The burning question on everyone’s mind (you, you and YOU) is “Where the Fuck is Sam and why has she so sorely neglected her poor blog?” Oh, and “When will we see her boobies?” Well, no boobies today dear readers. Just a whole lot of this and that plus a couple of funnies thrown in to keep you from wailing and gnashing your teeth. The funnies are courtesy of H3.2. He’s a funny one, that man.
First of all, I’ve been in quite a pickle these days. A large, very Kosher dill pickle to be exact. In a very vinegary jar. Lid firmly closed. Let me tell you, it is not at all what I thought it would be. I will attempt a Reader’s Digest version of my woe and despair for your reading pleasure, in order to get on with the more amusing bits and pieces.
As a financial guru in the early stages of my career, I am required to bust ass and develop a profitable practice. With my winning personality, stunning good looks and comprehensive knowledge this shouldn’t be difficult. However, it is stressful. Doing business with clients does not equal instant money in my pocket. Sometimes it takes a LOOOONG time before I actually get paid. Something to do with other companies not wanting to let go of their money and such. I say “Fuck them and the horses they rode in on” because if my clients were happy with them, they wouldn’t be handing their shit over to me. So my paychecks look like “$$” and “$$$$$” and sometimes “0″ depending on how quickly shit goes through. This = stress for a single parent.
Single parenthood. Need I elaborate? I think not. Stress.
My dad. Battling emphysema and put on hospice care in July of this year. This means the good ole doc gives him 6 months or less to be around. You do the math. I love my dad, and this sucks. He emails me daily to keep in touch, however when he’s having a particularly shitty day he forgets to email me. My heart stops. I stress. I wait. I call him. Sometimes he picks up the phone and my heart starts beating again. Lately this has happened more frequently, and my heart is really feeling the strain. It’s hard to be a happy blogger, or even any kind of blogger when you’re fretting about whether your dad is still alive. Not to mention my special mother who keeps predicting the amount of time he has left because GOD speaks to her and keeps her informed. Thanks mom!!
This all leads to, you’ve guessed it:
Stress = bad fibro. See this post if you’re confused. I’m exhausted and in pain. I’m really no fun AT ALL. Ask H3.2, he’ll tell you. So how can a girl that walks like she has a stick in her ass (due to muscle pain) be a happy, productive worker bee? She can’t. So I took a leave of absence from work. This means I’ll still service (not in that way, fuckers) my clients, but I’m halting building up my practice. This leaves a large gap in my bank account, solved by part E.
Wherein I become a nanny for my best friend’s baby boy, aged 5 months. Baby “Z” I will call him. He does not require nylons, high heels or even a bra for that matter. We can lay down on the floor and play with colorful toys. He eats, plays, naps and all those other baby things. His mommy works very early in the morning, which means I’m home by 4 each day to take care of other things, like my Chicken and H3.2 and my clients when they need me. No more 20+ hours a week in the office in addition to seeing my clients. No more stressing about when I will get paid. And once life goes back to “normal” and Baby Z is ready for day care, I will returned to my regularly scheduled life. I hope.
(Insert bitching and screaming here) As far as my battle with DFAS/Cleveland and child support, I have received November’s check. No December yet. Not sure if I’ll get January in… January. Fucktards. Many wasted phone calls and frustration just added fuel to the fire, or vinegar to the jar if you will. Direct deposit should start Feb ’06. I hope they don’t fuck that up.
Here is where the funny starts:
I crafted a very precise plan, one that involved me going to the office, taking care of paperwork and being home at lunch for a scheduled “nooner”. I was extremely proud of my time management skills, the ability to think ahead and all that shit. I could do it! I could get up early as opposed to snoozing until my body stopped hurting. I could make it back home in time for some nookie.
As I excitedly relayed my perfect plan to H3.2, he scoffed at my lofty goals and was unwilling to bet me on the possibility of executing my plan. His response: “Even Las Vegas wouldn’t take that bet, sweetie.” Fucker. He was right.
In the very same conversation, H3.2 uttered “You are the female incarnation of Al Bundy” as a rebuttal to my insane plan of rising early. I roared (with laughter) and demanded that he hand me the laptop in order to blog. He denied my pitiful requests. I threatened to go downstairs to use the desktop. He relented (partially) and consented to give me pen and paper to jot down the remarks.
Then H3.2 said “I take it back. Al Bundy wouldn’t be such a pain in my ass about blogging. He doesn’t care about anything. You obviously care about blogging. The compliment is stricken from the record.” Fuck. I would have made such a great Al Bundy.
Then, last night… oh the night it was. H3.2 was in a bizarre mood. I leaned over the bed to grab something and noticed that he was RIGHT NEXT TO ME. In our grand ole king size bed, he was giving me approximately 2.3 inches of cushy bed room. WTF?
“I am playing Risk. I am taking over the world. You are France. You will lose” he says. This resulted in some disturbing animal noises emanating from my mouth and vigorous attacking methods which consists alternately of biting and tickling him until I had beaten his soldiers back and taken the western hemisphere. I may suck at the board game, but don’t fucking get between me and my bed.