My son is on to me. He has figured out why I always want to know what he is ordering before I make my decision when we are at a restaurant, whether it's fast food or sit down.
The reason this makes a difference is because I have no income at present so he is paying when I go out to dinner with him. I always want to make sure I don't order anything more expensive than the person who is paying.
The reason for this is clear to me. My parents were nearing 40 when I was born. Their teenage years fell during the great depression and their frugality is firmly embedded in my habits. There are just some things one doesn't do. One doesn't impose one's tastes on others. One doesn't take advantage of other people's generousity.
Back when I was raising 5 kids on next to nothing, I would become phyically ill if I had to spend more than a little bit of money at one time. I've had a friend think that I was going to pass out when I had to pay over $200 for school supplies for myself (in college) and my kids. She said I turned white then green. On the flip side, I can think of times when my husband lost a job and we decided to "go down in a blaze of glory" by throwing a BBQ for our friends.
Don't get me wrong. I have learned how to spend money and enjoy it, but when times are tight my friends claim that old George and his presidential brethern have to put on sunglasses when I spend money, because they don't see the light of day very often once I get hold of them.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
L is for Losing -- Day 12 of the "A to Z Blogging Challenge"
My topic for today is losing. No, not losing weight, possessions, confidence, and control over your life. At some point in my life I've lost all of those and more. The following story is true, althhough the names are fictitious.
One of the most painful losses is a friend. I just found out that the person I thought of as my oldest and dearest friend betrayed my son who previously thought of her as a beloved aunt. I don't normally like to air my family's dirty laundry in public, but this time I think I'll make an exception. I cannot reconcile myself to this betrayal because of the hurt it caused to many people. I refuse to hate her, though.
First let me say that I wondered why Dee had suddenly stopped taking my calls and/or returning my emails, and now I know. I hope she feels guilty about her betrayal of at least two people who would have done anything in the world for her. The betrayal was in the form of a denial about an incident that happened many years ago. The worst of it is that it destroyed my son's marriage and tore his three small children away from him.
Many, many years ago, my (ex) husband and I were living with our friends, Dee and Rob. Our son was about 8 and their older daughter, Jenny, was around 13. We adults were watching the movie "Private Lessons" on TV and the kids were supposed to be asleep. Our friends fell asleep and Jenny brazenly came into the living room and sat down to watch the rest of the movie. We asked her to leave the room, but did not feel comfortable trying to enforce it while her parents were in the room, even though they were sleeping through the whole scene. Part of the reason we were reluctant was because of her tendency to blow everything out of proportion if we tried to tell her what to do. We turned off the TV and went to our room, but she turned the TV back on. We tried to wake her parents but they were both out like lights.
As the movie was ending, Dee woke up and became angry at us for allowing her to watch the movie. When we finally convinced Dee that we tried to stop Jenny from watching the show, she turned her wrath on the child. She said many cruel and unnecessary things to her daughter and ended it by saying, "I suppose now you think you will try to teach (our son) about sex the same way she did a young boy."
One day during the next week or so, my husband and Rob were both at work and Dee was sleeping because she had worked overnight. I looked around to do my usual head count and realize that my son and Jenny were missing, so I went looking for them. I won't go into details of the "compromising position" in which I found them. I shrieked their names when I saw them and they dove under the bed. I dragged them out into the living room, lecturing them for all I was worth. That afternoon I told Dee and that evening we told our husbands. Dee and Rob insisted that it was our son's fault because he was male. My husband, whose temper was monumental, wanted to "spank" (for most people it would be called a beating) our son, but I wouldn't let him because I felt the whole situation was orchestrated by Jenny (by her own admission) and indirectly Dee's fault due to her handling of the movie situation.
Back then I guess I thought of that type of thing as falling into the "kids will be kids" category. I probably also thought that any authoities would side with Dee and Rob because it was their house, although in my opinion he was the victim. I also dreaded any contact with Child Protective Services in our town because I knew too much about them and their tactics, but that's another story. I feel badly now that I allowed it to be swept under the rug, but I honestly thought I handled it in the best manner possible.
Fast forward nearly 30 years. My son and his wife were living near Dee and Rob. My son had explained to his wife about the incident, but told her he didn't really blame anyone. Unfortunately, when my daughter-in-law mentioned it, Dee denied that it happened and started making accusations against my son. The next thing we knew, Child Protective Services was in the picture saying that they had a report that my was doing all manner of things to his children. He was able to give enough proof to show that he had done nothing wrong, but the damage was done. Within weeks my daughter-in-law went on a "vacation" with the kids to visit her parents, over 1000 miles away, and never came back. The state she is in awarded her child support based on their "average income" rather than the average income where my son lives, or the income he actually has. Because of the unfounded accusations she made in court during the custody hearing, the same allegations he had already proven to be untrue in another state, he only gets supervised visitation, which is irrelevant because the amount of child support being taken out of his checks leaves him with barely enough money to live on and travel is impossible because of finances. Not only that, but his ex-wife's mother is allowed to "supervise" any telephone contact he makes with them, which means she refuses to answer his calls.
One of the most painful losses is a friend. I just found out that the person I thought of as my oldest and dearest friend betrayed my son who previously thought of her as a beloved aunt. I don't normally like to air my family's dirty laundry in public, but this time I think I'll make an exception. I cannot reconcile myself to this betrayal because of the hurt it caused to many people. I refuse to hate her, though.
First let me say that I wondered why Dee had suddenly stopped taking my calls and/or returning my emails, and now I know. I hope she feels guilty about her betrayal of at least two people who would have done anything in the world for her. The betrayal was in the form of a denial about an incident that happened many years ago. The worst of it is that it destroyed my son's marriage and tore his three small children away from him.
Many, many years ago, my (ex) husband and I were living with our friends, Dee and Rob. Our son was about 8 and their older daughter, Jenny, was around 13. We adults were watching the movie "Private Lessons" on TV and the kids were supposed to be asleep. Our friends fell asleep and Jenny brazenly came into the living room and sat down to watch the rest of the movie. We asked her to leave the room, but did not feel comfortable trying to enforce it while her parents were in the room, even though they were sleeping through the whole scene. Part of the reason we were reluctant was because of her tendency to blow everything out of proportion if we tried to tell her what to do. We turned off the TV and went to our room, but she turned the TV back on. We tried to wake her parents but they were both out like lights.
As the movie was ending, Dee woke up and became angry at us for allowing her to watch the movie. When we finally convinced Dee that we tried to stop Jenny from watching the show, she turned her wrath on the child. She said many cruel and unnecessary things to her daughter and ended it by saying, "I suppose now you think you will try to teach (our son) about sex the same way she did a young boy."
One day during the next week or so, my husband and Rob were both at work and Dee was sleeping because she had worked overnight. I looked around to do my usual head count and realize that my son and Jenny were missing, so I went looking for them. I won't go into details of the "compromising position" in which I found them. I shrieked their names when I saw them and they dove under the bed. I dragged them out into the living room, lecturing them for all I was worth. That afternoon I told Dee and that evening we told our husbands. Dee and Rob insisted that it was our son's fault because he was male. My husband, whose temper was monumental, wanted to "spank" (for most people it would be called a beating) our son, but I wouldn't let him because I felt the whole situation was orchestrated by Jenny (by her own admission) and indirectly Dee's fault due to her handling of the movie situation.
Back then I guess I thought of that type of thing as falling into the "kids will be kids" category. I probably also thought that any authoities would side with Dee and Rob because it was their house, although in my opinion he was the victim. I also dreaded any contact with Child Protective Services in our town because I knew too much about them and their tactics, but that's another story. I feel badly now that I allowed it to be swept under the rug, but I honestly thought I handled it in the best manner possible.
Fast forward nearly 30 years. My son and his wife were living near Dee and Rob. My son had explained to his wife about the incident, but told her he didn't really blame anyone. Unfortunately, when my daughter-in-law mentioned it, Dee denied that it happened and started making accusations against my son. The next thing we knew, Child Protective Services was in the picture saying that they had a report that my was doing all manner of things to his children. He was able to give enough proof to show that he had done nothing wrong, but the damage was done. Within weeks my daughter-in-law went on a "vacation" with the kids to visit her parents, over 1000 miles away, and never came back. The state she is in awarded her child support based on their "average income" rather than the average income where my son lives, or the income he actually has. Because of the unfounded accusations she made in court during the custody hearing, the same allegations he had already proven to be untrue in another state, he only gets supervised visitation, which is irrelevant because the amount of child support being taken out of his checks leaves him with barely enough money to live on and travel is impossible because of finances. Not only that, but his ex-wife's mother is allowed to "supervise" any telephone contact he makes with them, which means she refuses to answer his calls.
Temporarily out of pocket
Please bear with me about my A-Z Blog..... I don't have internet at present and will have to write offline and upload them as I get the chance.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
K is for Kathy -- Day 11 of the "A to Z Blogging Challenge"
I guess creativity is the most important thing in my life. I like to think it is a family trait. My sister Kathy was one of the most creative people I have ever known. I can sew, but she was a master seamstress. I can bake, but decorating a cake like she did is beyond me. She took creativity to the level of an art form, pun intended.
Kathy and I weren't close when I was young, mostly because I was much younger than her. In fact, because my oldest niece is only three years younger than I, I have always considered my nieces and nephews more like younger siblings and my sisters like aunts.
Fortunately, Kathy and I reconnected a few years ago. She had just gotten a diagnosis of breast cancer and, in her usual way of watching out over others, made a point of calling me to make sure I knew to get mammograms. It's amazing how much our interactions with each other changed as we got older. Although I had railed at my older sister's authority as a child she rapidly became my rock after we reconnected.
Kathy passed away a few years ago -- not from the cancer. She died trying to rescue an elderly man during a Texas Panhandle wilfdire. While her passing was a shock and still saddens us greatly, the actions that led up to her death did not surprise us. She died as she lived, giving of herself to someone else.
I still miss my big sister Kathy.
Kathy and I weren't close when I was young, mostly because I was much younger than her. In fact, because my oldest niece is only three years younger than I, I have always considered my nieces and nephews more like younger siblings and my sisters like aunts.
Fortunately, Kathy and I reconnected a few years ago. She had just gotten a diagnosis of breast cancer and, in her usual way of watching out over others, made a point of calling me to make sure I knew to get mammograms. It's amazing how much our interactions with each other changed as we got older. Although I had railed at my older sister's authority as a child she rapidly became my rock after we reconnected.
Kathy passed away a few years ago -- not from the cancer. She died trying to rescue an elderly man during a Texas Panhandle wilfdire. While her passing was a shock and still saddens us greatly, the actions that led up to her death did not surprise us. She died as she lived, giving of herself to someone else.
I still miss my big sister Kathy.
J is for Jacks -- Day 10 of the "A to Z Blogging Challenge"
I wasn't able to buy my granddaughter a "real" present for her birthday because of the state of my so-called "finances," so I bought her a token gift of a set of Jacks. No, not the old hard ones that perforate your foot if you step on them. I got her a set of oversized, soft plastic jacks. I may may as well have brought her an alien from outer space. None of the kids had any idea how to play the game and I'm not the best one to teach them, either. My coordination has always been less than perfect and. now that I'm old, getting down on the floor means finding a crane to help me get up. My son went online to find out the standard rules for a game of jacks and told them how to play. Within five minutes they had turned a simple game of jacks into a full-contact sport. How could I have thought that they'd actually play a game quietly together?
I really should know better. The three little girls involved are 3, 4 and (now) 6, and their favorite game is to shriek havoc on the house, destroying every room they enter, which is every room in the house. Its a really good thing that they don't have any neighbors too close. If they did we'd have the police called on us regularly by neighbors who thought there was a murder in progress. They are the only people I know for whom the "quiet game" is played at a noise level approximately equal to that experienced directly in front of the speakers at a heavy metal concert. Some days I'm almost glad I'm hard of hearing.
I really should know better. The three little girls involved are 3, 4 and (now) 6, and their favorite game is to shriek havoc on the house, destroying every room they enter, which is every room in the house. Its a really good thing that they don't have any neighbors too close. If they did we'd have the police called on us regularly by neighbors who thought there was a murder in progress. They are the only people I know for whom the "quiet game" is played at a noise level approximately equal to that experienced directly in front of the speakers at a heavy metal concert. Some days I'm almost glad I'm hard of hearing.
Monday, April 11, 2011
I is for Ideas -- Day 9 of the "A to Z Blogging Challenge"
I give up. Ideas are a writer's bread and butter and I have lots of ideas. Unfortunately I don't always follow up on them. Even when I do the core idea often changes. No matter how thoroughly I outline my thoughts in advance, the story comes out differently, and if I try to force it back to its original form, it balks and becomes awkward. Its like my writing takes on a life of its own. I start out to say something specific but end up saying something else altogether. I can start out to write about going to college and end up with a piece that obsesses about ink pens. I may start to write a funny story and end up with something heart-wrenching. I once started a story about the house I grew up in and it turned into a piece about my mother, which I consider one of my best to date. I wonder if anyone else has this problem.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
H is for Health Care -- Day 8 of the "A to Z Blogging Challenge"
Now I've come upon one of my own personal hot-button issues -- the state of health care in the United States. Unlike many other people, I firmly believe that there should be universal health care in the U.S., even if it has to be administered by the government like Canada's or the U.K.'s systems. Excuse me while I get my handy-dandy portable soapbox out so I can rant properly for a while.
Medical care for poor adults, and for the working poor, is virtually unattainable in most of the U.S.. I know this because I have been one of those effected for much of my adult life. In fact, the lack of a comprehensive medical care system almost cost me my life. Let me explain.
I suffered from severe earaches and headaches from an early age. Some of my earliest memories are of screaming earaches in my left ear -- the kind that cause a child to cry uncontrollably. Mama and Daddy treated them as best they could. I went to the doctor every time I was ill, with the money coming directly out of my parents' meager income. I took enough antibiotics to kill a horse. My parents also used a number of home remedies like warm olive oil in my ear and dry, heated towels on it. The pain always came back and even got worse. Over time the pain expanded to become blinding migraines.
As an uninsured adult, the cycle of pain continued throughout my teen years and twenties, and well into my thirties. In 1988, at the age of 32, I enrolled in the University of North Texas. Fortunately for me, my tuition entitled me to free doctor's visits at the UNT clinic and cheap prescriptions at the UNT pharmacy. I was lucky enough to make a connection with a Physician's Assistant who took more than a passing interest in my health. After treating me for ear aches, sinus infections, and blinding headaches, he realized the pattern to my problems. He referred me to Texas Rehab for my hearing problems -- hearing problems I now know I had from an early age.
Texas Rehab did an IQ test and asked me why I wasn't doing better in my classes, then they did a hearing test and asked me how I kept my grades up as well as I did. They sent me to an audiologist who took one look in my ears and sent me back saying that he wouldn't touch me until I saw an otolaryngologist, so off I went to the ear specialist. Dr. Dunn, my ear doctor, ordered tests then explained that the mastoid bone behind my ear was infected and I needed surgery to remove it and to improve my hearing. This was in December of 1990, He suggested that I wait until after the spring 1991 semester to have the surgery but I told him to do it ASAP because I'd chicken out if I thought about it too long.
I won't go into the gory details about the surgery, but I had it done a week before the spring semester began. The doctor quickly found that the mastoid infection had spread to the base of my skull. Instead of a short surgery. I was under for four times as long as they had predicted because they had to scrape the base of my skull and reconstruct my inner and middle ear. I ended up with a PORP (Partial Ossicular Reconstructive Prosthesis) and a rebuilt eardrum.
When I woke I was told that I would never hear from that ear again, but the surgery had saved my life. If a mastoid infection goes to the lining of the brain there is nothing they can do. Their conclusion was that, if I had not had the surgery when I did I would have had between six months and two years to live. I would have died when my daughter was the same age as I was when my mother died.
I started the semester with a bandage on my head and a new lease on life. Within twenty-four hours I was headache-free for the most part. Within a week I knew that, had I been given the choice, I would have happily traded the hearing in that ear for the relief from pain.
I have subsequently had a second surgery on my left ear. Amazingly, I have nearly as much hearing in it as in my right ear now. Unfortunately that isn't much.
Looking back, I honestly believe that universal health care in the U.S. would have provided the medical care I so desperately needed. My health today would be much better if the problem had been taken care when it should have been. I also wouldn't have had as many emergency room bills I couldn't pay.
I'll put away my soapbox now. Enough ranting for today.
Medical care for poor adults, and for the working poor, is virtually unattainable in most of the U.S.. I know this because I have been one of those effected for much of my adult life. In fact, the lack of a comprehensive medical care system almost cost me my life. Let me explain.
I suffered from severe earaches and headaches from an early age. Some of my earliest memories are of screaming earaches in my left ear -- the kind that cause a child to cry uncontrollably. Mama and Daddy treated them as best they could. I went to the doctor every time I was ill, with the money coming directly out of my parents' meager income. I took enough antibiotics to kill a horse. My parents also used a number of home remedies like warm olive oil in my ear and dry, heated towels on it. The pain always came back and even got worse. Over time the pain expanded to become blinding migraines.
As an uninsured adult, the cycle of pain continued throughout my teen years and twenties, and well into my thirties. In 1988, at the age of 32, I enrolled in the University of North Texas. Fortunately for me, my tuition entitled me to free doctor's visits at the UNT clinic and cheap prescriptions at the UNT pharmacy. I was lucky enough to make a connection with a Physician's Assistant who took more than a passing interest in my health. After treating me for ear aches, sinus infections, and blinding headaches, he realized the pattern to my problems. He referred me to Texas Rehab for my hearing problems -- hearing problems I now know I had from an early age.
Texas Rehab did an IQ test and asked me why I wasn't doing better in my classes, then they did a hearing test and asked me how I kept my grades up as well as I did. They sent me to an audiologist who took one look in my ears and sent me back saying that he wouldn't touch me until I saw an otolaryngologist, so off I went to the ear specialist. Dr. Dunn, my ear doctor, ordered tests then explained that the mastoid bone behind my ear was infected and I needed surgery to remove it and to improve my hearing. This was in December of 1990, He suggested that I wait until after the spring 1991 semester to have the surgery but I told him to do it ASAP because I'd chicken out if I thought about it too long.
I won't go into the gory details about the surgery, but I had it done a week before the spring semester began. The doctor quickly found that the mastoid infection had spread to the base of my skull. Instead of a short surgery. I was under for four times as long as they had predicted because they had to scrape the base of my skull and reconstruct my inner and middle ear. I ended up with a PORP (Partial Ossicular Reconstructive Prosthesis) and a rebuilt eardrum.
When I woke I was told that I would never hear from that ear again, but the surgery had saved my life. If a mastoid infection goes to the lining of the brain there is nothing they can do. Their conclusion was that, if I had not had the surgery when I did I would have had between six months and two years to live. I would have died when my daughter was the same age as I was when my mother died.
I started the semester with a bandage on my head and a new lease on life. Within twenty-four hours I was headache-free for the most part. Within a week I knew that, had I been given the choice, I would have happily traded the hearing in that ear for the relief from pain.
I have subsequently had a second surgery on my left ear. Amazingly, I have nearly as much hearing in it as in my right ear now. Unfortunately that isn't much.
Looking back, I honestly believe that universal health care in the U.S. would have provided the medical care I so desperately needed. My health today would be much better if the problem had been taken care when it should have been. I also wouldn't have had as many emergency room bills I couldn't pay.
I'll put away my soapbox now. Enough ranting for today.
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