budget

Five Cent Return

Description unavailable (Photo credit: B Tal)

I don’t love to grocery shop. This is unfortunate, because here in Manhattan, it’s something that needs to be done frequently. Any and everything you buy has to be carried home, and most of us don’t have large refrigerators, freezers, or storage space for stocking up. Add in the knowledge that you can walk outside and hit any number of stores within a few blocks, and there isn’t the same pressure to remember everything you need in one shot.

The cost of groceries here, outrageous. I know this is so because when we’ve gone on vacation and shopped for groceries at stores geared towards ripping off tourists, while the other customers are grumbling I’m skipping through the aisles, filling the cart and trying to decide what’s practical to take home. I try to shop at Trader Joe’s as much as possible, it’s a significant savings compared to the other groceries that are much closer. But it isn’t always practical, it’s twenty four blocks away. So if I’m doing a bigger shop, great! Worth the cost of the cab ride home, still saving. But if I only have twenty minutes to get there, shop, and come home, don’t need much, or I need things they don’t carry (like regular white or brown rice), it doesn’t make sense.

Grocery Store #1 (Photo credit: wgdavis)

I trek to Whole Foods for rice and flour (cheapest in the area, I buy it from their bulk containers, they have enough of a turnover that it’s always fresh) and soy milk for Flower Child (yes, their brand of soy milk is the absolute lowest price). For the certain basics or when I’m running out, I go to one of the two cheapest groceries in the area. Both conveniently located within three blocks of my apartment. They don’t look like the artsy photo above. Dark, dingy, cleanliness is questionable, the cashiers are surly, don’t even think of asking for help from a stocker for something you can’t reach, aisles are crazy narrow–any number of which are usually blocked by boxes waited to be unloaded–and if you’re smart, you’ll check expiration dates of everything before bringing anything home.

I just ran to one of the two “inexpensive” stores this morning. If you’re curious, a gallon of low fat, non-organic milk is $4.89 there, a half gallon is $2.99. A gallon of store brand distilled water for top-offs for the reef tank,* $1.19. Honey-Nut Cheerios, 12.9 oz box, $5.39. Navel (not organic) oranges, .99 each. One loaf of sliced wheat bread, $4.19. A 10 oz “brick” of Cafe Bustelo–about as far from fancy coffee as you can get, $4.69. To be fair, Bustelo goes on sale regularly. Five years ago the sales were two bricks for $5, two years ago it became 2 for $6, now it’s 2 for $7. I have to make a new batch of doggie gumbo tomorrow, so I bought a pound of cheapo ground beef, $3.63, and a pound of ground chicken, $4.29.

Getting the picture? Chasing in four different directions for the cheapest prices, reasonable quality (yanno, fresh and none of those free pets that skitter across the counter as you unload), calculating, carrying, it’s exhausting. Screw cooking, between the financial, physical, and stress tolls I don’t even want to eat.

Over twenty years ago, I had a friend who theorized the nickel deposit on bottles was instated in NY as a way for the homeless to get money to feed themselves. Was he onto something? I don’t know, don’t remember his entire argument, but he was one of those people who could argue anything and have you believe he was brilliant. But while I do see plenty of homeless grabbing cans and bottles out of the corner trash cans, the real business of it is with the senior citizens. On days when the recycling bags get put out on the street for pickup, I find seniors by every large apartment building, filling carts and Hefty bags with empty bottles. These are not days you want to find yourself in a hurry at the aforementioned less expensive grocery stores, because you’ll be on line forever, waiting for the elderly gentleman ahead of you to have each bottle and can checked and tallied before he can turn around and shop. Think about my little shopping list above, that’s a lot of nickels; many, many bottles to carry. Individual, older people trying to feed themselves off of a fixed income, not organized groups with a vehicle to get to the big redemption center.

At night, in these stores, you find what Man Child calls the shuffle of shame. On line to buy a forgotten gallon of milk, you often find yourself behind two seniors cashing in bottles, three finance-looking or professional people who are embarrassed to find themselves in this grocery store (but it’s a dollar cheaper for that box of Cheerios here than in the cleaner, higher end grocery stores), and a stinky guy buying dish detergent. But sometimes you also find one of those New York moments. The elderly woman who’s come back with her shopping cart, straight to the sighing, texting cashier ahead of everyone else on line. And the cashier rolls her eyes, holds out her hand, and takes the jar of applesauce from the woman, pops the seal and hands it back, so the senior can go home and eat it. She couldn’t open it by herself in her apartment, and needed a little help.

Beverage container redemption center (Photo credit: Hobo Matt)

*Reef tanks use salt water. Water evaporates, salt doesn’t, so you have to “top off” the tank with fresh water. Because these are very delicate critters, tap water can’t be used. Most reefers buy and run an RO/DI water filter, so they can use tap. With a very tiny kitchen, and even tinier (1) bathroom, I can’t tie up a faucet or use the space needed to run these filters, so I buy distilled.

Admitting Defeat

Checkmate (The Prisoner) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It’s true, much as I hate to admit it, I’m never going to be King. Not Virginia Woolf, not Laura Ingalls Wilder. Not even a princess. And really, that’s just fine. A quiet life is appealing. But a silent one?

When I first began thinking of putting a blog together, my original idea was to have a collaborative blog, women of somewhat varying ages and perspectives, focusing on the differences between what we thought our adult lives would be, and what they are. That idea never got beyond early planning stages, and eventually I started Mrs Fringe.

But due to some recent happenings in the lives of friends, and the never ending brain crunching non-happenings in my own life, I’m thinking about those early ideas again. Specifically, the life I’m living and the Grand Canyon that separates it from the life I thought I would have. While I won’t deny I have a vivid imagination, not all of my scenarios involved a crown and scepter. I never actually thought I would become rich, never thought I would live in a palace, never thought I would lie on a bed of thornless roses. Of course, I’m allergic to roses, so that one might not be fair.

Rose & Crown (Photo credit: Sam Howzit)

But I also never imagined having to worry quite this much about finances, when I’m not living a life of extravagance. I never imagined not having a little area for myself for writing (I think I weaned on A Room of One’s Own). I never imagined I’d be living a life at 40,000 years old where I would never, ever, ever have a day off. I never imagined I would be trapped in New York, between finances and familial obligations.

I never imagined a family of five where each of the five would have such totally, completely separate needs. I know, we’re all individuals. I value that fact, Husband and I were never the type of couple that were on the phone 58 times a day when we weren’t together, I’ve tried to raise my children to value their individuality. But I didn’t think, in the twenty first century, with all the societal and personal awareness, that I would lose my own self in the process. Sheesh, I feel like a damned ’70’s cliche just re-reading that sentence. Should I go find myself? In a consciousness raising group sitting on someone’s shag carpet, drinking dandelion wine.

So now what? I write, and that’s good for me. It feels good, and part of me still believes–or at least wants to believe– there’s hope of publication at some point. But I can’t live inside my head all the time. It isn’t productive for any of my roles, and frankly, it isn’t all that fun. I’ve thought about drinking more regularly, but I’m not very good at it. One drink and I’m buzzed, in between one and two and I’m looped, useless; a full two and it’s get-out-of-my-way-I-need-my-bed!

I’m a grown up. I have a family, I have obligations, I have a budget. There is no magic answer, magic solution. But there has to be a way to make something better, at least try.

Virginia Woolf said, “For most of history, Anonymous was a woman.” Is it still true? I don’t think silent lives are truly silent, they’re sirens and songs no one hears.

“Who’s Afraid fo Virginia Woolf?”. 1966 (Photo credit: thefoxling)

I Double Dare You

Cliff jumping in Cyprus (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Feeling introspective. Probably not a good idea, but it’s where I am tonight.

I am not brave. I’ve chosen the path of least resistance more frequently than the road less traveled. I like people who are brave. I like to hear about their lives, see the photos, read the stories.

My stomach hurts just thinking about it. Risk taking is just not my thing. I have never gone cliff diving, and never will. I’ve never gone to live in another country, I don’t see that happening either. Some people live big lives, I’m not one of them. It’s true that some of those with big lives were raised in a certain way, maybe they had financial backing, or those around them assumed they would live those big lives. But not everyone. Some have an inner something that prompts them to take a leap with open eyes, even as their hearts are pounding.

I think those patterns have to be set when you’re young, and responsibilities are only to yourself. Yes, yes, we always have a responsibility to others in our lives, our community, our society. But responsibilities at 25 are different than 35, 45, or 55.

Venn Diagram for T (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Not in a woe is me, life is over with middle age kind of way. There is a point where bravery and selfishness overlap. They have to. No one would ever take a chance if they were focused solely on how the chance might harm others.

Do I live through my characters? Absolutely. When I think about it, though, my characters aren’t about big lives either. No espionage, serial killers, or royalty. I love the everyman. I love exploring what goes into the choices we make in the everyday; our relationships, and the subsequent, long range repercussions. I like to follow the path of each character, trying to establish what the question really is, forget about the answers.

So if our lives are one long game of truth or dare, I choose truth. Through a substantial veil of fiction. To make it more interesting, or more palatable? Maybe the choice isn’t truth at all, but fear.

If life had been different, and we weren’t strangling on a budget that makes the basics of getting through each day a freakin minefield, I like to think I’d be more brave. Then again, if I’d taken more risks, the road less traveled when I was younger, maybe this wouldn’t be our every day.

What about you, truth or dare?

(For Child Welfare Exhibit 1912-13.) Shooting craps, Providence, R.I. Location: Providence, Rhode Island. (LOC) (Photo credit: The Library of Congress)

Cuddling With that Late Night Booty Call: Want

Deutsch: Irische Hard Shoes, auch Hornpipe Shoes oder Jig Shoes genannt. Jig Shoes. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

*Warning: Defensive post ahead.

Yesterday afternoon, I walked past a favorite shoe store, recently renovated so the ambiance matches the price points. In the window was an absolute wantwantwant Pas de Rouge shoe. So much so, I took a picture with a phone, posted it to my personal Facebook wall, and had fun with friends dreaming about $400 shoes. (for some reason I can’t transfer pics from my phone to this blog, sorry) Fun? Yes. Silly? Absolutely. But there’s something about a sole full of awesomeness that some roundheels like myself can’t deny. Resist, sure, but not deny.

But here’s what I’m thinking about today. We’re expected to deny our wants. As women, certainly as women with children, we’re supposed to forget about our pesky little wants, dreams, and desires, at least until all children our grown and gone. I’m not talking about ridiculously expensive shoes, but the other stuff. Like writing, or painting, or photography (except of our children), or going back to school, or a vacation that isn’t educational. Even hobbies are relegated to after the kids are asleep. You know what? After the kids are grown and gone is a long, long time. Add in a special needs child and multiply this by eleventy billion.

A newborn child crying. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

It doesn’t seem so long at first, when they’re babies, toddlers, and young children, and your days meld together with feeding and changing, soothing and crooning. Hell, just looking at this photo makes my boobs tingle, preparing for a non existent milk letdown, and it’s been years since I nursed.

My belief that children come first is strong. Most of us deny ourselves a lot of wants, put off needs, because the kids come first. It’s what our biology and our society dictates; in my opinion this is as it should be. I know it isn’t just women who put certain wants off until the kids are grown, most of us, male and female, are on limited budgets, and many of us have to either give up or put dreams aside until the immediate responsibilities are fewer. Being last is okay, as long as I’m still in the race.

But since I began blogging about my newly rediscovered determination to get back to a regular writing and submitting schedule, more than a couple of my female followers have made reference (both on and off the blog) to wanting to do X, and waiting to do X until the kids are gone. Feel free to jump in and tell me you’ve heard otherwise, I’ve never heard a man say he’s waiting to investigate and pursue a hobby until the kids are gone. When I read the stories of writers who have been successful after having children, but before the kids are gone, they’re a little different. Both male and female showed tremendous drive, dedication, and passion. The men talk about coming home from their day jobs, locking themselves in whatever little nook they can carve out for themselves in their home, and writing. Women talk about coming home from their day jobs, supervising homework, making dinner, doing the bedtime thing, and then going to whatever nook they’ve carved out for themselves. Or, if they were SAHMs, writing during naps and loads of laundry. And of course, eating all those bon bons. Who needs sleep, right?

I don’t know about you, but when I sleep and dream, it isn’t about juicy younger men or my formerly perky parts. It’s about space and time for myself that isn’t shrouded in guilt.

English: A photograph of an engraving in The Writings of Charles Dickens volume 4, Oliver Twist, titled “Oliver at Mrs. Maylie’s Door”. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I think it’s valid, sensible, and important to recognize the difference between wants and needs, and then further breakdown to prioritize these needs and wants. What I don’t get is why this is supposed to equal no wants or dreams. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I recognize that I live in this spoiled American society and I am a spoiled American. I don’t have a McMansion and don’t want one. I also don’t want to live in a hut, with just enough grains of rice to keep me going, foraged Pepsi bottles strapped to my feet with woven grass. I hear those are terrible for dog walking.

Move Over on that Cross, Will ya?

Painting image of Joan of Arc (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Checking my email this morning, I saw one of my favorite discount stores is having a sale. Today. One day only.

I needed gloves. It’s freezing out. I bought a pair last month, and they look fun in an ugly kind of way, but they’re a loose knit, no fingers, not even a thumb. Why did I buy them? They were $6! Sure I saw practical, warm, pretty gloves too, but those were $50. 6 vs 50, on a day when it wasn’t too cold yet, no contest. Sure I’m a lifelong New Yorker, and understood it wasn’t going to stay 50* outside, but 6 dollars!

Once I dropped Flower Child off at school, I walked to the store. This left me standing in the cold for half an hour before they opened. OK it was 25 minutes, I guess the manager felt sorry for me and the other fools waiting for them to unlock the doors. The selection was pitiful, but I was determined to take advantage of the 25% off coupon slipping through my icicle fingers. Found a pair. Not what I really wanted. I was imagining something elegant or funky, interesting color, super warm pair with a touch screen fingertip. I found warmer than what I’ve got, no touch screen fingertip, and I’m not really sure if they’re navy or black.

I’m in the store where it’s warm, not overly crowded, and agonizing over whether I should buy this pair of gloves, or wait and keep looking until I find the perfect pair at the perfect price on a day when I’ve got money in my pocket. I’m sure you can all now understand why I own a very limited wardrobe. I decide to look around the store. It really is a very good sale, and there are several things I could use. I look at dresses. I found this super cute wine colored knit–with sleeves! (why do they sell sleeveless winter dresses in the Northeast?)–my size, no obvious rule it out defects, for a very reasonable $50. It’s just my kind of dress (though not a color I usually like), nice, practical, fine for a regular day but if I had an appointment for tea with the Queen I could put some beads around my neck with a nicer pair of shoes and look fine.

Portrait of a group of ladies at a tea party, Charters Towers (Photo credit: State Library of Queensland, Australia)

Don’t forget the 25% off coupon! I picked up the dress and carried it all over the store, inspecting everything else I wasn’t going to buy. I looked at coats. I would love to have a warm down coat for everyday use. I spend a lot of time outside walking, and do not enjoy cold weather. At. All.

I have a coat I bought several years ago at another discount store. I hadn’t been coat shopping in a long time prior, and was shocked by the prices. So shocked, I called my mother to rant. She laughed at me, and I bought the cheapest one I could find. Sure it’s down, but apparently it’s only got 3 feathers, because I’m shivering in it the second the temperature drops below 45*. I’ve got a fabulous and fabulously warm shearling I got when my Grandmother died, but I don’t like to wear it. It’s the only really nice coat I’m ever likely to own, and I feel kind of silly when I wear it. Here I’m living this crazy broke-ass life; picking up dog poop in a shearling? I’m like a character from a Depression era movie, “Well, de-ah, I’ve fallen on haahrd times.”

I put the dress back. Bought the boring but reasonably priced and warmer than what I’ve got gloves, and punished myself by walking home, instead of taking the train. Why? I dunno, it’s the martyr instinct. I’ve got it, and so do many of the women I know who aren’t shopaholics. It was perfectly reasonable to put the dress back. I’ve got to buy Christmas gifts for the kiddos, and there isn’t any wiggle room in the budget. I could use a new coat, but I won’t freeze without one, I’m absolutely fine wearing layers. I like my layers. I like the look, and they make me feel shabby chic instead of shabby. I did need a pair of gloves.

So why do I feel guilty for having bought them? Besides the obvious answer that I’m a lunatic. What kind of shopper are you?

Walked past my new favorite lady in the city.

And some perfectly elegant holiday displays.

Tis the Season

I think she’s pretty, am I done now?

And, as usual, I’m unprepared. Can’t say as always, because some years I’ve been relatively on top of things, but not usually.

I haven’t prepped a thing, haven’t so much as taken the Christmas boxes down from the closet, no clue what any of my kids would like, haven’t even purchased a box of candy canes–which I usually do right after Thanksgiving. I know, if Nerd Child reads this, he will think, “I told you I wanted ____.” I know he did tell me something, but my brain is like a sieve these days (heh, who am I kidding? has been for years), if it isn’t written down any thought drains away.

I did buy one new snow globe yesterday, see above.

Husband has a cousin whose home is always perfectly, tastefully decorated for the holidays. The woman could have been a window dresser for Saks, her eye is flawless. It’s the type of talent you either have or you don’t. I don’t, but I love to admire the efforts of those who do.

I like to know what the kiddos and Husband want for Christmas, not just taking a stab in the dark. A lot of that is due to the budget, if we don’t buy them the item they reeeeally needed/wanted, that’s it for quite a while. I am not hitting the after Christmas sales on December 26th. Husband is easy, he always wants clothes. Well, easy except for that whole pilgrimage to 34th St in the holiday season, but I’ll save that for another post. A couple of times over the years I saved and splurged and bought him toys instead of clothes (an iPod, a GPS), and my sense was that he still would have preferred to see those red boxes from Macy’s.

Tiffany’s (Photo credit: peterjr1961)

For several years, Husband and I admonished each other not to buy each other anything. I’m not going to say that anymore. He knows I’m going to buy him something, I know he’s going to buy me something. Do I have a wish list? No. Things go in and out of my head all year long, but when it comes time to Husband asking me what I would like (usually around 11PM on the 23rd, sometimes 2PM on the 24th), my mind goes blank.

If I really push myself, I turn into Marilyn Monroe singing “Santa Baby,” picturing jewels and deeds. Or Elmer J Fudd, with a mansion and a yacht. Around 6AM Christmas Day I remember that I’m wearing the same pjs that I’ve been wearing in the photos for the past 7 years, could have asked for those, 10AM I look at the wreckage of wrapping paper and boxes from the kids’ gifts and sigh over my imaginary iPad, around 3PM, I remember the paring knife I could have used.

Do you have a wish list?

Elmer Fudd (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Paring Down

Old Woman Peeling Potatoes (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I love the principles behind the various living simply movements. Think about it, in our frenetic day to day lives, doesn’t the idea of slowing down and simplifying sound tempting?

Not in an extremist way, I have no interest in renouncing technology and indoor plumbing; living completely off the grid, but just saying enough is enough, enough is good enough, I’m going to value time to breathe and enjoy. I’m always interested in the stories of people who decide to do this, sell their second and third cars, their McMansions, and move to adorable, solar powered log homes in Montana, or Maine or Idaho.

1919 Indoor Toilet Ad (Photo credit: dok1)

Except, reading these blogs, how to guides, and articles, these people all seem to have started off with significantly more than they need. And their new homes always have enough room for comfortable furniture, a working garden, room for all who live there and the stuff they continue to value. How does one decide to live simply in the city with a family and limited budget? Is it possible to make it a choice, when so many “no’s” are out of necessity?

I’ve known/know a few who seem to, but they’re all either single or two people (couple or one adult with a child). None have significant, chronic medical needs. Their dry goods aren’t sitting out on kitchen counters because the cabinets are crowded with medicines and supplements.

I like the idea of getting rid of unnecessary stuff and clutter. It’s the battle of clutter here, because there just isn’t a place for everyone’s stuff. But what is unnecessary? My books? Bite your tongue, I need those! Not every book I’ve ever read, and over the past couple of years I’ve passed along at least a hundred, but what’s left are my companions, my solace when I’m feeling stuck or lonely or blue. I could replace them with an e-reader, but that would involve money to purchase the e-reader and buy the books–I already own!–electronically.

There are now 4 small boxes of stuff sitting in my living room from my mother’s apartment. One that’s waiting to be passed along. 3 small boxes from my mother’s life which includes memorabilia from my father and grandmother’s lives. I’d like to get rid of the big wall unit taking up space, but I’m not about to renounce TV either (yes, I do need to watch the Housewives), so that can’t happen until I can replace the old tube TV with one of the skinny hang on the wall things, and a smaller unit to hold the cable box, iPod dock, and Wii. Money again.

And what about time? Where do these hours to enjoy life come from? All those luxuries of modern living (many of which I don’t have), like a dishwasher or washer and dryer are luxuries because of the time they save.

Maybe living simply is a luxury itself, only meant for those who can do so as a choice.

What do you think?

Dollhouse (Photo credit: cliff1066™)

And, Have an Orgasm!

Atomic Housewife. 19/52 (Photo credit: Sarahnaut)

Does anyone else know/remember that old joke, poking fun at Women’s Lib? Something like this: Before women’s lib, a woman would get up, make coffee and breakfast for husband and children, make lunches for them to take with them, iron, see them off, clean the house, do laundry, grocery shop, make dinner, supervise homework, feed everyone dinner, kids off to bed, sex with husband. After women’s lib, a woman has to get up, make coffee and breakfast for husband and children, make lunches for them to take with them, iron, see them off, go out to work, come home and clean the house, do laundry, grocery shop, make dinner, supervise homework, feed everyone dinner, kids off to bed, sex with husband, AND have an orgasm.

Mmm hmm, very liberating indeed.

Is life better for the average woman than it used to be? I think so. There are more choices, more acknowledgement of compromises–hey, I can now be a feminist and still shave my underarms.

Underarm Hair (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

There are women who choose not to have children, women who choose to have children and stay home, women who choose not to define themselves by their marital or maternal status at all. Still far from true social justice, because these choices aren’t accepted without question, but analyzed, judged, and whispered about. Being a woman who is a mom, I’m going to focus on that choice.

I don’t know who first coined the term Supermom, or exactly how long it’s been around, but I think it’s fair to say easily 20 years. Conservatively, 20 years. Twenty years of cartoons, jokes, analyzing, and disclaimers. We know better. Supermom is bullshit. Every bit the work of fiction that Superman is. So how come we’re still weighing ourselves against this curvy little lie?

No one human being can fill all roles, be all things to all people. Not even the little people we bring into our lives, or the one person we vow to stay with forever (whether or not forever ends after 7 years or 37). We all wear many hats, juggle different roles and obligations–true for men as well as women. But somehow, we women expect and are often expected to do just that. Especially those of us who have limited budgets, so hiring others to take care of some of those roles isn’t an option.

Even little things. Like unexpected company. I am not a fabulous housekeeper. I’d like to be, but ultimately, once we get beyond the basics of a reasonably clean bathroom and kitchen, it just isn’t that high on my list of priorities. We’re in a small space. There just isn’t a place for everything. But, that doesn’t mean I don’t want to do some extra cleaning and organizing if company is coming. I don’t like surprise guests for this reason. What does this have to do with feminism and supermoms? Well, let’s face it, no one is going to leave my messy apartment and whisper to her girlfriend, “Wow, that Husband is a pig. When was the last time he dusted?” No, the judgement would be more like, “Ugh, did you see that laundry hamper? I wonder when Mrs Fringe last found her way to the laundry room.”

If a mother works outside the home, somehow she’s still magically supposed to take care of all the hearth and home stuff, and be awake, alert, competent, and presentable on the job. And her kids are never supposed to get sick, or have any other needs that would involve taking time off. If a mother is a SAHM, she isn’t supposed to just take care of hearth and home, she had better be Supermom squared, to compensate for her lack of brain cells…err…value…err…income. She’s supposed to do it all perfectly, naturally, organic dinners that are gastronomic delights to children and adults alike, sandwiches on bread baked that morning, tastefully decorated home, never a stray sock left behind on laundry day, homemade and prizewinning Halloween costumes, and of course, oodles of time to volunteer at the children’s schools. Because, yanno, if you’re a SAHM, what do you do all day? You must be bored. *Do not confuse intellectual boredom with free time* Only, if you are bored, don’t ever say it out loud, because well, you could get a job and really do something. Never mind the mind numbing fatigue, and the fact you spend every single day being looked down upon and devalued, and there’s no such thing as a day off or quitting time.

So no, I’m not Supermom, and I don’t know one woman who is. Those who come closest are those whose annual income allows for quality, long term nannies/babysitters, full time housekeepers, and spouses who are also big earners and highly educated–socially progressive. We all know this, all make fun of the term, we judge ourselves and judge each other–but we all still beat ourselves up for not being this fictional character.

Delany wrote issue#203 of Wonder Woman, the women’s lib issue (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Splitting Hairs

I need a haircut. In my mind, I look like this:

Nichols as Lieutenant Uhura. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

But the mirror shows more like this:

The famous tongue image (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I’ve been thinking (read, moaning and groaning to Husband) I need a haircut for about a month now. I know it’s true, because when I walked into Mother-In-Law’s apartment yesterday afternoon, she asked if Flower Child had done my hair for me.

I like to look presentable but I run into several obstacles. 1) I hate looking in the mirror. Truly, I’d rather have the Evil Queen’s mirror (Snow White) than the bitch harping on me from mine.

2) I don’t enjoy going for haircuts, or anything else that involves strangers touching me. Yes, I’m uptight. Accept it, I have.

3) The ever-looming budget. I can get my hair cut next week, but that means I have to skip Friday Night Madness this week. Not a tragedy or a hardship, but a bummer. Even in my broke and Fringe life, I recognize this as a first world obstacle.

4) I haven’t had a haircut in five years that wasn’t interrupted by the school nurse, calling to tell me Flower Child was sick or seizing or both. I haven’t received a phone call from the nurse yet this year, I’d like to stretch this as long as I can.

I don’t dye my hair, it’s salt and pepper and yes, I like it this way. But thanks for giving your best guesstimate on how much younger I’d look and you’d feel if I dyed it. I spend about two weeks googling hairstyles for gray hair before I go. Why? I see the same three images, regardless of year, season, or current styles.

English: Actress Jamie Lee Curtis autographs her books for children in Building 150 at Joint Base Pearl Harbor-Hickam, Hawaii, April 1, 2010. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Paula Deen holds court (Photo credit: Bristol Motor Speedway & Dragway)

Cruella (Photo credit: KerriNikolePhotography)

Ok, I made up the Cruella one, Emmylou Harris is usually the third photo to pop up. Maybe I should go for Cruella this year. It might just satisfy Mirror.

Where’s My Union Rep?

Women corset workers on strike walk down the street wearing undergarments (Photo credit: Kheel Center, Cornell University)

I’m going to join the ladies in the photo above and go on strike. Mrs Fringe needs a day off! I’m also going to digress for a moment.

In looking for an old photo of women on strike, I noticed something interesting. The women are smiling in these photos. Not so in photos of men on strike. Why? Is it so ingrained in women to smile and be polite, even when making a political statement and fighting for a living wage? Or did the photographers give women an alert and admonission, “Smile pretty for the camera!” that wasn’t offered to men? I can see it now, “Oh yeah, this is important, we’re gonna to a big story on you, front page. What’s that you say, your sister lost three fingers in the industrial sewing machine cause she worked 27 days in a row? C’mon girls, you have to smile, nobody’s gonna look at a photo of a bunch of sourpusses.” Then again, I have a vivid imagination, and my observation could mean nothing more than smiling women are the photos that caught my eye.

I like my coffee analogue, like my photography (Photo credit: futurowoman)

But mostly, my imagination has been taking me back to my youth, when a day off meant a day of nothing. Not a day of less, but a day where I could stay in my pjs, lie in bed and read all day, my biggest energy expenditure when I got up to make coffee. It isn’t a mystery why I can’t do this anymore. I live in the city with two dogs, they need to be walked three times a day. I have people, little and big, brought to life and brought into my life by choice, who depend on me for household supplies, clean laundry, meds, food, chaperoning, homework help, and a clean toilet.

Fatigue and I went out for Friday Night Madness this week. Due to life, we had missed the past few Fridays. He has arranged his finances so he’ll be able to take a few months off from his day job, beginning next month. This will mean tightening his already tight budget to a stranglehold. But I get it; he’s going to rest, regroup, and use the time to work on his art. I’m almost envious. Almost, because even my vivid imagination can’t quite imagine being in a position to do this.

One of the “tells” in writing as to whether or not a piece was written by a man or woman has to do with qualifiers. Women tend to write the way they speak; lots of almosts, quites, somewhats, sort-ofs, tend-tos,in-my-opinions. Many of us live that way, too. Almost a day off, not quite a day off, somewhat of a day off, sort of keeping it a light day.

Sunday, not a day off, not a day of rest, but I’m going to try to keep this to a day of less. How about you? Do you get days that are truly off?