serious scanning ass. I had done quite a bit of shopping that day, and I had a full cart. I was putting my groceries up on the conveyor belt just as fast as I could, and that belt was smoking it was going so fast– girlfriend could SCAN. 

About halfway through my cart, the woman (let’s call her BaldyBitch) behind me puts up that little bar thing and starts putting up her items. This presents a problem, because now our groceries are intermingled. And I have no intention of purchasing her groceries. 

“I really have quite a bit left to go,” I said. “Can you please wait until I’m done to put your groceries up?”

“It’s not MY fault it’s going so fast,” BaldyBitch said.

So she keeps putting her shit up there, and I keep taking that little bar thing and pushing her stuff back. This doesn’t leave me much time to put my own groceries up there, so I am moving even slower than I was before. 

“I’m really going as fast as I can. Can you please wait?” I asked,

“WHATEVER.” 

Bitch. It is so on. 

I felt my adrenaline going. I felt my NoCo rising. The next time her groceries zinged past mine, I took my full arm and swept them all the way off the belt, onto the floor. (Honestly, I really didn’t mean to do that, but it was both effective and dramatic.)

“BITCH!” BaldyBitch yelled, “Now all my shit is everywhere!”

“I asked you nicely, twice, to let me get my groceries up there. Since you won’t, I decided to help you,” I said through my teeth. 

Well, you thought that cashier was moving before. After telling us that “everything is ok,” she put it into overdrive. I mean sweat was beading on my forehead from trying to get my groceries up, but it was clear she wanted both me and BaldyBitch out. BaldyBitch was still talking shit under her breath, but at this point all I could hear was my pulse in my ears. I was so pissed, AND mortified, because now every Mennonite and crackjob in the place was looking at me like I had three heads. 

I had become the crazy mutha in the Baldy.

After I paid, I went over and bagged up my stuff as slowly as I could. There was NO WAY I was going to be stuck in the parking lot with BaldyBitch. I was pretty sure I could take her, but she had a friend with her and the numbers just didn’t add up. Plus, fisticuffs probably would have made me late picking up Squeak from preschool, if I managed to not be arrested in the Baldy parking lot. (Now that’s a phone call that would have been fun to make, “Hubs, can you go get squeak out of preschool? I’m sort of… in the pokey.”)

I watched her bag up her things out of the corner of my eye, and I waited until I saw her pack up her car and drive away. She flipped off the Baldy on her way out of the parking lot. 

I started to leave, but to make matters worse, a good friend of mine who is the store manager came out right about then to find out what the hell was going on. I gave her a guilty wave and slinked out the door. 

Part of me feels like a dumbass for getting so keyed up. But the other part of me is all, “BRING IT ON, BALDYBITCH!” 

It’s probably a good thing I moved out of North County. 

 

What is this, how you say, “BLAWG?”

So, it’s almost 2012. Freaky. It’s been a whirlwind, to say the least. It’s very in vogue to recap your year in the bloggy world… meh. Ok.

We went places, we did stuff, I started a new business, Hubs had some work stuff, the kids were crazy, then Funk started Kindergarten, Noise started 2nd grade, and Squeak started preschool. They did wonderfully, my sewing business really took off, Hubs had some more work stuff, and then there were some holidays. Which brings us to… now. 

Down sides of 2011: a lot of people I know lost their jobs, cancer continued to suck donkey balls, I gained rather than lost weight, and in general I came into the realization that some people are just douche nuggets. 

Up sides of 2011: Hubs and I kept our jobs, we didn’t get cancer, we had (more than) enough to eat, I have healthy kids and good friends, and I made up the word “douche nugget.” 

I think I can safely say that for a lot of people– with a few caveats like having babies, or getting a great job, for example– 2011 was a really crappy year. I personally don’t feel that way– I had a decent year. Sometimes it sucked, sometimes it was awesome, but on the whole I think I’d place it solidly in the “OK” column. It was so okay that I even went off my meds (I can’t tell you whether this was an “up side” or “down side” of 2012, because it was hard and continues to be something I’m still not completely sure I should have done.)

I’d like to blog more this year. I used to come around here a lot. But… I don’t know. I have a lot to say. But it turns out, what I *really* have is a long list of bitchy gripes. And bitching about it on the internet used to be a lot more fun when I was at work 8-10 hours a day. So, we’ll see. Maybe I should just get all my bitchy gripes out in one post, and just piss everyone off at once. Rip it off like a band-aid, right? 

How Can They

We hear the padding feet, and we know it’s Noise. Not because Noise is the one in need– as the big brother, it is ALWAYS Noise who comes. To tell us the baby is crying, to tell us Funk is coughing (shocker.)  In fact, I would say that MOST of the time it isn’t Noise. This time it isn’t Noise.

It’s Funk.

Hubs goes back, and returns within a few minutes. Apparently, she is bawling her eyes out in bed because she has just today come to the realization that someday she will die. ”I know I will die someday, Daddy, and I don’t want to. I’m scared to die.”

Christ on a Cracker.

I remember having these same exact fears, these same exact tears as a little girl. Lying in bed (my parents swore it was just a tactic to stay up later) begging for more hugs, more kisses, because I was so sure that my parents were going to die someday and it was probably today and oh jeez that means someday I’m gonna die tooooooooooooo.

Yeah. That’s a fresh wound.

And of course Hubs said all the right things, and it doesn’t matter what he said because each parent has to answer these questions in their own way, in their own time. She calmed down.

But I went back there anyway; of course I did. I asked her about her feelings, but she told me she wasn’t worried anymore because Daddy helped her.  We chatted for a while. I kissed her soft cheeks, brushed her hair out of her face. I asked her questions about school. We giggled and talked about what we’re thankful for. She’s thankful for her “wonderful, beautiful family where everyone loves each other and we have fun and hug and my brothers wrestle me.” I know that I was there in that twin bed just as much for myself as I was for her.

There’s a lot out there right now, both nationally, locally, and just in my circle of friends. Babies missing, babies gone, babies who never drew their first breath, babies who are sick and hurting. Just thinking about it… It’s like trying to run in a steam sauna, the air so thick and oppressive that it takes extra effort to draw breath. Because I can’t even imagine it even for a second.  The walls start to close in. And you start to question how there could ever be any such thing as justice.

Questions of “how can they”–  how could they do that — how can they stand it— how are they still standing— how can they take that pain– HOW CAN THEY…

I try not to think about it. I try to remember to be thankful, to be aware of the many ways in which I am blessed. My children are all tucked warm, safe, healthy in their beds.

I try not to think about it. But just like Funk, late at night, the thoughts creep in. There are no guarantees. There is no way to stop life from happening to us, both good and bad. I do not stay awake afraid to die. But the thought of anything ever happening to my babies can leave me up late into the night, tears soaking my pillow, eyes nearly swollen shut.

I try not to think about it. But no one ever thinks it will happen to them.

So, we do the best we can to live life the best we can in the time we have. To appreciate what we have. To love our kids. To protect them and maybe even hover a little bit even when it’s not necessary.

Because it’s all we can do.

 

See Saw

Folks, I gotta tell you: I can’t see for shit.

When I was a young filly, all full of promise and Aqua Net, I had a bit of a vision problem– but nothing I ever let interfere with my active lifestyle or my quest to make out with way too many high school boys. Once I got old enough to, I rarely ever wore my glasses. I didn’t even have a restriction on my license until I was 25.

My, how the sighted have fallen.

Today, my glasses are the first thing I look for and the last thing I surrender at night. I have multiple pairs– so un-sighted am I that I decided I might as well have some for fashion, since they were apparently going to be ever constant.

I’m so blind that if I lose my glasses, I need help finding my glasses, because I can’t see well enough without them to find them.

I am only 36. So this happened in about ten years. Truthfully– it happened even faster than that, because I haven’t had a significant prescription change in the last 5 years.

So, in five years, I went from “I can kinda see” to “holy hell you just picked up an electric razor and tried to use it as a cell phone.”

I can’t wear contacts, because my eyes are special snowflakes and whenever I try to wear contacts they are all “SWEET BABY JESUS THERE’S SOMETHING IN YOUR FRICKING EYE!!!” Yes, my eyes speak in all caps when I try to wear contacts.  I wore them leading up to and for my wedding, but that’s pretty much the last time I even tried.

I don’t hate wearing glasses. I can see with them, so that’s nice. But I find them to be a pain. For things like walking in the rain, running, tickle fights with my kids, going from air conditioned rooms to humid outdoors, and being able to see during sexy time, glasses are terribly inconvenient.

Also, I have really squinty little eyes, and glasses are not helping this problem.

I have long dreamed of getting my eyes fixed, and today is my initial exam to decide whether or not that is even a possibility.

Hubs and I have saved all year, since this would not be covered by my insurance. And there’s a good likelihood that that will STILL not be enough.

So, today, I am squinting my squinty eyes and hoping with all my hopes that:

1. My eyes are not beyond repair
2. My eyes can be repaired for less than the cost of a new kidney (i.e. within the budget Hubs and I have set)
3. I can figure out how to do it soonish rather than laterish. (This is tricky, because someone has to be with me and a certain someone has already missed a bunch of work so his wife could fly the coop for ten days with her grandfather.)

So, that’s today. I can’t tell you how nervous I am. While this might seem like a vanity thing, it is SO NOT. Being chained to my glasses effects so much of my daily life. I always have bruises on my nose from kids banging into them. I can’t read in bed comfortably. I get zits on the bridge of my nose in the summer. The anticipation of… what this could be… I am seriously beside myself.

Wish me luck.

The Stork

Today is my last day with my grandfather. I have had an amazing week. A life-altering week, even. But this has always been an honest place, so I guess it’s time I told you: I didn’t like my grandfather all that much when I was a kid.

Ok, that’s not true. I didn’t NOT like him… I guess indifference was the best way to describe it. I was indifferent to him.

When I was a child, it seemed like Grandpa was always correcting me. I felt like I just couldn’t do anything right in his presence. I was a clumsy kid, but around him I felt like a Grade A oaf. I was a typical kid, and so my typical narcissism meant that he was always reminding me of my manners. When Grandpa was growing up, children were to be seen and not heard, and I felt like that was exactly what he wanted from me.

He was impatient . You moved at Grandpa’s pace, or you were left behind. We once went to Disney with my grandparents, and I swear he did that entire park at a sprint. And since he was 6ft+ tall and I was 4ft– you could say that it was a challenge. (This is when my sister and I gave G-pa the nickname “The Stork”, because all we saw of him that trip were his long legs at a dead run.)

He had high expectations of everyone around him. I can’t even tell you the number of times I saw him berate a waiter or manager. It was embarrassing. My sister and I would pretend to need to use the bathroom when the check came, because we knew exactly what was coming.

So… here’s the thing… a lot of those things haven’t changed. I believe that for the most part, we are who we are. And that’s grandpa. But here’s what took me 36 years of growing up to find out:

1. I love him anyway
2. I think he’s an amazing person, even if I STILL roll my eyes occasionally at the things he says
3. All those years I thought he didn’t hear me, or see me, or care what I had to say– he was listening the whole time

He remembers so much. And as this week has progressed, I really hope he doesn’t remember, or I didn’t show, how indifferent I was to him, back then.

Grandpa is all those things– impatient, sometimes even rude. But he’s also so much more.

He’s funny. Man, I love the sparkle he gets in his eye when he gets a good zinger in. When my grandmother was alive, he was the straight man in their comedy show. So I think I missed a lot of his humor. But he had me rolling several times this week.

He (can be) sweet. He doesn’t suffer fools, that’s true. Piss him off, and you are going to hear about it. But if you treat him right, and do what you are supposed to do, you will never meet anyone who sings your praises louder.

He’s caring. He did Disney at a sprint because he wanted us to HAVE FUN RIGHT NOW AND AS MUCH FUN AS POSSIBLE AND LET’S MOVE ON SO WE CAN MAXIMIZE OUR FUUUUUUNNNNN! A lot of what I saw as pushiness, was him trying to maximize. “If this experience makes you happy, let’s hurry up and do more things so you can have more happy!” We only saw them once or twice a year– maybe he was just trying to cram in the happy.

He’s…. so many things.  And had I not taken the time to pause my life (and thank you again, Hubs, for making that possible) to sit and listen, to care for my Grandpa, to contemplate our past, and our present… well, I would have missed out. I think we both would have.

This time isn’t anything that was given to me. I had to take it. It was difficult and complicated and emotional, but so, so rewarding. I need to remember that. That sometimes you just have to change course, do something uncomfortable– let me tell you, I was SO worried about spending this time alone with Grandpa. Even though I had good visits lately, there was always a buffer– my kids, my aunt, my grandmother….

I am so happy that I took the time. I hope it was a good time for him, too.