Tag Archives: broke

Things Fall Apart

So, I’ve finally worked out the “Mystery of the Chipmunk” i.e. why hundreds of people are being directed to my blog every day when they do a search with the word “chipmunk”. I don’t know if this will work on your computer, but if I do a google image search for “chipmunk”, the second picture that comes up is on my blog – the day I wrote about having an infected wisdom tooth and looking like said rodent.

It’s quite heart-warming really. Even on my old blog when I wrote more about sex work and just sex, in general, I never got so many hits.

So, are you all having a very merry Christmas? My Christmas hasn’t gone, um, exactly to plan.

I was – as you will know if you have been following my posts – supposed to have taken off yesterday for the Midwest with “MM” but, shortly after my blog post two days ago, things fell disastrously apart. I am currently sitting at home and “MM” is with his family over a thousand miles away. It’s not as bad as it seems, though. I have spent more Christmasses alone than I care to remember, and it doesn’t bother me all that much. The worst thing about spending Christmas by yourself is telling people you’re going to spend Christmas by yourself. You get so many pitying glances, and then people feel obligated to invite you to their house because they feel sorry for you…when all you really want is to be left alone! Mercifully this year I was spared that because I didn’t know I would be spending Christmas by myself up until the very last moment.

Of course you will all want to know what happened. Well, the short answer is that I was just too stressed and too broke to be able to leave town for ten days. Of course, it wasn’t like my emotional and financial state was a surprise to me or anything. I mean, I knew I was fucking broke and almost at breaking point but I had decided just to take off anyway even though I hadn’t managed to save a single penny of my rent money. There were also several other bills I would have had to have left unpaid and then, of course, there was the matter of the road trip home. I had no money for that – for gas, and motels etc. – and I also had no money to spend in the Midwest either. Of course, “MM”, as my husband, could have given me some money but as he’s also broke, I would have never heard the end of it. Over the course of our relationship, he’s lent me $3000 (a lot of it is my share of our wedding expenses) and, whenever he’s strapped for cash, he bitches about how his life is so hard because he gave me that money.

I knew, knew, knew all of the above, and I knew even more that I would be horribly stressed out upon my return, scrambing somehow to get money together. It wouldn’t have been a good way to start of 2010 at all, but I thought that it would be worth it because the road trip would be so fun…

And then…something happened…which pushed me over the edge, and I freaked out, and realized I just couldn’t go. I had reached my breaking point, and if I left town I knew all I would do would be worry, worry, worry about money and have a horrible time.

The “something” that happened wasn’t that much of a big deal in itself. It involved my pit bull dog whom I was going to be taking with me for the first time ever (my chihuahua came with me last year, and this was the first time for me to take both my dogs). If I had known how much time, effort, money and hassle it was going to cost me to bring her with me on the plane, I would just have left her in kennels, as I usually do, but, well, hindsight doesn’t help you at the fucking time, does it?

Let me describe to you the saga of the pit bull…

(1) “MM’s” parents agree to allow me to bring my pit bull with me. They weren’t too keen at first, but “MM” persuaded them, and they also remembered how they weren’t keen at all on my bringing my chihuahua last year, but really enjoyed having her around in the end.

(2) Our flights to the Midwest were on Continental, and Continental has banned all pit bulls over six months of age and/or over twenty pounds. Like a small detail like that would deter me, though! I did some research and found out that Staffordshire Bull Terriers were NOT banned, so I decided to pass my dog off as a Staffordshire Bull Terrier mix. (Indeed, for all I or anyone else knows she fucking could be exactly that). A Continental employee confirmed, on the phone, that my dog would be allowed to fly.

(3) Take my dog to the vet for an exam, and to get a health certificate to allow her to fly. Cost – around $150.

(4) Buy a crate and accessories for the crate on Petco’s online website. Cost $150.

(5) Despite buying the crate on November 22nd so that my dog could get acclimatised to it in plenty time before the flight, the fucking thing doesn’t turn up. Fedex said they delivered it on December 1st, but it never arrived.

(6) Spend countless hours on the phone to Petco’s customer service in the Philippines (!!) who are fucking useless. They re-order the crate, and this one is “delivered”, too although it is nowhere to be found.

(7) Spend ages on the phone to Fedex, and finally establish that both crates (the original order and the re-order) had been delivered to the wrong address up the street. And this despite having verified my address with Petco on numerous occasions!

(8) Go to the neighbours’ house where my crate has been delivered, and find it sitting on the lawn. The neighbours appear, looking gormless, and say they sent the first delivery back because they didn’t know who it belonged to. Didn’t it fucking occur to them to ask around their neighbours to find out? I mean, jesus, my house is just diagonally across from theirs. Stupid fucking white Americans. I know nearly all of my African-American neighbours but these white cunts prefer to isolate themselves instead of getting to know those around them. Ugh! I tried talking to them once when they first moved in, and they thought I was a weirdo.

(9) Joyously carry the long-awaited crate home, only to find that it is far too fucking small (not to mention a flimsy piece of shit) for my 39 lb dog – despite being advertised as being good for dogs up to 55 lbs. So what do I do now? Spend around $40 on a taxi taking the damn thing back to store for an exchange? Or call a friend in the hope they won’t mind giving me a ride? Choose the latter option. Thank you, friend!

(10) Finally get the new, better and bigger crate home, and call Continental to book my dog as cargo on the 24th, but now, according to the customer service agent, Staffordshire Bull Terriers ARE banned! I explain, patiently, that they are not, and she must be thinking of “American Staffordshire Terriers” (an entirely different breed) but she refuses to book my dog. She even goes off to check with somebody else, and comes back still insisting they are banned. I ask why the fuck Continental couldn’t have told me this ages ago before I went through all of the above hassle and expense.

(11) Call Continental back the next day to make sure Staffordshire Bull Terriers are truly banned. This time I speak to a manager who tells me the last person told me a load of crap, and that I can indeed bring my dog as long as it says she’s a “Staffordshire Bull Terrier” on her health certificate (it does). Hurrah! Book my dog on the flight.

(12) Minutes after booking the flight, receive a phone call from “MM’s” parents who have just received my Christmas card telling them that I, their son, and my two dogs are looking forward to seeing them. “Two dogs?!”, they say. “We didn’t know you were bringing your pit bull!”. What the fuck do they mean they didn’t know I was bringing it?! I was sitting right beside “MM” several weeks ago when he persuaded them on the phone it would be OK if my dog came. “Oh”, they say, “we’d rather she didn’t come…because we’re scared she’ll hurt our little grand-daughter”. I fucking hate this prejudice against pit bulls but, if they had a problem with my dog, why the fuck couldn’t they just have told me, definitively, that she couldn’t come?!

(13) “MM” answers that question by telling me (as he often does these days) that I am so pushy and aggressive and that I “forced” his parents to let my dog come – all of this despite the fact that I never even once spoke to his parents about my dog coming! He was the one who mentioned it to them. He says I’m selfish and that I make people do things they don’t want to do, and that his parents are so lovely and accommodating that they just wanted to make me happy. Make me fucking happy?! Happy?! I would have been sad if they’d told me my pit bull couldn’t come but I would have accepted that (it’s their goddamn house, after all). How is it making me happy agreeing to something, and then backing out at the last minute after I’ve gone through so much trouble to get my dog on the plane?

(14) Realize now more clearly than ever where “MM” has learned his atrocious communication skills and passive agressive habits. It’s clearly the MO of his family to “make people happy” (because they’re so “lovely” and “accommodating”) when it would be far better not to do something if they’re going to be all resentful all about it, and guilt-trip me.

(15) His parents agree to let my pit bull come after I tell them that I’ve spent so much money and time on her travel arrangements.

(16) On December 23rd (one day before we are due to leave), I get a call from “MM” telling me that his parents have just mentioned to their son, “MM’s younger brother, that my two dogs are coming. He had just informed them that his little daughter, who has bad asthma, and will be spending a lot of time at her grandparents’s house, is horribly allergic to dogs. Whether my pit bulls comes or not, “MM’s” brother knew that I brought my chihuahua last year, and could have assumed I’d be bringing her again this year. Why it didn’t occur to him to mention her allergies to me? Why am I only finding out one day before I am due to leave.

(17) Realize where “MM” got his horribly annoying flaky and thoughtless personality from.

(18) Finally have some sort of mini-nervous breakdown due to stress and decide not to go.

(19) “MM” calls me a selfish bitch (as he often does these days), and says I’ve ruined Christmas for him and his family.

(20) “MM’s” mother tells “MM” that I’m a very selfish person, and “MM” tells me what she said.

(21) I call “MM’s” mother and tell her, in no uncertain terms, that I will not tolerate being called selfish especially when I’ve nearly worked myself into an early grave to be able to afford to come to visit her and her family for the third time in eighteen months (when I haven’t been able to afford to go home to Scotland for 4.5 years!).

(22) Crying! Drama! More crying! Drama! Crying! Crying! Crying! Everybody wants me to come, tells me the dogs can come too, but don’t they realize it’s not about the fucking dogs?! The dog situation was just the last straw. It pushed me over the edge after weeks and weeks of stress and worry. I don’t want to go because, quite simply, I just can’t afford it. “MM” tells me that family is the most important thing in the world to him, and that it breaks his heart, and his mother’s, that I’m not going, but I just don’t get why people who claim to care for me would want me to fall into an emotional and financial abyss just so I can come for Christmas.

Maybe I am selfish. I don’t have a family, so it’s hard for me to understand why people are so attached to theirs, and events like Christmas. However, if being part of a family means going somewhere, being miserable, and spending money I just don’t have to be there, I’d rather be by myself, thank you very much. Anyway, didn’t “MM” tell me it was wrong of me to “force” his parents into letting my pit bull come? If this is the case, then why isn’t it wrong for them to force me to come home when I just don’t want to?

Maybe it’s wrong, but I am so fucking relieved to be at home with my cats and dogs. I love them (they’re my family) and I just can’t describe how wonderful it feels to know that I won’t start off 2010 with a lot of financial stress and money.

Why is this so wrong of me? Is it? I tried my hardest to come, I really did. I worked on my birthday; when I was sick and on many other occasions when I didn’t want to, or was just plain exhausted. Why doesn’t anybody get angry at “MM”, too? I mean, part of this is his “fault”. If he would just finally wake up and smell the coffee and get a fucking proper job instead of working in a café, barely making ends meet (so he can write this graphic novel he never gets around to finishing!), maybe we would have had enough money for this trip. I’m tired of him always harping on about the money I owe him. I don’t want him to support me financially, but it would be good if he could help me out a little bit financially without holding it against me.

A couple of days ago, I got an email from a new Mexican friend of mine who also married an American, and she told me how envious she was of me because I didn’t yet have a work permit. She said that for her those days in the immigration process were a bit boring but that, ultimately, she enjoyed just hanging around all day, watching morning TV, doing yoga, going to cafés etc. Well, lucky bloody her! How nice that she had a husband who could support her!

I’m getting rather tired of “MM’s” constant blaming attitude towards me. I’m always the one at fault; I’m always the “selfish” one. When it suits him, he invokes the ideals of marriage to show how bad I am at compromising (and he may have a point), but I just don’t see why his actions can’t also be described as selfish. Even if he does finish his graphic novel, there’s no guaranntee he’ll make any money at it. He has all these “brilliant ideas” for making money as a visual artist, but I never see him put an effort into any of them. As soon as he’s had one idea, he gets a new one, and then forgets all about the first one.

Why the fuck can’t he just be a teacher? Why the fuck can’t he just get a real job and work on his art in the spare time? That doesn’t mean he couldn’t still be a successful artist, and then give up teaching. “Teaching would take up too much time”, he says. He’d have no time to work on his precious “art” (the art he doesn’t really work on anyway….all he does is obsess over pointless details, and re-draw things again and again, getting nowhere and finishing nothing). Maybe a real fucking job would force him to manage his time better and would teaching really take up too much time? I don’t see how being broke, and being constantly worried about money, frees up much time for creativity. It certainly doesn’t for me.

As for my teaching dreams, according to “MM”, it’s OK for me to be a teacher apparently because I’m more passionate about teaching than him. This is true, but there is also this tacit assumption that I’m the least creative one in this relationship. He doesn’t seem to realize that I don’t really want to be a full-time high school teacher. My ideal life would be to teach, yes, but I would much rather do it part-time, and have the rest of the time for myself, to write and do other creative projects. Maybe one day I’ll get myself into that position but, in the meantime, I will be a full-time teacher because I just don’t see any other way to pay the bills. Why do I have to be the sensible one?

I sometimes wonder if “MM” would be better off single or with a much younger woman who still finds “artistic poverty” romantic and exciting. It’s lucky that I have got no desire whatsoever to have kids for a long time because where would he be if I wanted them soon, even in the next couple of years?! There’s no way in hell we could ever afford kids on his wages. And, oh yeah, a child would be too “time-consuming” and he wouldn’t be able to devote himself to his “art”.

Well, fuck, it’s nearly 4:00 p.m., and I’m tired of ranting. I’m going to go walk my dogs, and then I’ll come home, tuck into my “Tofurky” and watch “Barbarella”.

Hope your Christmas has been merrier than mine!


Worrying at Wholefoods

I’m sitting in Wholefoods typing this post, sipping a peppermint soy chai and trying desperately to relax. While buying some spices I got talking to a guy from Guyana, and he had such a joyful, laid-back vibe that I could have burst into tears. “Joyful” and “laid-back” are the last words anyone would use to describe me right now. This guy was in his early fifties but looked twenty years younger! Damn, I know black don’t crack but I’ve never seen anybody look that much younger than their actual age. People usually think I look about five years younger than I am, but for how much longer? I feel so stressed out that I’m surprised there aren’t deep worry lines etched into my face.

Ever since my last blog post, I’ve just been working my arse off so I can afford to take off with “MM” on Christmas Eve to the Midwestern city where he grew up. We’re going to buy a car up there (it belongs to his stepdad’s mother, who’s ancient, so it’s a total deal because it’s got hardly any miles on it, and it’s practically brand new), and then drive it all the way back to The Land of Republican Wankers. We’ll be gone for around ten days and, well, erotic masseuses don’t exactly get holiday pay, so I’m even more stressed about money than I am usually. How will I manage to find the money for my rent; my bills; the cat sitter; flights for my two dogs (yup, they’re coming with me); the few remaining Christmas presents I have left; gas/food/motel money for the trip back etc., etc., etc., etc???!!!!

I’m so worn out, and I wonder when any of this will ever come to an end? Will there ever be a day when I’ll just be able to come home and not worry. I heard back from “New York City Teaching Fellows” a few days ago, and they’ve offered me an interview. This is good news, of course, but even if they accept me that doesn’t mean everything will be OK. They expect you to move to New York at some point in June where you have to attend a full-time, *unpaid* training academy for around to six to seven weeks! How will I ever survive in NYC for that length of time with no money? How will I ever manage to transport myself and seven pets to New York? More to the point, how will I ever find a place to live for me, “MM” and seven pets in NYC?!

All of the above would be do-able if I knew there was a job for me at the end of it all, but NYCTF doesn’t guarantee a job, which means I could very well move to NY and be jobless!

I don’t know why I’m worried about this now when I’ve not even had the interview. I have enough present worries without adding possible future stresses to the mix.

“MM” is one of them. We had our very first couple’s counselling session last Wednesday, and while we obviously couldn’t cover all that much in only one session, it was an enormous relief to me to have somebody to help me. I feel that “MM” unfairly blames me for everything, and there is no way he will ever see that if we are left to our own devices. He wears me out. I just can’t take it anymore. I need someone to mediate our arguments.

Yesterday’s session was not so fruitful, however, in that it ended up with me bursting into tears, and us walking out of the building separately at the end of the session. This afternoon I received a whiny, self-pitying, angry email from “MM” blaming me for something over which I don’t have much control.

I really have no idea if I love “MM”. It’s possible I do, but that the stress I’m under maybe just obscures my feelings for him. Sometimes I just think to myself that I will stay with him until I get my ten-year permanent resident card, and then I’ll divorce his sorry, whiny ass. When I first met “MM”, I thought he was good for me because he seemed more optimistic, and laid-back, but in the last six months or so I’ve seen a side of him I don’t especially like. He’s such a moody, bad- tempered bastard. I would never have married him if I knew he was like this.

I suppose there is one thing to be thankful for, though. If I think life is stressful now, it would be a million times worse if I were here illegally, which is what would have happened if I hadn’t married “MM” before my visa ran out. Life may be hard now but at the least my future permanent resident status means I can apply to teaching programs, and improve my lot a little.

Wholefoods is mercifully not playing any Christmas music, so it’s time to get out of here before they do. I’m sorry if all I ever do is bitch about the same old stuff every time I write, but unfortunately “the same old stuff” is what’s on my mind at the moment, so you’ll just have to bear with me until that changes. Let’s hope it does.

Composed on my iPhone, so please excuse any typos!

Infected wisdom tooth!

Do accept my apologies for having buggered off again, and not coming back to post when I said I would. However, I do have a rather good excuse this time.

The last thing my Glaswegian dentist said to me before I left for the US five years ago was “Don’t let those bloody Americans whip out your wisdom teeth”. Apparently, Americans are all about “preventative” medicine. Everybody here gets their wisdom teeth taken out as a teenager whether they need to or not. It’s baffling to me because we don’t tend to have this done in the UK, and yet I only know one person who ever had trouble with her wisdom teeth, and had to get them pulled.

They do the same thing to tonsils over here, too! Midwestern Man had his tonsils removed just “in case” they got infected. We’re a wee bit more hardcore in Scotland, I think. My mother had so many episodes of tonsilitis as a child that her tonsils actually rotted away! Clearly, she should have had them removed but, ach, her father was a shepherd and, well, you just didn’t get taken to hospital back in the 50’s and 60’s farming community unless you were at death’s door. My poor mother, though. She said the pain was excruciating.

It just goes to show what a big fucking scam the whole American medical industry is. Imagine encouraging the whole fucking population to undergo an operation (and general anaesthetic!) “just in case” something gets infected down the line.

But, anyway, back to wisdom teeth…

Given that I’m obviously not a particularly wise person, my wisdom teeth didn’t start to come in until my late twenties, and even then only one poked its wee head through the gum. Just last year (at the grand old age of thirty) a second one started to appear. Of course, my American dentist kept on telling me to get them removed, but I didn’t see any point unless they were giving me trouble. The bottom one did worry me a wee bit (as it was more than half-way in, and was hard to clean) and I wouldn’t have minded getting it whipped out, but all medical/dental procedures over here are so expensive so I thought “Ach, to hell with that”.

On Wednesday, though, my luck ran out, as the wee fucker got infected. The gum surrounding it had been inflamed and tender before, but this time around the whole left side of my cheek was swollen, giving me the look of a chipmunk:

I know that my Scottish friend went through several infections like this before she finally relented to her dentist’s pleas to get her wisdom teeth removed, but there is no way in hell that I will put up with looking like a chipmunk again. Ooh, no no no. My vanity forbids it.

And so it is that I am scheduled to get my wisdom teeth removed on Wednesday morning at 8:45 a.m. The whole procedure will cost $1100, which is horribly depressing given that I am broke enough as it is. Indeed, so broke am I that I am sitting here wearing an ancient pair of jeans with no fucking zip on it (it fell off) because I cannae afford to buy a new pair. To avoid exposing my pubes to the unsuspecting word, I hold up my jeans with a safety pin (the same one that held together my nappy when I came from the hospital as a wee baby. No kidding! This thing is like an heirloom…you’ve no idea the many items of clothing it has held together).

The only consolation is that, for some reason, I only have three wisdom teeth instead of the usual four (thanks DNA!) so I will save a wee bit of money there.

Surprisingly, I am not really in much pain at all with this infection. I am, however, feeling incredibly run down and tired. It’s only 7:00 p.m. and yet I could quite happily go to bed and sleep. I don’t know whether this is because of the infection or the antibiotics I was given. Perhaps a bit of both. This entire year I haven’t felt like myself at all, to be honest. I wonder whether this is why my tooth is now infected – perhaps the infection took hold this time around because my immune system was weaker than normal. I’ve just been so stressed about money and worried about life. Sigh.

The smell of coffee

I didn’t get out of bed until 1:00 p.m. today, which wasn’t entirely surprising seeing as I was up until 4:00 a.m. doing God knows what on the internet. Just surfing aimlessly really, trying to make myself feel better about the fight I had with my husband last night. On the other hand, it isn’t like me to sleep for nine hours straight. At the very most I need seven hours’ sleep, and I can usually function perfectly well on five if I need to. Recently, though, I’ve been sleeping a lot.

I don’t think it’s that I’m depressed (although I probably am on some mild level), so I’m going to put it down to my allergies, and not having enough money to eat properly. For the last month or so, I’ve definitely been feeling malnourished. I don’t think Midwestern Man quite gets just how hungry I have been recently. He doesn’t eat all that much less than me, but we have very different body types and metabolisms, it would seem. If I don’t eat, I get tired, irritable, emotional and depressed very quickly. If I don’t have breakfast in the morning, I’ll literally collapse with fatigue by around 10:00 a.m. I just don’t understand people (like my husband, actually) who are able to skip breakfast with no adverse consequences.

I’m happier tonight, though, because after a weekend of yet more cancellations (what the hell is going on?! Is it the rain?!), I did finally see one client tonight. I was finally able to go to the grocey store – in fact, I just got back – and I bought myself $80-worth of food. Most importantly, I have a huge big bag of coffee, which will last me ages. I don’t care how bad it gets, as long as I can a nice steaming cup of coffee or tea in the morning, the world is at least half-way OK.

Judith, over at Vicarious Rising left me a comment, which has left me feeling a bit upset, though. I’m not upset at her in the slightest – in fact, I appreciate it when people I like tell me what they really think of me. What’s the point of people coming on here and just kissing my ass?! Nonetheless, the comment (that I’ve been making a lot of excuses for myself lately, and that I’m better than that) has set off a wave of paranoia. Maybe it’s not that I’ve just only started making excuses for myself….maybe I did it all along, but nobody noticed because I just didn’t post every day before. Maybe I’m a really awful person, and nobody noticed that before either for the same reason. Or maybe they have noticed that, and that’s why I have no male readers anymore. Maybe I’m a really terrible writer, and that’s why people don’t comment as much as they used to.

I probably am making excuses and, um, I’m not trying to make excuses for making excuses :-), but I honestly don’t know what to do to change my life right now. It seems I’m caught in a vicious circle. There really is no way to stop being a full-time sex worker unless I have a work permit and a car. I can’t, as Terry over at Pandabox33 suggested become a dogwalker or a cleaner, or whatever other jobs she suggested. Yes, I could do those jobs and get paid “under the table” but how would I get to my clients in this city of terrible public transport? One time when I hurt my foot and couldn’t ride my bike to a job, it took me two hours to travel four miles on a bus here. My life in this city takes place within maybe a four-mile radius for a very simple reason – it’s impossible to get to some places without a car. Even if public transport wasn’t a problem, how do I support myself while building up a client base? I need to eat now, and any money I have left over goes towards paying off debt, so how do I do that while I have one dog-walking client a week in the beginning? You say I have choices, and yes, these are choices, but they don’t seem like very good ones to me. They seem just as shitty, and just as unlucrative, as my current situation. I’d rather stick with what I know, so at least I don’t get run over trying to cycle across a highway on my bike.

I wouldn’t mind suffering if any of the suggested jobs tied in somehow to my future plans, but they don’t. Doesn’t it make more sense to use the spare time I have as an erotic masseuse (at least this job gives me a lot of that!) to volunteer in schools? At least that way I strengthen my résumé for the day when I actually can apply for a proper teaching job.

(Bugger it! I posted this stupid thing one millisecond too late, so I missed my midnight deadline for NaBloPoMo.)

Flat as a pancake

mold-spore (Medium)No, not my breasts (although I’m never likely to be mistaken by Dolly Parton). I’m talking about my emotions.

My allergies are extremely bad again and this, of course, makes me tired, lethargic and depressed. I need to change my email “allergy alert” company because they tried to tell me today that the pollen count was low, and they didn’t even mention mould as being present in the air. After every heavy rain fall, I always seem to be affected by mould. Its spores look so beautiful under the microscope, don’t they? It’s a shame they have to add such misery to my life.

Today, and yesterday, were bad days money-wise. I actually lost out on quite a bit of money yesterday because I’ve decided to start volunteering for three separate programs (one with elementary school students; one with middle school kids and the final one with high schoolers) and had to attend two separate trainings. Of course, as Sod’s Law would have it, every single client decided they wanted a session exactly when I was unavailable because I was being trained how to help the nation’s youth. How unfair that sex workers cannot submit expense claims or a form to recoup lost earnings!

Today three separate clients told me they were coming, but all of them flaked out on me at the last minute. This is really quite an unprecedented occurrence. It almost makes me think there’s some kind of weird conspiracy against me but, well, let’s not allow the prospect of starvation to turn into paranoia.

The end result of these two days of unemployment is that I now have $0.87 in my bank account. Worse still, I have run out of porridge! And tea! The cats have not had wet food for weeks, and they’re constantly shooting me evil looks.

The only good thing about having allergies is that they really do dull my senses and sap me of all my strength, so I don’t even have the energy to worry about my (yet again) financially precarious state. It does help being married… I do at least have Midwestern Man to bring me food.

Speak of the devil, he just walked in, so I need to finish writing for tonight. Um, how about some comments, please? How depressing that I wrote a post yesterday bemoaning my lack of male readers only for not a single person with dangly bits to comment and prove me wrong.

No porridge drawer yet.

ronniebarker It’s nearly midnight and I’m too tired to post anything substantial, so you’ll just have to make do with this, I’m afraid..

Today was yet another boring Sunday. I didn’t get up until around midday, which I hate, as then I feel like the whole day has been wasted. But that’s what you get when you stay up until 5:00 a.m. watching episodes of “Deadwood”. There have been more Saturday evenings spent at home recently watching “Deadwood” than I care to remember. I’d like to go out but I’m broke, and I have nothing decent to wear anymore.

All I’ve had to eat today is a bowl of bloody porridge, so I really need to go and eat something now. Midwestern Man and I were going to go out for lunch today, but we eat out far too much, so I insisted that we have porridge instead. It was the only thing I had to eat in the house, which is really quite depressing. Midwestern Man wasn’t happy about the porridge, but, ach, things could be worse. If I have to start pouring the porridge into a drawer, waiting for it to harden and then cutting it into slices for a “tasty” lunch treat (as they apparenly once used to do in “the motherland”), we’ll know that we’ve really hit rock bottom.

By the way, does anybody who’s not British even get the relevance of the photo accompanying today’s post?

About to turn into a pumpkin…

It’s only ten minutes until midnight, and I still haven’t posted.

There was no time to do so today, as I was either sleeping (I’m wiped out from allergies) or desperately trying to drum up some business (it didn’t happen…and now I’m more broke than ever).

I tried to post secretly to WordPress via email while sitting on the sofa next to Midwestern Man, but it didn’t work! Hurrrumph!

Now I’m dashing off this post while looking over my shoulder, hoping that he won’t come into the bedroom.

This is a crap post, so I apologize, but even if I’d spent hours on it, I don’t know if it would have been very interesting. My life really has become so dull recently. Whoever said “the best things in life are free” was clearly talking out of their arse. It’s grinding me down having such a hand-to-mouth existence.

Maybe tomorrow will be better…