Making a SNAP Decision

My shrinky-dink says that I needed to write out my (numerous) problems because as a writer, I process things once they are written down. I have difficultly judging things that are free floating in my head. This is what came out last night. I put my thoughts out into an open forum where anyone can read because I believe that a burden shared is a burden halved. Even if no one really comes to read this.

It's 11:45pm and I'm writing. I should be in bed, but I've put this off all day as I didn't want Jeremiah to see me upset should I lose control of my emotions. Here's what today looked like: I fixed three meals and washed up after those meals. I folded a load of laundry, did some school work with The Kiddo without him devolving into self-injuring because of an incorrect answer, took him to the park to run out all his pent up nervous energy, and then got him an Epson salt bath so he could detox from the meds he is on. 

In addition, I wrote a letter to his father.

It took me four hours, sometimes I was interrupted by Jeremiah and sometimes I surfed around on Facebook and Buzzfeed because I needed a break from what I was doing.

I was having to swallow my pride and ask Jeremiah's absent father if he could "out of the goodness of his heart" do something extra to help out with expenses. I'm embarrassed because I recall a person telling me, "You really should not be dependent on him or child support. You should be making enough to take care of yourself. You chose this life, not him."

Also yesterday, I started an application for food stamps. And I am filled with so much shame. "[It's pathetic] that you are living on handouts and food stamps."

Have you any idea how degraded I feel? I am doing my best to take care of my son, a child that I never expected, was scared to have, was afraid that I couldn't love. A child that has turned my life around.

Jeremiah is a child with special needs. No, he's not in a wheelchair or is undergoing horrible rounds of chemo. He has an invisible illness. No one sees him freaking out when I move the dish drain to the opposite side of the sink. No one sees him screaming when he encounters bugs or his inability to vacuum because the loud noise hurts him.

He is a child that is constantly worried, no matter how much I try to calm his fears. He always announces when he goes to the bathroom, can hardly stand to have me out of his sight, who tonight worried that he had committed a mortal sin. He still won't tell me what it is that makes him think that because "it's stupid and embarrassing and I don't know how to say it and never mind I'm just a stupid idiot."  This coming from a child that can give you an accurate synopsis of Hamlet, Macbeth, Romeo and Juliet, and A Winter's Tale.

This is not a child that I can toss into school for 8 hrs a day while I work 40 hrs. Sure, I would be making more than enough money to pay all the bills, but at what cost? Him being bullied about his bug problems? When a friend babysat him last summer while the cicadas were out, a girl his own age threw dead cicadas at him for an hour. When I picked him up, he was twitching and stuttering. He said he wanted to punch her but knew that you can't hit girls and he was too scared to tell the adults in charge because "sometimes they yell at their kids and I don't want them to yell at me."

Maybe I should let him punch himself in the face every time he messes up a workbook problem while I photocopy memos. His OCD demands that he do everything perfectly the first time around. He has trouble making simple decisions, like what he should eat for breakfast, because he's "afraid of making a mistake."

So I try to work from home or pick up odd jobs. I probably spend 75% of the day worrying how much money is in my account, but I can take solace knowing that Jeremiah is in a safer environment.

So I have to sacrifice my pride and deal with some extra anxiety to take care of my son. Isn't that what parenthood is about? I do my best to keep him out from knowing about our money issues.

I know as I write this I am saying it for my benefit alone, that I am trying to reassure myself that I am making  the right decision. So why does it still hurt?
 
Why do I feel so much shame, disapproval, and judgements when news reports showcase people like California surfer and aspiring musician Jason Greenslate. Greenslate, drives an Escalade and frequents strip clubs, shows how he supports his beach-bum lifestyle with food stamps, while dismissing the idea of holding down a regular, steady job. I know I'm not that person.

Media Matters reports:

According to the U.S. Department of Agriculture's (USDA) Food and Nutrition Service, the fraud and waste rate in SNAP is roughly 1 percent, contrary to recent Fox claims that the program is rife with fraud.

Unlike Greenslate, 41 percent of food stamp recipients live "in a household with earnings," and use SNAP benefits to supplement their primary source of income. Furthermore, the USDA reports that most food stamp recipients stay in the program for only a short period of time:

Half of all new SNAP participants received benefits for 10 months or less in the mid 2000s, up from 8 months in the early 2000s. Single parent families and elderly individuals tended to stay in the program longer than did working poor individuals, childless adults without disabilities, and non-citizens. Seventy-four percent of new participants left the program within two years. This is an increase from 71 percent in the early 1990s.

I work. I pay taxes. But why do I still feel like a failure in my own eyes?

It's 1:15am and I'm exhausted.

This fucking sucks. 

Clothes Makes The Man, But Mini-Pads Makes The Woman

Thursday morning held a lot of promise for me. I had lined up my first interview and had the potential to make some really good contacts within the high school sports community.Wanting to look snazzy and semi-professional, I opted for khakis and a sweater instead of the usual yoga pants and sarcasm-laced t-shirt.

Dropped The Kiddo off at school at 8:25 and realized I had to be at my meeting at 8:30. Strike One. Crap.  My first instinct was to call and reschedule the appointment, feigning car troubles.  Then I realized .5 seconds later that launching a paper and being the Regional Manger meant that I had to pull on the big girl panties and do it, even at the cost of running a few minutes late and looking like a fool (at least in my eyes).

After all, I was meeting with the head of the athletic department and it wouldn't be fair to waste his time just because I was freaking myself out.  Seriously, everyone runs late.  The Kiddo's school is 4 minutes down the road from the high school.  As I drove sped towards the school chanting 'calm the fuck down' to myself and mentally giving the bird to several drivers, I hopped out of the car and strode into the main building with false confidence and poise that impressed me.

The receptionist gave me a glance usually one reserves for trash in the gutter and told me to sign in.  Fortunately the coach appeared and ushered me to a side room before I started shooting dirty looks back at Ms-Cranky-Mc-Answer-The-Damn-Phone-Pants.

So I sit down, pretending to be poised and calm, when I actually wanted to piss myself.  I think I said "I appreciate your time" 5 times before I flipped open my notebook.  The noise in the hallway was going to make conversation difficult so I leaned back in my chair to nonchalantly close the door.  Except, I almost wrenched my arm of out my socket.  The door was held in place by an industrial strength magnet.  Strike Two.

No big deal. I mentally adjusted myself and flashed a broad smile as the director stood up to close the door while I rubbed my now strained shoulder.  I reached into my brand new purse and fished around for my pen and my cell phone because I had planned on recording the interview.  My memory isn't worth two licks at times, so I wanted to play it on the safe side, lest I forget a crucial piece of information.

I grabbed my phone and dropped it on the table.  Oh, and I managed to flip a mini pad onto the table at the same time.

Strike Three.

Mini-Pad meet Table.  Table meet Mini-Pad.

I glanced up quickly and our eyes met.  Without missing a beat, I swiped the pad back into the purse, gave my most charming grin, and proceeded on without any additional hitches. 

10 minutes later I was out the door and laughing all the way home.  I might not have the grace and poise of Ann Curry, but I'm a scrappy little fighter.  I might not know what the hell I am doing, but I sure will try.  

Now Taking Applications For Assistant To The Regional Manager

 

Like the logo?  If you don't that's okay, because I didn't design it.  But it's the official logo of the on-line newspaper I'll be heading up.  The site isn't live yet, but it should be by Wednesday.  I'll be busting my ass big time over the next 8-10 weeks.

While I don't have an official title at this point, the owner said I might be called "The Regional Manager" which my immediate very un-adult response was to shriek, "I need an Assistant to the Regional Manager!"

When my boss told me to pull up YouTube so she could show me a video, I assumed it had something to do with marketing.  I was wrong.  And I couldn't stop laughing. 

My boss?  She's 50PlusSomething and is from England.  

This new path in the journey of my life is going to be awesomely insane. 

For My Next Act I'm Gonna Be A Female Version of J. Jonah Jameson. (Except Less Pissed Off At Toby McGuire, I Mean, Peter Parker)

Just As Colorful, But Less Inspired.

Once upon a time a little girl lived on a dead-end street down by a river, but she didn't live in a van down by the river.  She had a great imagination and was so full of confidence that she believed that everyone on the street would enjoy reading a newspaper that she created.  So throughout one summer she made up stories about neighbor's houses catching fire and lost dogs that never existed.

Having no access to a mimeograph machines (kids, that what we called copiers back in the day) she painstakingly re-wrote each article in perfect D'Nealian handwriting and illustrated each copy.  Critics would later likened those surviving first editions to St. John's Illuminated Bible. 

Days passed.  The little gazettes were ignored by most neighbors.  The papers, lovingly bound with rubber bands were mistaken for mass mailing flyers and were tossed in garbage cans without a second look.

The little girl saw all this.  Her labor of love and creativity trashed.  She pondered for a moment and thought, "Well, there goes two days of work for nothing.  I'm gonna swim now."  Because really?  What kid wouldn't want to swim in the neighbor's pool?
________________________________________________

Twenty plus years later, on this particular day, this now older girl (because she maintains she will NEVER GROW UP) met up with two editors.  Between these two editors their resumes spanned the globe: NY Times, Boston Globe, Miami Herald, Tampa Tribune; they had worked in Germany, South American, Thailand, India.  To say the least, it was an impressive meeting.

What began as an interview for a recurring column on health, fitness, and dog care (how those go together, she wasn't sure), turned into an offer to be a manager of a regional newspaper. The editors were impressed with her background, her skills, and her adventurous spirit.  Her first business meeting will take place on Saturday and by Monday, she'll hit the ground running.

And she lived happily ever after.  Until she couldn't fall asleep because she was so excited!
________________________________________________

(So these are the details of the story.  I had answered an ad on Craigslist that advertized a position of a writer for the Dade City community for a on-line newspaper.  After speaking briefly on the phone to one of the owner and playing telephone tag over the holidays, I wasn't too convinced that I wouldn't be meeting up with two retirees who decided to take up on-line news reporting as a hobby.  However, I kept the appointment and the rest is as above.

Long before we had giant news corporations, towns and communities put out their own papers.   So my job is to launch the Dade City version of this newspaper.  It'll feature local events and people.  And seeing as we all have a natural propensity towards narcissism it shouldn't be too hard to have the highschool kids phone their sports scores to me, soccer moms to email pictures, and the garden club to wax poetic about their spring blooms.  People love reading about themselves.  Small businesses will get exposure on a level that they couldn't afford before.


I have to sell ad space in addition to managing articles that need to be published, editing documents for quality, and making contacts within the community.  And I think I really can do it.


The wonderful thing about these editors is that they understand the meaning of community.  15% of each client's ad fee will go into a community slush fund.  Once a month, 10 members from the community will decide where that money will go, whether to a needy family, replacing flower beds around city hall, or improving existing buildings.  

I'm going to be helping small businesses develop.  I'm going to know that children will smile when they can point to an article and recognize their face from the action shots captured during a game.  It'll be amazing to know that whatever ad revenue I can pull in will go to help those who might not be in a good spot, places that I've been in before. 


It's going to be a lot of hard work, especially in the beginning.  But I can still work from home, (yea for yoga pants!), set my own hours, and keep working with The Band.  This is an amazing chance for growth for me.


I know I will still have my days where my demons want to drag me down into depressive, anxiety ridden pits of self-doubt.  I know that I will freak out and get writers block.  But I know that I can keep fighting through it.  I know I can do it.)


And I know that I have you, dear readers, to thank.  Your comments, your warm wishes keep me up.  Thanks for believing in me thus far.

Somewhere, Someone Is Laughing

January is named after the Roman god Janus, know for having two heads so he could look forwards and backwards at the same time.  If Janus was so good at seeing forward and backward, then it would have been nice if I'd gotten a heads up that I would want to drink away memories of today. 

Tuesday 3, 2012--You suck.

• The Kiddo can't return to school today because he is still, still, still sick.  His illness has not resolved itself in a month and since a momma knows her kid best, I knew something more than just a 'viral infection' was up at this point.

• Made a fortuitous call at 7:45 this morning to discover that there was an opening at 11:30 at the pediatrician's.  Perfect. 

• Did a work assignment only to discover that the email address I was attempted to reach was coming back as undeliverable.  WTF?  I've done work for this person for the past 5 days.  I'm expecting my first paycheck on Sunday, small tho it is, it'd be enough for half a tank of gas.

• I try calling this client.  Contact him at both numbers.  Realize that both numbers are forwarded to the same mail box.  No big deal, right?  I have to get the Kiddo ready for the appointment, return a few emails, and put out a few new feelers.

• Arrive at the doctor's 15 minutes early.  After 45 mins told that the doctor is on call at the hospital.  That's okay because I can just enjoy the honky-tonk Ebola reunion that's going on in the waiting room.  Every boot wearing member in the county walks through the door smelling of stale cigarettes and Super Gulps.  There is much hugging, number swapping, mucousy smokers coughs, and promises to get together.  The tiny infant two chairs away is covered in such large spots that I can only hope the family dog has a bad case of the fleas. 

• At quarter to 1, doctor arrives, chats with us for a few minutes, calls out a prescription, and we're back out the door.

• Grab a $2 Happy Meal for the Kiddo, pick up a few groceries and off to Wal-Mart to pick up the meds.  

• Stand in return line for 10 minutes.  Discover toy did not originate from Wal-Mart but SUPER Wal-Mart.  They won't accept it.  ~~~Sigh~~~~

• Wait at pharmacy window. 12 minutes til their lunch break is over.

• Window opens 5 minutes late.  They haven't filled the prescription.  Told it will be ready in 30 minutes.  Know this is a lie because the same damn line is being spoken to 5 other customers.  And there is only one pharmacist.  I can do the math. 

• Decided to go home and eat lunch.  Having passed up high fat, high calorie Micky D's I am now so ravenous that I eat a monster roast beef sandwich, a bag of salt and vinegar chips, AND a dill pickle.  

• Drop a tomato, squat to pick it up.  RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIP.  I am now the proud owner of fully ventilated jeans.  

• Try to call the client who owes me $$ a call.  Once again, I get creepy, crappy voicemail.

• Do a bit of work, bundle the kid back out to the car.  It's been 3 hours, the medicine must be ready by now.
• First and only person in line at the pharmacy and it's still ANOTHER 20 MINUTES!  They have to mix the medicine.  For the love of cheese and crackers!

Time to close the curtain on this day.

Big Momma Would've Been Proud

Since I'm writing for Assocaitaed Content again, I'm hoping to expand my audience and gain more clients.  Business has been slow and I'm trying to rally.  I was assigned to write a short fictional piece, so I based my story on a fictionalized event from my Gonga's life.  For instance,  Big Momma was actually the name of my great-great-great Grandmother Orbie Johnson, and it was a steak knife, not an icepick.

Enjoy!

As I trod barefoot across the worn wooden floor, I bent down to pick up the discarded tissues that lay scattered. My friend Judy sat cross-legged on a worn couch, wrapped in a multi-colored afghan despite the sweltering mid-day Georgia heat. Half packed boxes filled with stacks of framed pictures awaited packing peanuts and bubble wrap. A bookshelf of dog-eared romance novels had been pushed aside to reveal a small hole in the wall. Curious but respectful of Judy's present anguish I squelched my desire to look inside.

"Judy, I'm so sorry Big Momma died. I know you've heard that so many times already, so I won't try to offer you any false comfort. Death stinks and right now is a rotten time, but I'm here to help you. We've got to get this place packed up and cleared out by the end of the week before the condo association changes the locks on your Grandma's place." 

Sighing, Judy cast off the afghan and stood up. "Thanks for coming. I just can't motivate myself to finalize anything. I get a box half packed and then I find something of hers that makes me cry. I know once I seal these boxes shut, I have to admit that she's gone. I can't pretend that she's in the kitchen frying chicken."

"I know dear. Loosing my Grandma last year was difficult and I was fortunate to have the nursing staff handle all her affects. I wish you had that, but since you don't I'll do what I can to make this easier."

Determined to move Judy into action, I tossed a tissue at her. "Come on. Big Momma wouldn't want you crying. She'd be telling you to put on some makeup and go buy drinks for the cute guy at the bar. Here's a box."
 
For the next three hours we packed pictures, dusty figurines, and assorted knickknacks into stiff cardboard boxes. I would run the tape dispenser across the top while Judy looked away. We talked about friends we grew up with, gossiped about the local beauty queens affair with the town mayor, occasionally reminiscing about Big Momma. When we arrived at the bookshelf I couldn't contain my curiosity any longer.

"Judy, why on earth is there a hole in the wall behind the bookshelf?"

She began to laugh, the first time in days. "Big Momma hid an ice pick in there so the cops wouldn't find it."  

If you want to find out why Big Momma hid an icepick in the wall, follow this link to read the remainder of the article. 

Crossroads or Crosshairs?

Most of you are aware that I am/have been working as a freelance writer for the past few months and while things having been going well, and I have made some contacts and gotten more exposure, the finances are not quiet balancing up yet.  Which I've tried not to worry about.  Till about 2 weeks ago.

My business partner whose entire mantra was "I hate working for the man, I'm gonna work for myself" called me soooooo excited and announced that she had gotten a full time job----working for someone else.  Ok????  How am I supposed to feel about this?  On one hand, "Yea for you!  Go chase that paycheck playing by someone's rules.  I hope you bring in the big bucks."  On the other hand, "Way to go, thanks for honoring the commitment we made to this business partnership!"


So after I freaked out and got depressed for several days, I rallied, came up with a new game plan, and pressed on.  One of the things I did was apply for a small business loan to have some working capital, but b/c my debt (a lot) to income (not enough) ratio is too high I got turned down.  Not much of a huge shock there.

But now I found out that benefits for Jeremiah just got cut by $350 to $16.  Go figure.  Nothing has changed, except the month.  (I hate being a govt sponge right now, but I'm doing all I can to remedy it.)  The woman on the phone who I spoke with/cried to said she didn't understand the rules, but that's the way it was. 

If things don't change by the end of August, I'll probably have to move, but I'm not sure where to go.  My parents don't have the room, so I'll probably have to pull Jeremiah from the private school a church member has offered to pay for and move down to Tampa with my grandmother. 

I'm really upset right now, and could use all the prayers that you can spare.  I am certain that my calling is to be a writer, but I'm really needing God and some serious money to come through for me.

This certainly makes interesting fodder for the rest of my life story.  Maybe I'll be the next JK Rowling minus the retarded wizardry.  Sorry JK, never could get into that shit.

But at least I have this to make me laugh!

Over-and-Above-Whelmed, But It's All Good

Breathe in, deep cleansing breath, breathe out.  Now I need to repeat this twenty times so I can calm the freak down!

Things have been moving at the speed of light these past two weeks.  Launched a website with Amanda Abella, enrolled the Kiddo in the parochial school down the road (thank you generous people from church for shelling out 4K because my son makes you laugh), pounded out over 60 proposals in hopes of landing some writing gigs, engaged in a very productive speed networking session, like speed dating, only less sexual tension, but just as much nervousness.  (Seriously, re-reading the chat that Amanda and I had during the networking session made me laugh til I was gasping like a asthmatic). 

When I stop to think about the enormity of what has happened in these past 14 days, I get really freaked out.  I went from having nothing to do to not having enough time to do the stuff I need to do.  I need a personal assistant to wash the dishes and do the laundry because I haven't figured out the proper balance between my personal writing, my professional writings, and my home and family life.  Forget trying to develop a personal life.  That's been on hold for several years, and a few months more won't kill me.

Besides, with the Kiddo starting Kindergarten in the fall I'm sure I'll be meeting other mothers who might happen to have a single brother/friend/cousin that I would be perfect for.  I'm not really worried about a relationship happening or not happening in my life right now.  I'm content in being alone and I don't need the distraction of juggling another proverbial ball in the air.

Pictured: Not me.

One of the things that has been helping me to stay grounded this week has been taking up yoga again.  I am fortunate enough to be bartering services with Nancy of Sun and Moon Yoga of Dade City.  In exchange for running her website (haven't taken it over yet), the Kiddo and I are able to take as many yoga classes as we'd like each month.  I am really looking forward to getting back into the groove that yoga helps me achieve. 

When I was in my junior year of college, I struggled with many stressors in addition to a herniated lumbar disk.  More often than not I would find myself gasping for air as my heart raced and my thoughts spun out of control.  I had stopped eating and dropped down to unhealthy (and unnatural for me) size 6.  So when a professor who was really into natural healing suggested I take up the practice of yoga to repair the damage done to my back, I was eager to try anything.  So I yogaed my way out of that stressful time in my life to the tunes of Linkin Park's Hybrid Theory. 

What?

I couldn't find my zen in trickling waters (made me want to pee), chiming bells (kept thinking of Christmas nutcrackers), or animal forest sounds (I kept expecting bugs to crawl on my legs).  So Linkin Park helped me work through my anger and the yoga calmed my body.  It was a great combo.

Now if you'll excuse me I'm off write a half dozen more articles.