Thank God my husband, currently employed as a seasonal retail worker, was not working this morning.
Granted, the midwest is NOT New York, but still . . .
(Photo courtesy of the New York Times)
Friday, November 28, 2008
Materialistic Insanity
Thank God my husband, currently employed as a seasonal retail worker, was not working this morning.
Granted, the midwest is NOT New York, but still . . .
(Photo courtesy of the New York Times)
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
On Raining and Pouring
Regarding the mundane practical details touching upon our general welfare: uhm, well, we could use some prayers right now. We’re down to one moving police dept. application, and it hasn’t even reached the “tough part” yet, i.e., the nasty panel interview where they can decide they don’t care for you based on entirely random things they never tell you about. In the meantime, back on the ranch, baby is coming in little better than 10 weeks, and oh, yes, just to top it off: Obsession No. 2 was in a car accident the night before last. Aside from some minor whiplash he’s fine (thank GOD – I was an emotional mess that night simply for thought of what might have been, which is silly, I know, but hey, I’m pregnant. Cut me some slack.), but our 40 mpg manual transmission darling of a ’98 Honda Civic didn’t come out quite so unscathed. Frankly, it’s only the front left quarter panel that saw any damage – the impact flattened a tire, scratched up a hubcap, smashed a headlight, etc., (we don’t yet know if there is any serious mechanical damage, but from the look of it, as it doesn’t appear that the damage was bad enough to hurt the frame or anything, so we can be reservedly optimistic) but given its mileage and age the insurance company will be more likely to total it.
The accident was, of course, the other guy’s fault (Obsession No. 2 is the safest, smartest, calmest driver I’ve ever seen) – said dude was in the left-hand turn lane, approaching a light on a four lane highway, intending to turn and get gas at the station on that side of the road. However, lo and behold, gas was 4 cents cheaper on the right side of the road, so he turned his large white van across two lanes of 45 mph moving traffic (the light was green) to get to the right-hand turn lane on the other side. He didn’t see the little green Honda Civic in the lane directly to his right. My husband, reasonably enough, presumed the guy intended to make one lane-change into his lane (what kind of a doofus would attempt to cross four lanes of traffic like that, after all?). He hit the brakes while turning to the right, which didn’t result in avoiding a collision given the wild four-lane crossover, and, what with the light rain and resulting slick road, ended up T-boning him at an angle to the back right quarter panel. Fortunately, this impact caused the least possible damage to our car, not deploying the airbags, and only bouncing my husband’s head against the drivers’ side window. The police officers that came to the scene wrote up the report quickly and easily, dolling out a ticket to the other fellow for an illegal lane change and placing him at fault without any fuss. The guy had insurance through Geiko, and they’re covering the cost of a rental in the meantime (funny looking car – a white Dodge Caliber as it’ll be a few days before they get around to assessing anything.
I’m really trying to focus on being thankful for the fact that nobody was hurt – however, to be honest, I’m rather annoyed at it all. It just about figures, don’t it? Our finances are tighter than ever, our future job prospects are completely up in the air, and now this. THAT JUST ABOUT FIGURES.
I suppose, however, many of my readers will raise an eyebrow at me and have little sympathy. I mean, here I am mourning the possible loss of a 40 mpg car when gas here in Independence, MO is $1.63 a gallon. Yep, that’s right. $1.63 per gallon. That’s dirt cheap, even for the KC metro area. The reason for this is because it’s Independence. Independence has very low taxes, and this is to be expected, if not downright required. Why? Because the city of Independence doesn’t do jack. That’s why. No trash pickup, a largely awol police force, general disrepair, etc. The situation is most unfortunate, but it does, however, make for cheap gas. *shrug* Oh well. You win some, you lose some.
Okay, good news, good news, need to mention some of that, too. Uhm. Oh, yeah. So far, there have been no complications with the pregnancy whatsoever. I go in every four weeks (soon to be every two weeks), my father-in-law pokes at me a bit, listens to the baby’s heart rate and tells me what it is (at which point I always blink at him and he tells me that it’s a good/normal number). Then he asks me if I have any concerns or discomforts, which I never really do (aside from the normal stuff – muscle aches, intestinal issues and so on, which I don’t even bother mentioning). He spends the rest of the visit chatting with his son, generally about firearms – a hobby they’ve taken up together and which my mother-in-law and I regard with some amount of mildly disturbed bewilderment. After that, I do my thing in that little cup, hand it over to his nurses, and they send me on my way without any further fuss. Not diabetic, not anemic, nobody’s fussing about my weight (I’ve gained little so far, but no doubt that’s because I’m shedding excess me to make baby – that’s a common thing for the pudgy), earlier sonogram seemed to say baby has the appropriate number of fingers, toes, suchwhat and so on. At this point I’m having a difficult time understanding why I’m going to the doctor so often, but I guess it’s not hurting anything, it’s a convenient opportunity to visit the in-laws and my insurance (which costs us a pretty penny) covers it all, so I might as well keep it up, lest my mother have a conniption fit. She seems to think there’s a great deal more to worry about and that I should be asking more questions, but I’m not entirely convinced of that just yet. I mean, seriously, given our current scenario, I should think I need not borrow any extra worries. Moreover, the quip of a friend echoes up in the back of my mind: pregnancy is not an illness – why treat it like one?
That sums up the practical update, for now. Like I said, prayers would be good – especially for Obsession No. 2, who is feeling rather inadequate at the moment. Why is it that men have such a hard time separating worldly success from being a worthy and responsible provider? It’s not like the world is a great big snack machine – put in so many responsible-man intentions and then *ding*, out pops a reliable career. Seriously, that’s not how it works. I know plenty of wise, responsible, completely bankrupt men. It’s not fun, but worldly success is hardly the measure of anything, really. Why is that so hard to believe, eh? WHY? *Rubbing head* Say a few prayers for him, k?
The accident was, of course, the other guy’s fault (Obsession No. 2 is the safest, smartest, calmest driver I’ve ever seen) – said dude was in the left-hand turn lane, approaching a light on a four lane highway, intending to turn and get gas at the station on that side of the road. However, lo and behold, gas was 4 cents cheaper on the right side of the road, so he turned his large white van across two lanes of 45 mph moving traffic (the light was green) to get to the right-hand turn lane on the other side. He didn’t see the little green Honda Civic in the lane directly to his right. My husband, reasonably enough, presumed the guy intended to make one lane-change into his lane (what kind of a doofus would attempt to cross four lanes of traffic like that, after all?). He hit the brakes while turning to the right, which didn’t result in avoiding a collision given the wild four-lane crossover, and, what with the light rain and resulting slick road, ended up T-boning him at an angle to the back right quarter panel. Fortunately, this impact caused the least possible damage to our car, not deploying the airbags, and only bouncing my husband’s head against the drivers’ side window. The police officers that came to the scene wrote up the report quickly and easily, dolling out a ticket to the other fellow for an illegal lane change and placing him at fault without any fuss. The guy had insurance through Geiko, and they’re covering the cost of a rental in the meantime (funny looking car – a white Dodge Caliber as it’ll be a few days before they get around to assessing anything.
I’m really trying to focus on being thankful for the fact that nobody was hurt – however, to be honest, I’m rather annoyed at it all. It just about figures, don’t it? Our finances are tighter than ever, our future job prospects are completely up in the air, and now this. THAT JUST ABOUT FIGURES.
I suppose, however, many of my readers will raise an eyebrow at me and have little sympathy. I mean, here I am mourning the possible loss of a 40 mpg car when gas here in Independence, MO is $1.63 a gallon. Yep, that’s right. $1.63 per gallon. That’s dirt cheap, even for the KC metro area. The reason for this is because it’s Independence. Independence has very low taxes, and this is to be expected, if not downright required. Why? Because the city of Independence doesn’t do jack. That’s why. No trash pickup, a largely awol police force, general disrepair, etc. The situation is most unfortunate, but it does, however, make for cheap gas. *shrug* Oh well. You win some, you lose some.
Okay, good news, good news, need to mention some of that, too. Uhm. Oh, yeah. So far, there have been no complications with the pregnancy whatsoever. I go in every four weeks (soon to be every two weeks), my father-in-law pokes at me a bit, listens to the baby’s heart rate and tells me what it is (at which point I always blink at him and he tells me that it’s a good/normal number). Then he asks me if I have any concerns or discomforts, which I never really do (aside from the normal stuff – muscle aches, intestinal issues and so on, which I don’t even bother mentioning). He spends the rest of the visit chatting with his son, generally about firearms – a hobby they’ve taken up together and which my mother-in-law and I regard with some amount of mildly disturbed bewilderment. After that, I do my thing in that little cup, hand it over to his nurses, and they send me on my way without any further fuss. Not diabetic, not anemic, nobody’s fussing about my weight (I’ve gained little so far, but no doubt that’s because I’m shedding excess me to make baby – that’s a common thing for the pudgy), earlier sonogram seemed to say baby has the appropriate number of fingers, toes, suchwhat and so on. At this point I’m having a difficult time understanding why I’m going to the doctor so often, but I guess it’s not hurting anything, it’s a convenient opportunity to visit the in-laws and my insurance (which costs us a pretty penny) covers it all, so I might as well keep it up, lest my mother have a conniption fit. She seems to think there’s a great deal more to worry about and that I should be asking more questions, but I’m not entirely convinced of that just yet. I mean, seriously, given our current scenario, I should think I need not borrow any extra worries. Moreover, the quip of a friend echoes up in the back of my mind: pregnancy is not an illness – why treat it like one?
That sums up the practical update, for now. Like I said, prayers would be good – especially for Obsession No. 2, who is feeling rather inadequate at the moment. Why is it that men have such a hard time separating worldly success from being a worthy and responsible provider? It’s not like the world is a great big snack machine – put in so many responsible-man intentions and then *ding*, out pops a reliable career. Seriously, that’s not how it works. I know plenty of wise, responsible, completely bankrupt men. It’s not fun, but worldly success is hardly the measure of anything, really. Why is that so hard to believe, eh? WHY? *Rubbing head* Say a few prayers for him, k?
How on earth is baby shuffling my organs all the way up here (points to region in upper abdomen)????? He’s* not supposed to be all the way up there yet. Maybe it’s the way I’m sitting (shifting). Baby tends to shuffle and kick when he feels his space being encroached upon, I think – he’s definitely getting big enough to feel cramped.
*Male pronouns utilized out of grammatical necessity alone. Please do not infer any rash predictions re: the sex of this child. I refuse to commit to a speculation.
*Male pronouns utilized out of grammatical necessity alone. Please do not infer any rash predictions re: the sex of this child. I refuse to commit to a speculation.
Stale
Can thoughts go stale? My intellect is full of thought-crumbs (a great, great many thought-crumbs) but somehow I can’t help but regard them as far too stale to be shared. My muse is a fitful, moody little beastie – her vanity requires immediate attention or she goes to her corner and sulks. How I wish I could bring her under my control . . .
Upon more serious contemplation, leaving aside all the fitting, but nevertheless mythological, imagery, no doubt my “muse” is only a way of referring to the side of my personality that controls my creativity, as well as most of my more admirable passions and energies, viz., my sanguineous streak. Given that, this situation is hardly surprising. I’ve always known that I don’t have that side of me under any kind of rational control. However, if I try to force it into following timely, virtuous dictates it simply refuses to cooperate and, left alone with only my choleric side as comfort, I get very angry about it all and am quite miserable. My marriage has greatly exacerbated this battle, too. When you’re married you can’t really afford running your life higgledy-pig. Consideration for/devotion to one’s husband requires forethought, rational control over renegade emotions: in short, a general good order of soul and action. I’ve yet to figure out, though, how this sort of rational control can be exercised without murdering my passion for life altogether. The mythological images are really the only fitting way to describe that aspect of my life – it’s as if the part of me that enables all real sense of wonder for this world were some nasty little sprite that simply will not heed beck and call. BUT, it simply has to submit. Right reason will not admit of anything else.
So . . .
I guess I get used to the state of being stale . . . ?
Upon more serious contemplation, leaving aside all the fitting, but nevertheless mythological, imagery, no doubt my “muse” is only a way of referring to the side of my personality that controls my creativity, as well as most of my more admirable passions and energies, viz., my sanguineous streak. Given that, this situation is hardly surprising. I’ve always known that I don’t have that side of me under any kind of rational control. However, if I try to force it into following timely, virtuous dictates it simply refuses to cooperate and, left alone with only my choleric side as comfort, I get very angry about it all and am quite miserable. My marriage has greatly exacerbated this battle, too. When you’re married you can’t really afford running your life higgledy-pig. Consideration for/devotion to one’s husband requires forethought, rational control over renegade emotions: in short, a general good order of soul and action. I’ve yet to figure out, though, how this sort of rational control can be exercised without murdering my passion for life altogether. The mythological images are really the only fitting way to describe that aspect of my life – it’s as if the part of me that enables all real sense of wonder for this world were some nasty little sprite that simply will not heed beck and call. BUT, it simply has to submit. Right reason will not admit of anything else.
So . . .
I guess I get used to the state of being stale . . . ?
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