To begin this post, I’m going to start with the basics of Kat.  I’m 29 and single.  I have been single for quite some time.  Most of my friends, however, are not single.  This is something that is a constant thorn in my side.  Given that I’m the single one, the automatic, subconscious assumption is that my life is not as full as theirs because of the presence of significant others, legally bound or no, and, in some cases, children. 

Let’s be real here, folks.  I have a full time job that requires 4-6 workdays per seven day period, I am in school to get my MFA in photography, and, as everyone knows, I always have at least two or three other irons in the fire.  We’re coming down upon holiday season which means shopping and the making of about 100 Christmas cards.  I have to continually add to my portfolio.  I have two dogs that, in my life, act as children.  I have a family even if it is an atypical one.  They need to be taken care of as well.

My life is quite a full one.

Back to the single thing.  I live in the southeastern United States.  No matter what anyone tells you, there is still pressure, moreso here than anywhere I have ever experienced, to marry and have children young.  By young, I mean very early twenties.  Here I am, very nearly 20-10 (Most of you call this 30, but I choose not to.), single, with no two-legged children.  I am under constant scrutiny.  People ask, “Why isn’t she married?” and “Why doesn’t she have any children?”  It’s as if I’m not a complete person because I haven’t chosen to procreate irresponsibly or marry the wrong person because of some arbitrary timeline I had no vote on.

I’m not saying that all my friends married/are marrying the wrong people or procreated irresponsibly.  This is not at all the case.  My point is that if I were walking around at 29 with an illegitimate child it seems as if people would consider me to be a more valid person than I am now.  This I cannot understand.

To continue on the procreation thread: A few years back, I explained to my mother that I had a plan.  To be clear, this was mostly in jest.  I fully intended to do the travelling involved with this plan, but nothing else from it.  The plan consisted of travelling abroad to find the perfect specimen for procreation, presenting the idea that I wanted to have children to this person, explaining that I merely wanted a child sans the child’s father, getting knocked up, and coming home.  The whole point of this plan was to have zero daddy drama. 

Let’s be real for a second.  My mother wants grandkids…badly.  More than probably anything.  I’m her only child.  Her great white hope.  I’ve told her on many occasions that if she wants another child she should feel free to adopt one.  This makes her angry and normally makes her stop talking to me for a couple of days.  I always feel badly for saying things of this nature, but, at the same time, it is my uterus, it’s my body, and I’ll be damned if I’ve worked this hard for this long only to have it all ruined by having a baby by myself right now.  Way to go, Kat.  Suddenly the fact that you went to college means nothing because the only job you’re going to be able to hold down is at Burger King.  Forget ever finding someone to make a life with.  Granted, at my age, more dudes are dealing with dating chicks with kids than anything else, but still.  I just don’t want to do it this way.

My Mom wanted a baby, so she had me.  My dad was good for absolutely nothing other than sucking up good oxygen, and that changed her entire life.  I don’t want those changes.  I want to at least make the attempt to have a family the way I’ve always seen family and I at least want to make the attempt to not enter into parenthood lightly. 

Last night, my mother and I are discussing how one of my coworkers opened up to me and told me about the situation with her and her son’s father.  My mother brought up the fact that stories like that and experiences like she had with my father are why she is “all for” me having a baby with a dude who wants to leave.  Sign over his parental rights and just go.  I told her that I didn’t want to do it that way.  I explained that I’m not as strong as she is and that I couldn’t raise a kid on my own.  I explained that if I did, I figured the kid would end up all kinds of fucked up. 

She asked me how I could think something like that. 

I told her I just didn’t think that I could do it well.  I told her, again, that I’m moving across the country in August.  To this she replies, “That’s when you just leave the baby with me.”  No offense to my mother here because she had to leave me with my grandparents for a year or so while she finished RT school, but that’s not something I want to do.  I explained that I’m just not as strong as she is.  I neither think I could raise a kid on my own nor could I leave my child across the country for greener pastures.  It seems to me to completely defeat the purpose. 

I once again explain to her that I’m just not as strong as she is.  I’m not made of that kind of stuff.

She walked away and said, “Yeah, a lot of good it’s ever done me.”

In hindsight, I realize that by being honest about the qualities I don’t possess when they are indeed  positive qualities somehow insults my mother and the job she did of raising me.  Okay, I get that.  I’m sorry that I didn’t grow up with every single positive attribute belonging to my mother.  I’m a lot of things my mother isn’t, including myself.  I’m not my mother and I never will be.  That’s just the nature of the beast.

Here is the real question, though.  Why are my procreation habits something my mother gets a vote on?  Why am I made to feel like the worst human being on the planet because I won’t, at this point, purposefully raise a child on my own?  Isn’t this shit a little backwards?  How did a conversation about a coworker turn into a conversation about my uterus and then a conversation about my mother? 

When did my relative ability to procreate become a topic people felt comfortable discussing as if I were only a uterus to be used to house the Golden Child?  When did my choice on whether to bring a child into the world or not become a question of what other people want? 

I guess I just don’t get it.  I mean, go ahead and want grandkids.  Want the shit out of them.  I don’t care.  I feel for you not having them.  Seriously.  I want children, I just want them under particular circumstances, if possible.  I thought that was the mature way to handle parenthood, but I’m apparently depriving other people of their roles in my future child’s life and that’s, once again, apparently, insensitive.  Yeah, I’m an asshole for not having a baby with a son-of-a-bitch that wants nothing to do with a child.  Awesome.

You want to know the best part?  I get this shit from my mother AND my grandmother.  Both of them comment on this shit in different ways.  The funny part?  My mother gets angry when my grandmother says anything about it.  Irony?  Oh yes.  Que the Alanis.

They do not, however, owe you 1) something for nothing, 2) their ingratiation in the form of becoming a doormat, 3) they do not owe you their self-esteem, and 4) they do not owe you a scapegoat, a red-headed stepchild which you can beat with a closed fist, or someone one which to sharpen your scathing wit.  Seriously, folks, try to be decent consumers.

After all, that is what this entire post is about. 

I don’t understand people who go places not simply looking for the best deal possible, but honestly expecting something (quite large) for nothing.  I never will understand these people.  Let me be straight.  I’m a portrait photographer.  I work with a lot of children and families.  I’ve seriously had mothers start crying because I am physically unable to give them neither more free stuff nor meet their every wish want and desire.  Don’t like our backgrounds?  Go somewhere else.  Don’t like our choice of backgrounds?  Speak up.  We want you to like your photos for more than one reason.  Want a certain prop you’ve seen before that you don’t see on the floor?  Ask.  It’s probably in the back.

  Look, there are just certain things I can’t do.  Seriously, look where I work.  I love my job.  Love, love, love it, but, seriously folks, do you think I give a shit that times are tough for you?  If you said yes, you’re being straight up stupid.  I sympathize, I really do, but the way I feel about it is that portraits should be the last thing on your mind if you’re struggling.  Worry about making your home and car payments, worry about keeping the kids in school, holding back money from paychecks so you can give the kids a good Christmas, pay your utilities, eat well, etc.  There are so many things that should come before family portraits, but these people still come and give me their sob stories. 

The bottom line is that they want me to assure them they are doing the right thing, they want me to make them feel better for not buying but one or two of the photographs I painstakingly took. 

Hi, how ya doin’?  I’m not going to do that shit for you. 

You feel like an asshole? 

Good.  You walked in here looking to get something for nothing, and that’s exactly what you’re going to get.  You’re going to get your main package and that’s it.  I’m not going to make you feel good about that.  I busted my ass for upwards of 30 minutes rolling around on the floor, squatting, thrusting, sweating, posing your unruly child, listening you bitch about how your child won’t smile, and working myself into a disgusting, sticky, sweaty, and sometimes smelly mess.  Then I spend a half and hour or more dealing with your indecisive ass.  Just pick your three faves and let’s move on.  You’re fucking me harder and harder the longer you sit here and waste my time and yours. 

Anyhow, I do all these things because I love my job.  I do it because I want you to have outstanding photographs.  You put me through this, put your child through multiple outfit changes, and then you scream at them to smile.  I go through all of this with you and in a very physical way.  Is it okay that you call my photography shit and don’t order anything?  No, you just fucked me.  I’m over you.  I’m going to smile, take your money, hand you your photographs, and wave while you’re on your way out.  I, however, am not going to like you.  I’m not going to be your friend.  If you walk in again and didn’t request me, I’m going to do everything in my power to get away from you because, since you’ve already fucked me once, you’ll fuck me again.  It’s the Fucking Golden Rule.  Well, one of them at least.

With all that said, I’m going to break this down for you.  As a consumer you do have certain rights, but you’re not always right.  Address people the way you’d want to be addressed.  If they are rude as shit, be a little rude back.  There is nothing wrong with dishing a little of what they are selling. 

Now, it is not, I will repeat is not, okay to treat people like shit because they won’t bend to a list of ridiculous desires.  If you walk into a restaurant and order something that isn’t on the menu, don’t get pissed if they can’t accomodate you.  Order something the do offer or go the fuck home.  End of story.  It is as simple as that.  Don’t walk into a chain portrait studio and expect tons of variety in pose, background or prop.  Don’t walk into this place and expect the quality of shots you’d get from a professional photographer.  If want to pose like Tori and Dean, you need to bring a fucking picture and you need to accept that the studio might not have the equipment to do what you want.  Ask, by all means, but accept that there are some things they are not going to be able to do.  If you want really special images that are just what you want, where you get lots of individualized attention, etc., then you need to hire a private photographer with their own studio. 

Don’t insult your photographer, their work, or their style when you didn’t give them shit to work with in the first place. 

Srsly.

Anyhow, this topic occurred to me while shopping last Wednesday. 

I’ve found that, generally speaking, you’ll run into a few different types of women when delineating based on public restroom habits.  You have the squatters, you have the toilet seat cover users (or, in the abscence of toilet seat covers, they use the crappy single-ply toilet paper provided), and you have the ladies that just sit on the seat — these are the “I don’t give a fuck, I just have to pee” ladies.

It it in this first grouping that you’ll find ladies of refinement, severe conservatives, and those that have a poophobia.  They don’t want to talk about it, they avert their gaze on the way out, and they are always rushing in and out of the restroom.  Why?  This should be obvious.  The faster they walk, the less chance there is of someone seeing them exiting or entering the bathroom and knowing what they were doing.  This somehow provides them a sense of security when, really, all it does is bring more attention to them.  These are also the ladies if, given a choice, will give themselves a UTI holding it so they can pee at home.  Don’t ask me what these chicks do if they have to poop while in public.   (Sidenote: these are also the bitches that encourage their children to squat, piss all over the toilet seat, and then don’t clean it up because that would be touching “peepee” or validate not cleaning it up by chirping ”[they] employ people to clean that up.”)

The second grouping of ladies consists mostly of delusionaries.  Know that I say this with only a hint of sarcasm, but mostly with good-natured ribbing.  I understand that poo germs are some of the worst kind of germs out there.  We both know that you know that a single-ply of toilet tissue (which basically equates to what a toilet seat cover is) isn’t going to protect you from anything, but it gives you peace of mind.  Granted, you’re killing a tree based on a convoluted sense of peace of mind, but whatever.  It’s not the worst thing you could do and I respect your need to separate your ass skin from the ass skin of someone you don’t know.  These ladies normally don’t do this sort of thing in the homes of their nearest and dearest because, to put it bluntly, they don’t care if their pressed ass to ass with said nearest and dearest.

The third grouping is the one I proudly claim membership to.  You will rarely see me spreading toilet paper over a seat unless it is severely questionable, there are no other options for relieving oneself, I’m in attendance at an event with more than 10,000 other people and/or I’m using portapotties. 

The fact of the matter is that I’m a “I don’t give a fuck” kind of girl in almost every respect.  I don’t see the point in being shy about the fact that I have excretory functions simply because everyone has them.  My girlfriends and I talk about ours on a very regular basis (C and V, especially, but never L unless I want to be hung up on.).  As far as toilet seats go, I figure that it’s just skin.  It’s been washed and dried in accordance with general hygiene, and refusing to sit on a toilet seat after someone else of a respectable level of cleanliness is like refusing the push the door open in a public building. 

Riddle me this: hands have been in way closer proximity to the poo than the actual ass skin has.  If they’d both been washed accordingly, what is the problem, exactly?

I mention these three types of women because there is one group in particular that piss. me. off.  The squatters.  The squatters piss me off.  Why?  Well, because they squat and then refuse to clean up any sprinklage that occurs.  It cheeses me off when I have to switch stalls or, God forbid, don’t see the sprinklage and sit. in. someone. else’s. fucking. urine.

Blah, blah, urine is sterile.  Whatever.  It’s disgusting to sit in someone else’s excrement no matter how small a drop.  It’s always the conservative, “I don’t shit” chicks that squat.  The worst part is that they are so prudish that they won’t admit they have excremental functions long enough to clean up their own urine.  This is horseshit, yes?

So, how does this relate to my shopping excursion?  How do you think it relates to my shopping excursion.  Yep, you guessed it.  I managed to not do a thorough toilet seat check and sat in some conservative bitch’s urine. 

Seriously, if I could DNA test the shit to find out who in all of their moronic glory pissed on a toilet seat and then didn’t clean it up, I would.  Why?  So I could drink two liters of water, drink three cups of coffee, piss in a really large beer stein, and toss it on their car or doorstep or something equally as vile.  I know that crosses a line somewhere, but, I’m sorry, that’s how revolting sitting in someone else’s urine is. 

If it hasn’t ever happened to you, I pray it doesn’t.  If it has happened to you, then you feel my disgruntlement.

I mean, you expect it at festivals, concerts, carnivals, basically anywhere there are portapotties, but you don’t expect it in a mall that is one of the largest in the nation with every other chick proclaiming to be “classy” because she can afford to shop at Nordstrom. 

Seriously, ladies.  We aren’t dudes.  We can hit the seat.  If not, then bring your hand santitizer or, you know, wash your hands with soap after you wipe your own urine off the freaking toilet seat.  Please, for the love of all that is sanitary, wipe up your own urine!

I will first say this is a 100% true recounting of events that happened to me on Wednesday, August 26, 2009.  I will add that this is serious and not meant to be funny, glib or taken in jest.  I know that a lot of my blogs start by sounding quite serious, but I make no light here.

I was running errands on this particular day that consisted of returning things that I bought to use for Victoria’s wedding that I didn’t use.  Hey, five dollars here and five dollars there adds up quickly.  At any rate, I was at Michael’s across the street from the Mall of Georgia in Buford returning a few things.  This is where the action takes place.

I’m in the return line when I hear a woman shout, “SOMEONE CALL THE COPS!”

My first thought is, “Oh, someone has a gun.  Typical.”  Needless to say, my day had been strenuous.  I think that much is obvious by my initial response to there being a loaded weapon in my vicinity.

The woman yells again, “SOMEONE CALL THE COPS!” 

This time we didn’t have to wait long to see what she was yelling about.  A woman of about 5’4’’ comes flying up the aisle holding a 9×9” mirror in one hand and collar of a man’s shirt in the other. 

“SOMEONE CALL THE COPS!  THIS GUY WAS LOOKING UP MY SKIRT!”

The man quickly realizes that he is surrounded by about 10 women all of whom are about to get very angry.  He runs out of the store while we are all fumbling for our phones to call the cops. 

The woman recounts the events: this man was using a mirror to look up her skirt.

His reaction leaves nothing to doubt: there is more wrong with him than being a sexual predator.  He obviously has some other mental deficiency, but is not so unknowing that he stuck around the scene of the crime.

While we are talking to the police on the phone, the assistant manager of Michael’s runs after the man until he crosses the street and goes into Costco.  She runs back, grabs her purse and keys, and drives over to Costco in her car to look for the man and to let security at Costco know what is going on.  We don’t know if he drove or if he walked, and, as of when I left Michael’s 20-30 minutes after this all happened, the Gwinnett County police hadn’t shown up (even though I saw three of them parked and chatting amiably at the MoG two days later).

With all of this said, sexual predators usually operate within a specific M.O.  They stick to certain areas, usually somewhere they feel comfortable and sometimes near their home.  Given that this is such a populous area, he probably thought he’d have a better chance of not getting caught and also of getting away should he be caught.  He was caught violating an adult woman, but there were no children in the store on this day.  It could have been that he prefers adult women or that he couldn’t find his preference on this given day.

I remember being aware of sexual predators using mirrors underneath bathroom stalls, on the floor, and on the tops of their shoes when I was younger, but I hadn’t thought about it in years.  The fact of the matter is that we think we’re safe when we’re in public, but it isn’t safe to let your guard down.

This incident has been reported to the MoG security – I made sure of it – but please pass this along to anyone and everyone you know that shops or lives in the Buford, Ga vicinity, especially those with children. 

The man in question was very nondescript, unfortunately.  As I stated before, he has some sort of mental handicap that becomes apparent when he speaks – from what I heard, he speaks like a child, but this may not always be the case.  He is between 5’7’’ and 5’9’’, is Caucasian, and is bald except for the horseshoe-shaped hair pattern.  He had light eyes, a light to medium skin tone, and had a muscular/stocky build.

The heartbreaking part is that you really mean it.

I know a lot of people who have hit this point in romantic relationships.  It usually comes after a huge fight about something — whether it be about parents or friends, habits or choices, once again, it matters not.  It comes after all the emotions are spent and you feel empty.  Not that painful empty that comes with loss of something you really didn’t want to lose. 

It isn’t the painful ripping away of something deep in your soul where you feel like you’re dying — or just wish that you were, indeed, about to face death.  It is just a void sort of empty.  The kind that could go one of a few different ways.  You might go barking mad and totally skip over the edge.  You just snap.  Or you go totally apeshit happy living the relief that comes with having something that was crushing you suddenly lifted off your shoulders.  Or, like me when this happens, you take it stoically.  You cry for a bit at first because, while you expected it, it still radiates this sort of dull pain.  The kind of pain that makes you realize that you were trying to fix whatever was broken, knew you weren’t succeeding, and just realized that someone else noticed your flawed plan all along.  You tried to make light of it, you tried to maintain a positive attitude, you added your blood, sweat and tears to the solution, but something just isn’t working.  You’re past being sad about it.  It is what it is.  You’ve tried and will continue to try, but, after this point of realization, you won’t ever be able to look at the situation the same ever again.

Whatever it was in you that cared just broke.  You’re done and it really is fine.  You shrug your shoulders and move on.

I care too much about what other people think of me.  I allow it to paralyze me into inaction.  Then, when I finally get something I want, I live in this wretched fear that it will be twisted from my grip and I’ll know the answer to the Shakespearian question, “Was it better to have loved and lost or never to have loved at all?”

Relationship rhetoric aside, take that as symbolic words to live by in every situation — even those that have nothing to do with romantic love.

So, here I am, sitting, wallowing in my inaction.  My muscles hurt, my head is foggy, my head aches, and I am emotinally bereft to the point where all I really want to do is go to sleep when there is literally so much to be done.

The problem is that I realized yesterday how futile it is to spend so much time worrying about everything to be done.  It doesn’t matter.  There will always be more to do tomorrow.  There will always be someone judging you for not doing enough.  There will always be that sense of condescention that suffocates you from the soul outward.  That shit that makes you bite your tongue when normally no one is spared from you acerbic wit.  The shit that makes you unable to have pleasant dreams at night because you know what you’re waking up to.  The shit that makes you crumple into a ball, shove yourself in a corner, and cry until you just don’t have any tears left. 

This is a great recipe for being bitter as hell.  I know that I’m bitter as hell a lot of the time.  I came by it honestly.  I come from a long line of women who spend a lot of their free time being bitter about shit inflicted upon them.  Sad shit happens, y’all.  If you never let it go, it ends up owning you in the end.  You have to let it  go and move on.  Make something of what you have now.  Play the cards you’re dealt. 

So, that’s what I’ve decided to do.  Coming to the really harsh realization that no matter what I do, no matter how I do it, no matter how successful I am that it isn’t ever going to be enough, I’ve decided that I’m getting out of here whatever it takes.  I cannot care about this shit anymore.  I’m going to find a solution to at least some of my money issues and fast, save up a little cash, wade through until the end of spring term, take whatever money I have, pack up the car with my stuff and the dogs, and run like hell. 

I’m going to buy some boxes, rent a UHaul, buy someone a one-way ticket back to Atlanta from where ever the place I end up is.  Load every0ne up.  We’ll make a fabulous road trip of it.  We’ll paint my living room walls a jeweled-out Kelly green and I’ll make chicken parm with fresh green beans and potatoes.  We’ll set up on boxes and end tables and I’ll have Stella and a nice pinot grigio on hand.  We’ll drink out of Solo cups and listen to Kings of Leon and other liberated music while toasting what will surely be the beginning of the fabulous life everyone thought I ought to already have.

We’ll make plans for visits, phone calls, and talk about how we’re going to miss each other so much.  We’ll fall asleep with laughter in our hearts, exhaustion in our bodies, and smiles on our faces.  We’ll realize what it is to be free.  It will be euphoric and beautiful and I’ll write poetic blogs about it — but only because I can neither write poems nor songs.

I’ll finish my art education, become a not-so-starving artist, and consider moving out of my Kelly green-walled apartment … but I won’t.  I’ll smile with my whole face instead of just my mouth and I’ll laugh more — not the shit I’ve been peddling as of late, but the belly laughs that used to make everyone within a 20 ft radius stop, stare, and, occasionally, join in.  I’ll see Charlie Hunnam from afar and wish I had the balls to walk up to him and kiss him square on the lips.  I’ll tell the story and everyone will be shocked that I wussed out.

It will be fantastic and beautiful and I’ll get to look at people and say, “Hey, you said I was unrealistic.  Look what I’ve got now.  Yeah, that’s right — reality.  Thanks so much for playing.”  I’ll say it with an edge of malice because, at that moment, I’ll let my inner bitch come out to play a little.  For all the torture, condescention, looks conveying a self-inflicted sense of superiority, or words meant to harm but dressed up at the end with “Take no offense because I meant none.” or “Bless your heart.” 

Fuck that.  Bless your bleeding, wallowing, bitter heart.  I’m getting out of here.  I won’t be hindered and suffocated and stilted because of sense of duty and honor anymore.  I won’t continue to live in this vicious cycle of nary a positive word simply because of codependency issues.  Most everyone I know at this point is grown enough to make decisions for themselves and I won’t be anyone’s scapegoat anymore.  Don’t like your life?  Change it.  You aren’t brave enough?  Shut your mouth and play the cards your dealt then.  It’s not my fault and I can’t help you become less resentful over the state of your life.  Your choices got you there any it isn’t my responsibility to make sure you get over that.  The only thing I can do is realize that I become more like you every day I don’t fight the urge viligantly, I spew this bile onto other people, and I wallow in it when I don’t get my way because “nothing ever happens like it was supposed to.”

So, for those I have spewed bile on, I’m sorry.  Really, truly sorry.  I’m going to do my best to change it.  To those who are spewing bile, spew away, baby, because I can’t care about it anymore.  Find someone else to effect. 

It ain’t me, babe, no, no, no, it ain’t me babe.  It ain’t me you’re looking for….babe.

I typically side with the “John Mayer is a douche” camp, but these are words to live by.  Seriously.  To everyone out there with a child, consider everything you do, how it would make you feel, and the fact that you are teaching them how to interact with other people.

You want to blame your children for a lot of things.  They might be flighty, head strong, not academically devoted, or really bad with money.  Well, here’s the bottom line: as a parent, it’s probably at least partially your fault.  You might have done your best, but your kid is doing their best as well.  So, before you pass judgement on how horrid your kid is in any given arena, just consider this fact.

One of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever heard is, “Well, I just can’t get them to do (insert random action here).”  That sounds like a parenting problem to me.   This isn’t to say that everything works with every child.  You might be searching for what works with your kid.  That IS parenting.  It’s not an exact science.  It’s trials and tribulations.  It isn’t parenting when you throw up your hands and say, “Oh, it’s not my fault.”  Yes, yes, it is your fault. 

(Sidenote: Please, shut the fuck up about how I don’t have any kids and I don’t know how it is.  Bullshit.  I’ve observed you people for long enough that I know the rules and how the game is played.  You notice they don’t pull a lot of the same shit with me, right?  Yeah, it is partially because I’m not their Mom, but it is also because Homie. Don’t. Play. That.  Just because I haven’t practiced my genetic ability (Yes, ability not right.) to produce progeny doesn’t mean you get to demean and belittle my opinion.  Yes, it is an opinion, but I do more observation in a day than most people do in a month.)

All of that said, at a certain point your child will become an adult.  It is at this point that your child has the option to decide how they want to be.  They can change characteristics and habits simply because they want to.

As a parent many more things are your fault than are your child’s fault.  Your child doesn’t deserve the blame for ruining your life, making it so you don’t “have anything,” and certainly doesn’t deserve to hear that they bullied you anymore than they deserve to be bullied.

Parents, you can hurt your child more than almost anyone else in the world.  consider what you say before you say it.  Grow up and be the adult.  Stop being childish.  Understand that raising children is a lifelong committment that involves varying amounts of effort.

Most of all, remember that, at the end of things, your child chooses your retirement home.  Be sweet.

Now, I think they are sweet, precious little creatures when they aren’t in my bedroom, but, when they venture inside my bedroom, we’re going to have problems. 

It runs all around my room, me freaking out every time I see it, until I finally think it’s headed into my closet.  Well, I start freaking out even further because 1) I’ve just organized the damn thing and 2) I’m afraid it’s going to chew through some of my clothes and/or shoes or is going to have babies in a pair of my mules.  Not cool.  Have your babies outside or in the crawl space.  It’s almost climate controlled down there.  I’ll even leave out some spare bread crumbs if you go back outside.

My mother comes into my room while I’m freaking out.  I’ve shoved towels under all of my doors hoping against hope that I can figure out where the things is and somehow manage to scrap up the balls to catch it and throw it mightily into the woods behind the house.  My mother explains that it will just come back in.  This horrifies me.  She puts poison in my closet.  I cry over it, but shove the towel back underneath my closet door to keep it in. 

I live out of my laundry basket for a couple of days.

A few days later when I can no longer live without another change of clothes, my mother agrees to employ her balls of solid brass and go into my closet to see if the mouse is in there, dead or alive.  I pull the towel out from underneath my door to find a large section of it gnawed to shit. 

The mouse was definitely in my closet.

We cannot find its exit or its body.

I search everywhere for it. 

I never find it…or do I?

A few weeks later, I’m pulling everything out of my closet to wash it.  A lot of stuff came out of storage for summer wear and was simply put into my closet without being washed.  I’m nervous about the funky smell even though I can’t find the mouse carcass and think it might just be must from clothes stored in an outdoor storage building all winter.

I wash the clothes.  I’m on the phone folding the clothes.  I find what I think is some sort of mysterious twine in one of the tank tops.  I examine it and freak. the. fuck. out.  It’s the tail and spinal column of the poor mouse. 

Right.  Yeah.  You’d freak out, too.  Don’t lie.

So, back to the present.  I’m just in my bathroom (use your imagination to discern what task I was completing) and I see movement out of the corner of my fucking eye.  You guessed it.  Another. Fucking. Mouse.

This time it’s in my fucking bathroom.  Like I don’t have enough problems in my bathroom.  The shower won’t drain.  The toilet has to be manually stopped.  One of the sinks leaks.  Two of the lights need new bulbs.  There is a leak under the house that is effecting the spigot on the back of the house and is leaking directly under my floorboards — this leads to having to shut the water off when we aren’t using it and turning it on when we want to do things like shower, do laundry, wash dishes, or flush the damn toilet. 

Now I have another fucking mouse. A fucking, stupid mouse.  Two dogs that I’m going to have to lock up if I want to put out poison or a sense of the heebie jeebies until I’m either confident it’s left or it has babies and my house is inundated with little tiny mice. 

Fuck. My. Life.

(Go ahead and laugh.  It’s okay.  That’s why I share this shit.)

In order to fully appreciate this story, I must share one facet of the aforementioned bachelorette party with you.  While at Party City picking out the decorations for V’s last single girl bash, I found the cutest confetti in all of creation.  It was personalized with her name.  So, the table was decorated with confetti proclaiming her name — Victoria.  Better still was that it was the cheapest confetti in the house.  

I will also add that I am quite a crafty person, so, after the bachelorette party was said and done, I saved this confetti to make stickers (I have the neatest little machine that does that.) for the scrapbook pages that I will eventually make her.

All of this said, we move to the present day — or, more specifically, two mornings past.

I wake up at the ungodly hour of 6 a.m.  I force myself to do this while not working because I figure I may as well keep decent hours.  Plus, if I suddenly find myself employed, it won’t be such a stretch to put myself on the same hours as the rest of the working.

So, my alarm goes off.  I do what people typically do when they wake up to bad oldies channels at 6 a.m.:  I crack half an eye open, roll out of bed, untangle myself from the covers, glare menacingly at the world, and trip over many a random article on my way to shut off the dastardly piece of machinery that wakes me up with the sunrise.

Directly proceeding this, I stand in my room, look around to see if anything has changed (It hasn’t.), adjust my inappropriately placed underpants, stretch and then I realize something very important: my backside itches.

It is at this point that I do what any half-lucid person would do: I scratch.  Right cheek, if anyone is interested.  My brain is only a half-working, barely alive thing.  I become very confused as I realize there is something…stuck. to. my. buttcheek.

Yes, you guessed it.  A piece of personalized confetti labeling my ass as property of Victoria.  Silver confetti, once again, if you were wondering.

I think two things at this point: 1) My ass could belong to far worse people, and 2) I’m glad I didn’t go to the tanning bed with the offending piece of foil still attached to my butt.  That would have been something to see…and I would have shown everyone just for the sake of it.

You can’t pass up comedy like that.

I am also effected by the less severe type of bipolar disorder. 

This is something I’ve learned to live with over the years.  I’ve observed it, I’ve tracked it, and I know when the depressive stage is going to hit.  Luckily enough for me, the destructive behavior I exhibit is the least physically detrimental — I spend money.  Granted, that’s not the greatest, but it’s also not the worst.  Most people experiencing bipolar disorder don’t even recognize their self-destructive behavior.  Their type of destruction is also usually far more physically harmful — they do drugs, screw indiscriminately, or party in a fashion that would make a rockstar blush.

I make lists.  Lots and lots of lists.  Lots and lots of lists comprised of functional things that I need — everything from underpants to cleaning supplies.  Sunglasses to shaving cream. 

When I feel the destructive bought of the depressive cycle coming on, I get one of my lists.  I go to town.  At the end of the day, I have a bunch of useable stuff.  I still return half of it, but the fact remains is that this is how I maintain. 

I did this for a lot of years based on the fact that I couldn’t afford mental healthcare and, based on my ethnicity and where I was living, I wasn’t able to partake in any state sponsored program until I moved to a different region of the state. 

I know that the problems and stress I’ve had in the last six months is going to catch up with me eventually.  The county I live in has a really great mental health facility, and, thankfully, I get to use their programs. 

Their particular course of action consists of seeing a therapist, a nurse, and a psychiatrist.  They map out of a course of treatment, how long it will take, what you will take, how often you will see each of these professionals, etc.  So far, I’ve only had issue with one woman (her position is unclear — she leads you to believe that she’s a doctor, but I think she’s really a nurse) and a moron woman that works up front constantly ruining things and is continuously rude on the phone.  Look, don’t be rude.  It’s annoying.

Anyhow, I love my therapist.  She’s awesome.  She’s funny, gets me, and is very supportive.  No, I don’t necessarily want her to agree with me, and she doesn’t agree when it isn’t appropriate.  It is nice, however, to have someone to unload on and talk about courses of action with.  What’s funny is her typical response goes something like this, “Well, that’s exactly what I would have told you to do.” 

She recognizes that I’m very analytical and do a lot of self-analysis.  This is a fact that I appreciate.  She appreciates and lauds the fact that I’m not a moron, realize the consequences of my actions, and want to do the right thing both morally and personally.

I’m commonly stuck between what I want to do because it makes me the happiest or is the easiest and what I should do because it is either the right thing to do morally or personally.

I’m stuck in several of those quandries right now.

I went to therapy yesterday to discuss them with my therapist.  I told her what in these situations makes me happy, sad, and irate.  I told her my theories on why these situations make me all of those things.  I told her what I thought the best course of action was, how I planned to implement said courses of action, and how much torture I thought I was going to be put through because stupid shit falls into my lap — most of the time when I’m not looking. 

I also told her that I found out some things that I don’t like about myself very much: 1) I attract men that are drawn to a particular brand of crazy. (I said this slightly in jest and slightly in seriousness.  I am a particular brand of crazy, but it’s the brand that all passionate people are, in my opinion.) 2) I am attracted to men who are emotionally unavailable in some respect.  They are womanizers, married (usually unbeknownst to me — I run scared very quickly), have kids, a crazy baby mama, or have some other form of ridiculous drama. 

My therapist asked me what I was going to do to change this.  I shrugged my shoulders and said, “I don’t know.”  It’s a problem I’ve known existed for quite some time, but I am at a loss as to how to fix it.  I need to fix it in order to have any sort of sane relationship, but I haven’t the slightest clue what to do.  Most of the people I’ve talked with about it have the same response, “When you meet the right one…”  Pah! 

My response is usually something like this: “You’re an asshole for even saying that to me.”  After they get over the shock of having their belief system broken down to bullshit tripe, I normally say something like this: “I asked for legitimate advice and you give me some garbage about meeting the right person.  Right.  You’re awesome.  Oh, and an asshole.  Don’t give me your opinion on relationships again until you have actually thought about the bullshit that comes out of your mouth on the topic.”

Yeah, I’m a bitch, but I spend a ridiculous amount of time giving these people solicited advice and listening to them when they don’t follow directions and fuck it all up again.  When I ask for advice, the least they could do is try to offer something of substance.

In high school, I worked retail and office jobs.  It was made very clear to me that I would never be anything more than a peon secretary if I didn’t go to college.  So, I went figuring that, at the very least, I would always be able to work in an office. 

College took me awhile, but that really is beside the point.  The point is that I continues to work in offices all through college and that I did, indeed graduate.  I’ll add that I did it with a substantial amount of debt, a good GPA, and a lot of optimism that my life was only going to get better.

I started applying for jobs before I even graduated college.  I had many interviews, so, obviously, my resume wasn’t bad.  What I didn’t understand at the time (and still don’t understand, for that matter) is why companies looking for someone who had completed a Master’s Degree were shopping for prospects at undergraduate job fairs.  Oh, they’d tell you about this sweet position they have, you’d submit your resume, they’d call, you’d interview, and then they’d drop the bomb: you need a MA for this particular position.  At this point, one of two things would happen: 1) they would tell you about this other position, all dressed up in fancy clothes, and how you’d be really good for it, but, if you read between the lines, you realized they were actually begging you to take this piece-of-shit position because no one else would (they also knew it didn’t matter if you had a MA because you’d never last a year in this shitty position anyway) or 2) they’d drop you cold because you didn’t have a MA (and then they’d treat you as if you lied to them).

So, I spent quite a few months after college working a degrading and menial job waiting for something to happen.  Don’t get me wrong, I applied and applied and applied.  I either never heard anything back or I would have this smashing good interview, think I had it in the bag, and then never hear anything back.  Well, that’s a lie, but I don’t consider a letter informing me I haven’t been hired six months after the interview to qualify as good PR.

Anyhow, I finally got a few little jobs in my field and then went to field school.  I turned down a couple of good opportunities to go to field school, but I was confident that when I came home I’d find something even better. 

While I was overseas at field school, the economy tanked.  Work in my area dried up.  I applied for anything and everything, but, with most field techs out of work, suddenly the requirements went up.  They wanted people with one-two years of experience, a more specific degree, and/or more prestigious field schools.  All of this while mysteriously cutting benefits for field crews citing back economic times.  Right.  Seems to me that the companies were still doing all right and the bosses were still doing all right, but the field techs were suffering.  Well, shit does roll downhill.

Okay.  Fine.

Six weeks later I find a servicable job and work as steadily as any field tech ever does until the end of December.

And I haven’t worked since.  I started my MFA in January just to fill my time, but this is getting tedious.

I applied for work with a photography studio that has the strip mall set-up.  Whatever.  The money is good and the requirements are common sense and reasonable for what they are willing to pay.  Cool.  I apply in March and don’t hear anything back until about a week and a half ago.

The HR woman emails me this incredibly complicated form letter.  Cool.  I email her back.  She emails back and tells me to call her at the office.  I do.  She calls back but my stupid, piece-of-shit Blackberry doesn’t even register the call.  I get the message that she calls many hours later.  I call back immediately….and a few more times over the next few days.

I get no response.

I figured the position had either been filled or they had decided against interviewing me even though I’m completely qualified (not under-qualified and not over-qualified — which are two of the most common reasons I’ve gotten for not being hired).  Well, neither of those are true.  The Director of Human Resources “does apologize” but she was “unexpectedly and unfortunately out of the office for several days” and, while she was out of the office, “the positions were filled.”  She will be “hiring additional Full-Time Associates in the very near future” so, if I “don’t mind,” she will be “contacting me in the future.”

Yeah, tell me you “apologize” when I’ve been out of work for eight months, just dropped a bundle on a friend’s wedding, are trying to pay for school, and have a dog in need of yet another surgery and, get this, chemotherapy.  (It’s not like human chemo, so don’t go all freak out on me.  It’s acutally very effective, doesn’t make them sick, and isn’t actually that expensive…if you have a job, that is.  I love my dog like a kid.  Don’t judge me.  I’ll cut you.  That’s not a threat — it’s a promise.)

So, instead of telling this stupid, insensitive bitch that she is, in fact, a stupid, insensitive bitch, I put on my diplomatic pants and tell her that I am “disheartened” as I applied in March, but that I have resubmitted my application to the two locations that are within commuting distance from my house.  This company loves to make their employees move for simple full-time jobs.  I think it’s like a wife beater separating his wife from her friends and family.  Yeah, then they know they have you.

It killed me not to tell this stupid, insensitive bitch that she should have passed her information on to someone else because she’s messing with people’s lives here and that, if it would have been me, I would have made sure that everything at work was taken care of no matter how sick or tired or stressed I was.  I understand things happen, but when you’re the Director of Human Resources, you dot your i’s and cross your t’s. 

I have a distinct feeling this bitch is going to email me and tell me she wants me to go work at the new location in Columbus.  Not. Going. To. Happen.  I can tell you that shit right now.  There is something to be said for having a job to pay bills and save up to move somewhere I want to live and entirely another to move to a town where you know no one, only briefly considered for college, and spend all your money on rent.

Yeah, like I said, that’s just not going to happen.

So, for the moment, I’m still unemployed.  Whatever.  If I sat around and worried about that shit, I’d be a quivering mass of tears and anxiety instead of just a ball of anxiety.  Ha.