Searching My Couch Cushions in 3...2...1

 Just a short announcement, you guys.

I'm applying for a mortgage.

This is not a drill.

I'm really, really scared. And nervous. The little voice in my head that likes to screw with me keeps telling me that probably I won't even get approved. Probably the mortgage guy I'm working with will laugh politely and tell me to come back when my piggy bank is full. 

Even the pig is laughing.

But I'm doing it anyway. Because apartment life is getting to be a drag. Because I'd like to stop shoveling every raise I get straight into spiraling rent. And of course, because I'd like to take on a debt that is several times my annual salary. 

They always say "Never eat anything bigger than your head." But it seems to me that a mortgage is precisely the financial equivalent of swallowing a watermelon whole. And while no one is encouraging people to do that (at least no one in my social circle, but maybe I don't get out enough), everyone thinks buying a home is a swell idea.

And I agree...I guess?

So. If I can manage to convince some bank somewhere that I'm both solvent and sane enough to trust with its money, I'm going to do this.

Watch this space for my (hopefully hilarious) adventures in house hunting.

A Place for My Money, A Place for My Time

Here's a little story about principal and interest, and the economy of time.

Chapter I: The Past 

The company I work for IRL used to offer a traditional benefit of paid vacation and sick days. An employee of less than five years' tenure (like me) would accrue 10 vacation days and six sick days per annum. Sick days were "use it or lose it," but vacation days rolled over to the next year if you didn't use them all. If you left the company, any unused vacation would be paid out to you in cash. Pretty standard stuff in the U.S.

If you stuck around the company for a few decades, you would eventually accrue something like six weeks of vacation a year, most of which you were probably too "indispensable" at work to use. (In other words, if you hopped on a conference call while you were "on vacation," that day magically became work time instead of vacation time. Tenure has its perks.) And under this system, there was no upper limit to the amount of vacation time you could accrue. And so the company routinely saw people retire after 20 or 30 years of service with literally months of unused vacation hours saved up, which they received in a lump sum on their last day. That time was paid out at their most recent pay rate, by the way, even if they'd accrued it when their salary was considerably lower. Quite a tidy payout.

For readers outside the U.S.: Yes, I know this model is inconceivable to you. Yes, our paid time off is pathetic compared to what your country provides. Yes, I know your government mandates a certain level of paid time off and doesn't leave it up to the whims of individual companies. I have the internet. Thank you for your concern.

Chapter II: Accounting

Fun Fact - Accrued vacation time is considered a financial liability. It's a debt on the company books. Large companies (and at least one bloated former POTUS) may routinely operate from a position of indebtedness, leveraging it in ways I don't really understand nor care to, because business is stupid. But to a smaller, privately held company like my employer, that kind of debt may not be useful or attractive, and there are also tax implications that again I don't give a flip about but they do.

The upshot is that as my company grew, its liabilities grew. And as it has always prided itself on cultivating long-term employees, it had to find a way to manage a potential debt of millions of dollars of unpaid vacation time.   

Therefore, a policy change was made.

Chapter III: The Present

Last year my company went to a PTO system. Instead of accruing a little annual sick time that expired and a little vacation time that didn't, we now get a "bucket" of time off that can be used to cover vacation, illness, doctor's appointments, bugging out early on Friday, etc. For me, that amount is currently 160 hours, or four weeks a year. 

It's twice as much time as I was getting under the old system, which basically means twice as much time that I rarely get to use because every hour of vacation means an hour of playing catchup when I return. Being indispensable has its downside. Unfortunately, the days of stockpiling months of time (or salary) are now gone. Under the new system, only 120 hours of unused PTO roll over from year to year. No matter how long we work there, no one will ever accrue more than three weeks of paid time off. So much for saving up time for a three-month backpacking tour of Europe. And for younger employees, so much for an extended paid maternity or paternity leave. 

Like most American companies, when my employers say "benefit," it means there's a benefit to them. 

On the other hand, if I end up with more than 120 hours of PTO at the end of the year, the excess time doesn't just go away. I get it in cash, just like the old system, except I don't have to leave the company to earn the payout, and it's never going to be a windfall of months' worth of salary. Fair enough.

Or, in my case, more than fair, if I play my cards right.

Chapter IV: The Goal

This past week I reached an important milestone at my place of employment: I achieved a stockpile of 120 hours of PTO. I started accruing time mid-2020, when the new system began. There wasn't enough calendar time to reach 120 hours, so it all rolled over. I've also taken a couple of random days off in 2021. Now, with just over six months left in the year, I've reached the point where every hour of earned PTO represents a potential cash payout.

In other words, those 120 accrued hours are now principal, and they're simply earning interest until the end of 2021.

I'll accrue another 80 hours of PTO between now and December. If I don't take any more time off, I'll get it back in cash at the end of the year. That's assuming I don't need to take sick days, of course, which I can't totally control. But I'm more than willing to forego any voluntary time off for the rest of this year. Even if I end up being sick for a full week at some point, that still leaves me a payout of 40 hours to look forward to. And I'll go into next year with the same 120 PTO hours in the vault.

I don't plan on touching my 120 hours of principal. Ever.

Chapter V: The Future

Starting in 2022, I'll earn 160 hours of PTO over and above my banked time. That means I can take a full two weeks off and still get a cash payout of two weeks' salary at the end of the year. After I've been with the company for five years, I'll get an extra week of PTO, which means either an extra week of time or an extra week of pay every year. I'm guessing I'll choose the money most years, and here's why.

You guys, barring a lottery win, I plan to retire in 14 years. I'm in nest-feathering mode. I'm not planning any long vacations or sabbaticals, because my focus is on trying to make up for the years when I was married and wasn't able to save. Five years ago I exited my marriage without a dime to my name. Right now my net worth just scrapes six figures. That's not very much for where I am in my lifespan. I don't expect to live to a ripe old age, but I would like to have a few years of comfortable retirement with my darling Drummer Boy and a little nest egg to leave to Precocious Daughter.

Thanks to my employer's PTO policy, and my admitted lack of a life, I can give myself a 4% bonus every year provided I stay healthy and employed. I can invest it and make even more. I can't dwell on where I'd be now if I'd been able to do this in my 30s instead of in my 50s. This is all about the path I'm on, not the ditch I've had to crawl out of.

Epilogue

There's every chance that my plan won't pan out the way I've envisioned it. The economy could tank, my employers could change their policy to close the loophole I'm counting on, or the trickster god could throw any number of flies into my ointment. That's life. 

But hell, I'm going for it while I can.

Discuss

 As of this week, I'm fully vaccinated against COVID-19. Technically, I'm still in the "two weeks before the vaccine is fully effective" phase. But I've been jabbed twice.

My side effects were minimal. A sore arm both times. That's all. I feel fortunate.

Precocious Daughter also got her second jab this week. That makes me happy. Coincidentally, she finished up her junior year of college on the same day she got the shot, and I now have confidence that she'll be able to enjoy a mostly normal senior year. The last fifteen months or so have been tough on her, far more so than on me. In fact, the biggest hardship I've suffered as a result of the pandemic has been watching her struggle and not being able to provide much help.

As an aside, when I started writing this little blog PDaughter was just starting fourth grade, and now she's about to be a senior in college. I can't process that right now, other than to marvel at how much she's changed while I've merely transitioned from early middle-age to somewhat later middle-age.

Anyway, I'm not really writing about any of those things today. I'm just putting them down here so I can deal with them later.

In fact, I'm not really writing about anything today. I'm just making a list of things I might write about later. I'm giving myself permission to do that, because my concentration isn't great this morning. Maybe that's a side effect of the vaccine, after all. 

So here are some ideas I might flesh out later. Comments are welcome.

1. I bought some temporary wallpaper a couple of months ago in hopes of creating an accent wall in my apartment. I've been hesitant to put it up because it will likely be a comedy of errors. That could result in an entertaining post and a really crappy-looking accent wall. Is it worth it? Discuss.

2. I got a small raise at my IRL job this week. I earmarked most of it to increasing my 401(k) contribution. My life is just that dull. Also, this might allow me to retire nearly a month earlier than I originally planned. FML.

3. Last week I commented on one of Maureen McCormick's tweets, and she liked and replied to it. Marcia Brady, you guys. I plotzed. Also, the tweet I replied to featured one of the best gifs I've ever seen:

4. Have you seen those commercials featuring people who were born in 1996, saying that that was the last year comprehensive Internet regulations were passed? Those people are 25 years old and have never known life without the Internet. Meanwhile, 1996 was the year I established my first personal email account and created my first online presence, which eventually morphed into this very virtual rag you're reading now. For the record, I support updating those regulations, and also I am old.

5. Also, on the topic of adding to my apartment decor, I'd like to add to my collection of decorative bones. My last addition was a monkey skeleton (fake, but realistic). What should I get? Discuss.

6. My balcony-garden spinach is growing like gangbusters, thanks to a combination of sunny days and seasonal rainstorms. I'm still not posting pictures because I don't want to jinx it. But if I ever get to harvest any of it, I'll write 1,000 words on the joys of a really fine spinach salad.

7. Last but not least: I've achieved six months without drinking, but at the same time my sugar cravings have returned after a seven-year hiatus. I'm wondering if I should swap vices. Discuss.

And here's a random picture so my link will be more interesting:

(Photo by Oleg Doroshenko)

The Price of Monkeys

 Longtime readers of this blog...

...wow, thanks, I can't believe you still come around. I'm overwhelmed.

Anyway, for not-so-longtime-readers: the oldtimers know that I'm somewhat obsessed with singerie. Basically, art depicting monkeys in clothes doing people things.

Yep, it's a whole thing. 

Over the years I've done numerous posts highlighting various singerie artists. Like this one. And this one.

Go check them out. They'll make you happy. Because monkeys wearing clothes, you guys.

Today I'm going to highlight a subset of singerie that is very cool and also totally freaking awesome to say: singerie chinoiserie.

It's pronounced "Throatwarbler Mangrove."

Chinoiserie is a French term meaning "in the Chinese style," specifically referring to embellishing Western art or decorations with Eastern motifs. Singerie, of course, is French for "monkeys wearing plumed hats." No! It's even better: It actually means "monkey trick," which is totally going to be the name of my Lancelot Link and the Evolution Revolution tribute band (look it up, kids - I can't link to everything).

But I digress. Put it all together, and singerie chinoiserie is decorative art featuring monkeys dressed up in Chinese-style clothing. This is a thing that exists, and I am here for it. In these times of global pandemic and the heretofore fucked up response thereto, monkeys in Chinese-style clothing doing people things is the joy we all need. Trust me.

This is an entire rabbit hole that can be dived into (into which can be dived...dove...forget it), so I'm going to focus on decorative figurines today. Oh, you can get monkeys painted on vases:

You can even get vases that are mostly made of monkey:

This one is by a South African artist
and will set you back 2,750 euros.

You can also get bowls to hold your lemons.

$150 on eBay; doesn't say if the lemons
are included, which seems a significant
omission.

Now, monkeys carrying bowls on their head is a notable theme in chinoiserie.

When life gives you monkeys,
make lemonade.

Don't like lemons? Fortunately, the possibilities are endless.

Believe it or not, this one is from Walmart
and sells for $178.
You OK, Walmart?

I mean, monkeys with bowls on their head is a really popular theme.

A bargain at ninety bucks.

Vintage monkeys with bowls on their head fetch a premium - this one goes for almost $400.

I'm worth it, bitch.

No matter the price, they're just cute as the dickens, and functional. They'll hold your lemons, your spare change, your weed...monkeys don't judge (of if they do, they keep it to themselves, which is a lesson some people could stand to learn).

Some monkeys prefer to hold their bowl in their lap.

While others get really creative.

Sometimes monkeys hold other things, like candlesticks.

Swanky boys.

Or tiny vases. I saw this one for 98 dollars on Etsy.

But he must suck at his job, because this very similar and more primitive example will cost you $12,500 (not a typo), and I have no idea why.

Here's a tricky proposition: monkeys holding vases that are candlesticks!

The vases are adorable.
And I'm pretty sure those monkeys are high.

This monkey is minding his own business and reading a book.

And goes for $900.
Reading is fundamental.

On the other hand, this little guy is totally putting on a show and is a bargain at $99. 

I don't really understand monkey economics.

That's enough for one day. I don't want to spoil you, and I should probably do something more productive with my day than Googling singerie chinoiserie.

Just kidding, there is literally nothing more productive I could do today. 

I hope you enjoyed the show. There will be sequel if this proves popular. And probably even if it doesn't. Because, once again, monkeys wearing clothing.

It's a thing.

Should I Stay or Should I Go

 Just going to think out loud a bit here. I can do that, it's my blog.

And I'll blog if I want to.
(Early 60s musical reference for you youngsters)

So this week I was the target of a potential poaching. That's right, someone tried to simmer me in a white wine sauce over low heat until I -

Oh, wait.

Not that kind of poaching. I am not a piece of salmon, silly.

Aside: I think that sauce has reduced
a tad too much. Time to deglaze.

Obviously I mean that someone tried to hire me away from my IRL job. This happens all the time, albeit not to me because I'm generally worthless. I find recruiters annoying, and when I was answering phones for my office, I routinely sent them straight to the voicemail of whoever they were calling. Yes, they're just doing their job. But to call a company's main number, sometimes five times a day, with the sole intention of offering its people different employment on company time? I'm not saying these are the same guys (and they're always guys) who carry roofies when they go out drinking, but...

If I've offended any overconfident d-bags,
I don't care. Come at me.

Anyway, I wasn't approached by some random corporate headhunter, but by my former boss. He hired me for my current job a few years back. He's an awesome person, and we clicked right from the start (unlike my previous boss, who literally threatened to beat me with a hammer when I made a mistake, but I digress...) 

When the pandemic hit right around this time last year, my company did a (fortunately limited) round of layoffs. Unfortunately, my boss was among the layees. It was pretty devastating, as he was universally beloved by everyone whose job wasn't deciding who to lay off. He landed on his feet, though, and now works for a competing firm.

Meanwhile, ol' Maxwell Edison
still has his job. (Late 60s musical reference.)

This week he dropped me the proverbial "There's a job here that you'd be perfect for" text. I don't know if there's actually a proverb that is in any way relevant to this event. It's just one of those hackneyed phrases: "the proverbial..." Frankly, it's overused and misused and I should be ashamed of myself for deploying it here. Bad blogger. Bad.

No lucrative book deal for you.

Anyway, he didn't actually offer me the job. But it is a pretty great job (I looked up the listing online), and I would be working for him, and he is the hiring manager.... 

Oh, and he threw in the "how much money would it take to sway your decision?" gambit, too.

Even I can sometimes connect dots when they're that obvious. 

I'm going to cut to the chase here: I respectfully declined.

Now might be a good time for that hammer, after all.

Why? Why did I turn down what seemed to be - hell, what undoubtedly was - a solid opportunity?

Self-sabotage is a reliable go-to answer for a question like that. At least for me it is; I have a long history of self-sabotage. It's kind of my brand.

But I don't think that's the case here.

It's not loyalty to my current company. It's a good place to work. It's not a great place to work. I've had maybe two great workplaces in my entire life, and one of them was a video store in the mid-80s. I realized long ago that nothing will ever top that, so I don't use it as a comparison criterion for selecting new jobs.

It's not salary and benefits. As I said, I undoubtedly could have negotiated a higher salary from my former boss than I currently get. My pay is sufficient, but my company is stingy with raises unless they accompany a promotion. My job has few opportunities for promotion - it's a nonzero number, for sure, but there just aren't many rungs on my career ladder. The company does offer an obscenely generous 401(k) and decent health insurance.

It's partly location. I know plenty of people who commute long distances every day. But for me, not sitting in traffic for two hours every day is a huge quality of life issue, and my current commute is relatively short and stress-free. The potential new job would have required me to drive downtown from my cozy suburb. For me, that's a nightmare scenario. Down the road I could see myself moving to the city, which would make a downtown commute a non-issue. But for various reasons that's not an option right now, and every time I tried to convince myself otherwise, my inner voice wisely told me to cut the crap and be realistic about my life.

My inner voice is much saner than I am
and is probably pissed that it didn't get the outer voice gig.

And it's partly stability. My shortest "real" job since graduating from college lasted two years. I didn't leave voluntarily - the company was operating under a bad business model that included flouting Department of Labor rules about exempt vs. non-exempt workers. I was laid off not long before the company collapsed. I would have stayed longer if I could, because I'm a creature of inertia.

The job my former boss dangled in front of me could have been great. I could have been happy and fulfilled at that company. I might never have regretted the decision to leave my current gig. But while there might have been good reasons to go to a new job, there just aren't that many good reasons to leave the job I have now. In the eternal battle between change and stay the same, my natural tendency, for better or for worse, has always been to set a high bar for change. 

Believe me, as I get older and hypothetically closer to retirement, that bar only gets higher. 

Probably I've missed out on a good many opportunities as a result. That's something I can work on in my next incarnation (assuming I don't come back as a slug or a pampered housecat or something). But here, now, and on this plane of existence, I've decided to be happy with the size and shape of my world for now.

If that changes, you'll hear about it.

Charity Begins on the Internet

Top Ten GoFundMe Campaigns That Didn't Reach Their Goal

10. Send My Nana to Pole Dancing Camp ($46 of $250 raised)

9. The Fender Blender (Make Delicious Smoothies While You Navigate the Pothole-Infested Streets of Cuyahoga Falls, Ohio) ($912 of $3,006 raised)

8. The Campaign to Obtain and Destroy All Existing Copies of Richard Harris' "MacArthur Park" and the Master Recording Too ($817 of $25,000 raised)

7. Let's Make Smoking Cool Again ($143.17 of $2,500 raised)

6. Help Me Self-Publish "The Festering Pustule of Hate in the Pit of My Soul: A Book about Feelings" ($25 of $3,200 raised)

5. Howie's Fund for Howard Goldblatt's Earlobe Transplant ($1,800 of $63,250 raised)

4. Need a New Steam Iron Please Help ($12 of $110 raised)

3. Cuddle Scales: The Thundershirt for Nervous Snakes ($122.50 of $4,000 raised)

2. Just Four Ounces of Halfway Decent Weed ($650 of $800 raised - so close!)

And the Number One GoFundMe Campaign That Didn't Reach Its Goal:

1. My Fucking Stepmom Screwed Her Way into My Dad's Will ($963 of $100,000 raised)

Thanks for your support.

Give It Up for Sammy P

Today is the 210th birthday of great American dudebro Salmon P. Chase. Or would be, had he not stroked out in 1873 at age 65.

Who names their child Salmon? Especially when your last name makes you sound like some kind of Olympic event for bears?

Even an actual salmon wouldn't name a kid Salmon.
That would be like me being named
Functional Alcoholic.

Anyway, you might not know as much about Salmon P. Chase as you really need to survive and thrive in this crazy old world. And that's a shame, because someday you might be kidnapped and held hostage by a fanatical "Who Wants to Be a Millionaire" contestant and your only path to freedom is to be his Plus-One and know the answer to the question "Which major US bank was originally named in honor of the 25th Secretary of the Treasury?" And if you can't correctly answer "JPMorgan Chase," you'll be beaten with an XBox controller dipped in pure capsaicin and/or forced to watch the Cousin Oliver episodes of "The Brady Bunch" in perpetuity until your eyes bleed Tabasco sauce.

I don't want that to happen to you. I love you guys.

So, to celebrate the life of an American hero and potentially save your bacon in the process, here are 10 Fun Facts About Salmon P. Chase.

1. The P stands for Portland. He wasn't born in Portland, his mother's maiden name wasn't Portland, and as far as I know he wasn't a fan of "Portlandia." On the other hand, his first name was freaking Salmon, so pairing that with Portland and the surname Chase creates one of the greatest non sequitur names in American history. So there's that.

2. He served as the sixth Chief Justice of the United States Supreme Court and was nominated to that position by none other than Abe "the Babe" Lincoln.

I have no idea if anyone actually
called Abraham Lincoln "Babe."
But I would have if I'd been there.

3. His face appeared on the very first $1 bills in 1862. Guess who designed the bill? None other than the Treasury Secretary himself. Basically, he had political aspirations throughout his entire career and put his own face on the dollar as a means of free self-promotion. Trolling level: Salmon-tastic.

4. As Chief Justice, SPC presided over the trial of President Andrew Johnson, who was impeached in 1868. Johnson was acquitted by one vote, but that's not Salmon's fault. He and William Rehnquist remain (for now) the only two judges to preside over the impeachment of an American president.

5. Salmon P. Chase also appeared on the $10,000 bill, the largest denomination ever widely circulated by the U.S. Treasury. In 1946 the bill ceased production, and in 1969 the government began actively withdrawing it (and other big-money bills) from circulation. There are only a few hundred believed to still be at large. Check your wallet - you never know if the clerk at 7-Eleven gave you one by mistake. Not really. But maybe.

6. My boy Salmon was an anti-slavery activist. He opposed both the Compromise of 1850 and the Kansas-Nebraska Act. He also (unsuccessfully) argued in court that any slave who escaped to a non-slave state was no longer bound to his servitude under the laws of his former state. His objections to slavery were rooted in Constitutional principles more than in a sense of moral justice. But still.

7. Mary Todd Lincoln was not a fan of the Chase family and refused to attend the wedding of Salmon's daughter Kate. Personally, I think being blackballed by Mary Todd Lincoln is kind of badass.

8. If you cover half of Sam's face while looking at his portrait, it seems very plausible that he had at least two demons living inside him doing battle for his eternal soul. Try it!

Use this Matthew Brady photograph.
Also, his less-possessed side looks
a lot like the late Peter Boyle.

9. Chase was affiliated with five different political parties during his career, including one that he and Martin Van Buren basically created themselves. The Free Soil Party was considered a "spoiler" party that effectively led to the election of Zachary Taylor, one of America' least distinguished leaders. You go, Free Soil Party.

10.  Depending on where you look it up, Salmon P. Chase had two, three, or more children. The only one anybody seems to know anything about is Kate (the one snubbed by Mary Todd Lincoln), who apparently was quite a social-climbing spitfire and was delighted when her father gave up on marriage after being widowed three times. Had Daddy Chase ever succeeded in being elected President (he failed to be nominated twice), Kate would have been de facto First Lady, which seemed to sit well with both of them. Hmmm.

There you go. If you win a bar bet because of this post, raise a glass in my honor. Be sure to follow it with a...Salmon P. Chase-r.

Please don't throw fish at me. That's rude.

That Family

There's a payoff to tonight's winding tale, you guys. Stay with me.

Precocious Daughter's Fine Arts Trip, her last one as a high school student, is next April. The band, orchestra, and choir from her school are going to Colorado Springs. And it sounds like they're going to get to do some amazeball things, from touring the U.S. Olympic Training Center to visiting Garden of the Gods Park to performing at the U.S. Air Force Academy.

The coolest thing I did in April of my senior year was meet Douglas Adams and have him autograph my Hitchhikers Guide trilogy.

Not gonna lie, that was pretty damn cool.

PDaughter is very excited about this trip, and I've already promised her she could go. Possibly by selling a kidney. I mean, it's not an exorbitantly expensive excursion, considering that the price covers transportation, lodging, several meals, and all the fun things they have planned. But for me personally, it's almost three payments on Benedict Cumberhatch.

Eighteen more payments and he's mine, you guys.

Now, the band is doing a fundraiser that, if successful, will help defray each family's cost to send their little Snooky-Wookums on the trip. It involves a program called Shop with Scrip. I'm not going to dwell on it, but basically Shop with Scrip provides rebates to school programs every time participating members shop at any number of popular retailers, from Amazon to Target to Walmart.

(If any of my Drunkards are interested in participating in a fundraiser that costs them zero dollars and helps support PDaughter and her totally deserving school, let me know and I'll help you sign up. Beyond this brief plug, no pressure. Sincerely.)

Anyway, considering how convenient and rewarding the Shop with Scrip program is, a shockingly low number of families of Fine Arts students are actually signed up. I admit, I'm among the slugs. I'm a slug, what can I say?

Me, IRL.

So at tonight's Trip Meeting, we parents/families were treated to an entirely deserved guilt trip about why most of us were too goddamn lazy and selfish to participate in an easy-peasy means of funding the Fine Arts Trip.

While the handful of families who have embraced and used the program all along were acknowledged,  thanked, and given a pass from the WTF Is Wrong w You 101 lecture the rest of us (totally legit) received.

By the time we left the meeting, PDaughter and I were both fully fired up about registering to use Save with Scrip.

We signed up tonight, yo.

Because basically the Band Booster Mom (who is a lovely person) effusively praised those families using the Shop with Scrip program and guilt-tripped the crap out of the rest of us.

Not going to lie, I'm more than happy to participate and reduce my own (and everyone else's) out of pocket costs for this trip.

PDaughter is also happy. On the way home from the meeting at her school, she said to me...

...and I quote...

"We're going to do this. We're going to be That Family."

Guys.

We've never been That Family.

That Family that organizes the school carnival, Literacy Night, and/or any Show That You Love All the Children activity.

That Family that gives more than its fair share because it has piles of The Contributions laying around waiting to be donated.

That Family that is recognized as Making a Difference, as opposed to the slackers that just clapped and smiled when the real contributors were recognized.

That Family that is immune to guilt trips because we already form the backbone of our children's (and all their friends') Positive Secondary and Post-Secondary School Experience.

PDaughter is excited at the prospect of being That Family for once.

And if participating in this program will help, then dammit, we're all in.

Because...That Family.

Again, I'm not going to push, but the program is Save with Scrip, and PDaughter's high school is an easy and deserving subject of help.

Or help some kids local to you. That would be just as good.

Goddamn kids deserve all the help we can give, is what I'm saying.

Thanks, Drunkards. You rawk.

It's Like This

Very narrowly focused post tonight, you guys.

Question for Drunkards who are divorced parents.

...

When?

When are you free of your ex?

When do their mistakes and weaknesses stop affecting you directly?

When do you get to be a competent parent without having to compensate for their incompetence?

When do you ever stop feeling like a failure because you're only one person?

I guess the answer is...never?

I guess the answer is, you do whatever you have to do to make sure your child's college applications aren't incomplete because her dad is an irresponsible man-child.

And you sob because you can't do or be everything she needs.

And you worry yourself almost to the point of death that your best efforts aren't going to be enough.

Precocious Daughter desperately wants to attend Columbia University.

I don't know if she will be accepted. She is doing everything she can to get in.

I'm doing everything I can to help her.

Her father didn't bother to make a copy of his 2016 tax return, which must be submitted to be considered for financial aid.

I SHOULD NOT HAVE TO LOOK AFTER HIM AT THIS POINT.

I've spent most of tonight in tears over this.

Oh, and also  Drummer Boy has no interest in me sexually.

Yeah, my life sucks.

Cheers.

What I Would Do with $759 Million

So yeah, one middle-aged lady in Massachusetts hit the Powerball jackpot for $759,000,000.00

Plus complimentary chips and salsa, and I really don't know
why the Powerball folks don't advertise that perk more.

Of course, she won't actually get that amount.

She's taking the lump-sum option, which comes to about $480 million.

After subtracting 40% for taxes (assuming she doesn't immediately set up some sweeeet tax shelters, which I sincerely hope she does), she ends up with "only" $288 million.

Or more than 100x what I can reasonably hope to earn in my lifetime unless I find some way to go viral, and soon.

Or unless I can successfully sue this little minx
for stealing the catchphrase that I totally coined in...
oh, let's say 2007.

Somehow, I think I could survive on $288 million for the next 40 years or so.

I'd need to carefully consider how I'd spend that much money, though. I mean, that's only about 10,000 Texas-in-August electric bills away from abject poverty. Don't want that.

So how exactly would I spend $288 million if it were to drop in my lap in a big, germ-riddled pile of dollar bills?

Let's see...

1. I would give my sister two million dollars. Because no one deserves financial independence more than she does. She's spent the last 10 years as a single mom raising four incredible kids into adults, always struggling but never complaining. I'd give her way more if she wanted it, but my opening offer would be $2 million. Balance: $286,000,000.00

2. I would give my alma mater an endowment of $100,000,000. That's name-a-building-after-me territory, right? That would be cool. But here's the thing: Because my alma mater is known primarily for its science and engineering programs, my endowment would be strictly to fund scholarships in majors such as liberal arts, communications, and education. I was taught by some amazing, internationally respected professors in humanities when I was there. Yet I was literally the only Arts & Humanities major in my graduating class. I'd like to give my university and the students who go there the opportunity for a world-class education in non-technical fields. Balance: $186,000,000.

3.I would buy a large, private lot in a mostly-developed suburb and build the house of our dreams. By "our," of course I mean Drummer Boy and me. With Precocious Daughter about to start her senior year of high school, DB and I are finally within shouting distance of living together and beginning the rest of our lives together. And while I am a city girl at heart, and would adore buying a townhouse or high-rise apartment in the heart of Dallas or New York or Miami, my gut tells me that what I really want is privacy, and freedom, and the ability to have a home that is loud and funky and filled with pets. So I think I'd choose a large piece of land in or near a big city, and I'd custom-build a house that is perfect for us. Somewhere DB can set up all his drum kits and pound them to his heart's content. Somewhere I can have dogs and cats and tortoises and monitor lizards without worrying they'll be a nuisance. Somewhere I can let friends and relatives crash without cramping my style. Somewhere I can pay people to clean and maintain, because I'm a freaking multi-millionaire. Yeah. Let's say $5 million for that. Balance: $180,000,000 (including a million bucks for the unlimited decorating budget I've always dreamed about.)

4. I want cars. Like, I want a fully-restored 1968 VW Beetle. I want a vintage BMW 325i. I want a cute little Mini to zip around in and a freaking practical Subaru crossover to carry shit home from IKEA. I want DB to have whatever he wants...even if it's a motorcycle, which scares me to death. Let's say $500,000 in costs and insurance. Balance: $179,500,000.

5. Lest I forget...I need some kind of fund, investment, annuity to ensure me a yearly income. I don't know the details...that's what financial advisors are for. Thinking I'll need to invest $20 million to achieve a decent annual income. Balance: $159,500,000.

6. Um...charity. Let's say $100,000,000. For Planned Parenthood. For UNICEF. For Heifer International. For AMFAR. For whatever. Just one hundred million dollars for those who don't have one hundred million dollars. Balance: $59,500,000.

7. A scholarship fund for PDaughter's school district. So many good kids who don't necessarily belong to the upper middle class/white majority. Here's $50 million to help some of those kids who might be first-time graduates. You guys rock. Balance: $9,500,000.

8. Slush fund: How freaking cool would it be to have a bank account purely for farting around and spending money on things you thought were cool - from autographed celebrity bullshit to dropping $100 bills into the boots of firemen who are collecting for charity? A million for that, all day long. Balance: $8,500,00,00.

9. And the rest?  Hell, I'd give that to any political party that could guarantee the United States of America would never again elect a racist, fascist, elitist, unqualified nobody to be our President.

Or I'd spend it on booze and eBay finds.

Whatever.

How about you?

Prom 2017 - Shopping Edition

Drunkards, we have achieved prom dress.

A few days ago, I told you that Precocious Daughter and I would be shopping for a suitable dress for her junior prom.

Not this, however.

After three days, three malls, and somewhere in the vicinity of 20-30 stores, we nailed it.

The good news: For three days straight, I got in all my steps.

(LOL, like I wear a pedometer, aka a lazy-shamer. Paff.)

The less good news - it can't be bad news because we did end up finding a dress - HOLY SHIT IT WAS AN EXHAUSTING AND STRESSFUL PROCESS.

Actually, for the most part I had a great time. For me, the stress came from watching PDaughter become stressed as store after store yielded nothing appropriate for her to wear to prom. Honestly, for all her talk about her "aesthetic" (because of course my child has one of those), she was neither nitpicky nor unreasonable about the kind of dress she wanted. But most of the stores we visited either a) had a disappointing selection or b) were way out of budget. She only tried on dresses in maybe a third of the places we visited. It's pretty discouraging to walk into and out of more than a dozen stores without even finding a candidate for the dressing room ritual.

But I stayed positive, because I have great faith in the shopping gods. I knew the right dress would cross our path. And I was right.

Early Sunday afternoon, we found an amazing dress in a wonderful formal shop that had a fabulous selection and excellent customer service.

Did it cost more than I had planned to spend? Duh, yes - mostly because it needed a few alterations to perfectly fit PDaughter's teeny-tiny form.

Do I care about that? No - because I could see in her face and hear in her voice that this was The Dress. Not The Dress She Settled For, not The Dress She Ended Up with Because It Was Just About the Last Store in Town.

She loved it. And she looked...guys, she looked so beautiful in it.

The alterations should be done by tomorrow. We just need to pick up a pair of shoes - probably silver flats because PDaughter doesn't do heels - and all will be in readiness for prom this Saturday.

I tried to find a picture of the actual dress online, but I couldn't. Then I tried to reproduce it in MS Paint, and...that didn't work.

I'll take lots of pictures on Prom Night, I promise. But just so you have a tiny bit of a mental image, it's seafoam green, it's halter-style, it has a full knee-length skirt, and there's just a touch of sparkly bling at the neckline (perfect, as PDaughter doesn't really do jewelry, so the dress does it for her).

Its prettiness is nothing compared to the smile on PDaughter's face as she looked at herself in the mirror.

I'm reminded that when I started this blog, my little girl was in the fourth grade. And now she's about to attend junior prom.

Oh hey, also I was married, a homeowner, and believed I was happy.

But I digress.

Anyway.

The prom dress is acquired. Milestone reached.

Pardon me while I ponder how the hell I became the mother of a 17-year-old. I'll be back.

So Long, And Thanks for All the Squid

Oops, I haven't posted in a while. Sorry.

Last week was a little intense.

Turns out it's not OK to not take my meds for three or four days. Turns out that's more than enough time to embark on a downward spiral. And, it turns out, it takes a few days to emerge from the abyss once you've gazed into it and gotten back on the damn meds.

Brain chemistry, you guys. Don't fuck with it.

It leads to feelings of revulsion
and disgust. Eating eggs, I mean.
*yuck*

I'm just now starting to feel slightly more normal after several days of loosey-goosey-where's-the-noosey emotional havoc. Don't worry, I was never in any danger of harming myself. I have a truce with myself on that score, and it is iron-clad. But thoughts...well, thoughts leave no scars but still pack a hell of a wallop.

I am, however, strong like female Russian cow.

I'm udderly indefatigable. Hehe. I kill myself.
NOT literally.

Or, more accurately, German-Polish hybrid cow. Oddly enough, it's mostly made of sausage.

I am from sausage-loving stock.

Anyway, it's been quite a week. I planted beans, you guys. #Bean2017 is on. Photo essays until you want to stab yourself in the eyes are coming. Also, possibly, tomatoes. We'll have to see how brave I feel. At the moment, I'm not so brave.

I discovered I can pay my taxes. I love everything about being single, except being screwed by the IRS because I'm no longer married. Also, I discovered to my chagrin that Precocious Daughter aged out of the child tax credit when she turned 17 in November. So she's just dead weight to me now. But I can handle the unexpected extra tax burden. Because someone, whose name has three letters and ends with "d," is watching over me. (It's my dad, OK?)

I want to write about health care, and the stunning, gripping, historic events of last Friday, when the Republican-led house couldn't pass the bill it's had seven years to perfect.

I want to write about Chuck Berry, whom we lost recently, and how damn much his music means to me.

I want to write about Hamilton, because PDaughter and I have become obsessed with the musical, and it literally runs in a loop in my head all day long. Possibly it saved my sanity, I don't know.

Probably Lin-Manuel Miranda is the hero Gotham deserves,
and also is adorable.

Mostly, I want to write because writing makes me feel normal and gives me hope. And makes me believe that feeling hopeful is normal. 

I've decided that I will be published on McSweeney's Internet Tendency this year, come hell, high water, or several dozen polite rejections. Even if I loathe myself by the time it happens. Because if a writer doesn't loathe herself, who will?

I've decided that being strong is hard, but being weak is like carrying 150 pounds of dead squid on your back for eternity.

For one thing, it stinks.

I'm grateful to everyone who loves me. And to generic Prozac, which keeps me tethered to reality for less than eight bucks a month, so long as I actually get around to refilling my prescription.

And to Drummer Boy, whom I don't deserve.

ANSWER IN THE COMMENTS: To me, weakness feels like 150 pounds of dead squid. How does it feel to you?

Live Music, at Any Cost

If you've been here for a little while, you might remember that a few years ago I discovered 70s singer-songwriter Shawn Phillips.

Seriously, click that effing link in the preceding paragraph.
DO IT.

Welp. Shawn Phillips, who supposedly retired from touring some time back, is actually playing a show at iconic Dallas music venue Poor David's Pub on March 19, 2017.

I-HECKIN-CONIC.

When I first heard about this gig, I thought, "Wow, it would be pretty cool to check this out."

Then David Card - hell yes THE Poor David - put this out on Facebook today:

This.

A bit of background, Drunkards.

I'm a single mom.

Christmas is approaching.

I just today found out that my ex treated himself to a new cellphone, which he charged to my TMobile account.

Also, a couple of weeks after the holidays, I have to pony up for Precocious Daughter's Spring band trip to Corpus Christi.

And I'm late paying my credit card bill.

Can I afford two tickets to see (the relatively affordable) Shawn Phillips live?

Not really.

Did I buy them anyway?

AW HELL YES.

Hey, if Jerry Lewis says so...

This is my Christmas, New Year's, Valentine's Day, and probably birthday present to myself.

I'm kind of hoping that Drummer Boy will be able/willing to accompany me on the day.

If not, I have a free ticket for any Dallas-area Drunkards who want to check out a really-super-good show by an awesome musician.

As for me...I'll be eating pork and beans for lunch for the next few months. You do what you gotta do.

As Shawn Phillips himself sang: It really doesn't matter if you know love's pattern.

I'll figure out how to pay the electric bill later.