Homesick

“I’m just going to go ballistic and punch people in the face, then I can lose my job. Good thing is, hunny, we won’t have to pay for daycare.”

Ladies and gentleman, meet the love of my life.

We met in a small-town mini mart where Confederate flags were hoisted on the backs of lifted Chevys. (Will someone tell them we live in Pennsylvania and, like, totally beat the South?) He was a dream. Him, the older, 6’5 jock with a super hot, super tinted ’01 Cavalier roaring into the gas pumps with Flowmaster exhaust (really just a chrome tip). Me, a now salivating but wholesome, straight-A teenager with one motto: “The key to success? Put a nickle between your knees and keep it there.”

You see, my oldest sister got knocked up at 16. My mom did, too. We grew up on food stamps. She baked me a cake when I hit 17 without a dependent.

We were in a whirlwind of love and lust (don’t tell my parents), and I still feel the Catholic guilt chained to my first orgasm, pulling it into the depths of venereal disease-infested hell.

I had my whole life ahead of me. I could go anywhere with my ability to write a coherent sentence and poverty-level upbringing that provided some charm and depth to my college entrance essays. Destined for greatness. Determined to leave this small-minded place. Heathens.

So why, as a self-centered, success-oriented natural leader, did I come back to this godforsaken place to only become an overweight, extreme-couponing mother of two with a glass-ceiling-bound career?

Grab a glass of wine … (You might help yourself to some of my finest boxed pinot in our Frigidaire Gallery, French door, stainless steel refrigerator, which we’re still paying for, 12 months no interest. Don’t mind the dog pee under the kitchen table.)

“Let’s try this long-distance. We’ll call every night, travel every other weekend,” we cooed to each other, only one of us bound for college in Philadelphia. The other worked in a warehouse, driving a forklift on third shift.

“You’re the smart one,” he said, “I’ll follow you wherever you go.”

He wasn’t kidding. Philadelphia, South Philly, Richmond, D.C., Virginia Beach. There he was, loading and unloading the UHaul, even my Kawasaki Ninja that ended up getting run over in a newspaper parking lot by an award-winning photojournalist.

“Why the (bleep) do you have so much nail polish?”

He was not only observant, he was strong. A giant bull who could reach any top shelf. No matter how long I hung from the swingset in my backyard at 8 years old, I’d never be tall.

 

 

 

 

Losing it

Sometimes I tell my husband I need to run an errand, but that’s not true.

I keep my poison in the back of my Jeep: a children’s tote bag disguises my coupon binder. I sit in the driveway and page through couponing apps, linking deals and mapping out my first hit. I breathe in and out, in and out. Driving, I think about what’s on sale and how I can combine coupons or stack deals and submit for Ibotta credits. I can feel control warming my veins. Shampoo for $.49? Band-aids for a quarter? If I can get diapers for under $2 a bag, I can find some wiggle room to go out for lunch one day by myself.

I leave the store with $60 worth of stuff for under $10. I feel better. I’m so good at it, I started teaching women at a local homeless shelter about how to save money. Controlling your purse is empowering.

Today, I realized why I do this: I’m falling apart. And I don’t think anyone notices.

I slept three hours last night and forgot to put on deodorant. I’ve worn the same pants two days in a row. I didn’t say anything today when I sat in front of a boss – after covering for her and another colleague for the last week – and she told me I need to do more.

“You should be writing more press releases.” “You need to turn these around quicker.” “You need to focus on YOUR OWN JOB.” “You need to… you need to … you should be …” I stopped listening.

Clip, clip, clip.

In that moment, I realized she is full of it.

I work late, I hug my children every day, and I am a perfectionist. But I am f’ing tired.

My husband has sleep apnea, so I’m always listening to make sure he’s breathing. The baby doesn’t sleep longer than 2.5 hours at a time. I stayed up late last night to wash the dishes and my oldest son’s karate uniform. I set the Crock-Pot this morning with something no one but the dogs will eat. I completed a comprehensive report at work that is really f’ing comprehensive. No responses.

I don’t think anyone’s noticed that my roots are 4 inches long. My shoes have holes in the bottom. My veneer is cracked on my front tooth. I’ve forgotten how to take care of myself. Me, the door mat. Me, the victim. Me, the person who used to speak up. Me, the person who would never put up with this nonsense.

They laugh at my couponing stories, especially the guys who are entertained by my cute, momish frugality but not really seeing just how messed up it is. I’ve become obsessed with it, because it’s the only thing I can control.

Anyone out there?

On my way home from work today, I’ll use a freebie coupon for a junior Frosty at Wendy’s. I’ll sit in my driveway, close my eyes and meditate while I bite into each scoop and try not to check my work email.

Dis this interest

I jumped up and down in the front door when I got a letter in the mail last month saying I qualified for the Federal Student Loan Forgiveness Program. It forgives student loans when you make consistent payments for 10 years while working in certain sectors, like a nonprofit. I literally cried when I got that letter, because I’ve been paying close to $700 a month since 2006 and hardly made a dent in the balance due to interest and fees and whatever shady calculations buried within. I even called my parents with the good news and thought that maybe in 6 years our family can go on a real vacation. Maybe in 6 years I wouldn’t have to be so obsessed with couponing or cutting corners or shopping the clearance racks for my children’s clothes.

Well, like life itself, that was short-lived.

Today, I received an email saying I have to be in a certain type of repayment plan to qualify. I called FedLoan and was informed that none of my previous payments in a qualify, meaning that I’d get no credit for the last 4 years of working at a nonprofit. To qualify, I’d have to be in a payment plan that’s an extra $200 a month. It’s actually higher because I’m married. It wasn’t the customer service rep’s fault, but I lost my proverbial shit.

I don’t know what the right answer is. Maybe it’s taking the extra $1.50 a week in my paycheck to apply to the principal (thanks, sweeping tax reform. sarcasm.)? Or perhaps getting divorced, quitting my job and going on welfare — at least we’d have food in our refrigerator. Maybe I shouldn’t give a solid F and not pay my bills at all? I didn’t vote for Mr. Cheeto, and he certainly doesn’t give a shit about someone like me, a salaried mom of two who works 60+ hours a week to pay $1,300 a month for daycare and stays up to sort garbage from recyclables and puts quarters in other people’s expired meters.

I took out both federal and private loans during the Bush administration, which cut grants to families like mine even though we were poor with a family of 7 , then graduated college in a recession. I was doomed from the beginning, underpaid and running ahead of a tsunami of layoffs in a male-favored industry. I knew the dice I was rolling at the time taking out loans, but my only other option was not going to college and continuing the cycle of systemic poverty.

I’m writing this as at 8:35 p.m., just getting done making dinner (cereal again), snuggling with my two boys and listening to my husband bitch about how the kitten shit all over the baby’s bath tub. I typically get only 3 hours of asleep a night, so I’m testy.

I’ve been reading about tax reform and how it’ll help ALL THESE PEOPLE, but not me. At 33, all I want is sleep and a lower interest rate on my student loans.

You might have had too much wine last night if …

Mom flair

A: Baby puke. Not sure how long this stewed, but it’s got a yellowish tint, so it’s either carrots or sweet potatoes. I can tell by the splatter pattern he was upright, so I’m hypothesizing this occurred around lunchtime, well before I ran errands.

B: Did not know these workout leggins had these mesh areas, as I purchased them on the $9 clearance rack at Walmart in a hurry and without glasses. Very professional dancer-ish, no?

C: Baby leg.

D: Dog hair, kitten hair, or my own hair. Again, uncertainty. Either way, it’s #momflair.