Wallyology

I haven't blogged about my son in awhile. He finished his freshman year but may not get to be a sophomore anytime soon. If I thought a "smack upside the head" would make a difference, he'd have gotten one long ago from either his father or me. But he's locked into a pattern of making dumb, impulsive decisions and then lying when the decision starts to go wrong. As a result, he will soon lose his car and basically be disowned by his father, who says Wally has "worn out his welcome."

I think the only thing that will set him straight is being forced to be entirely on his own. No favors, no gifts, no safety net, no second chances, no benefit-of-the-doubt. He tells me a decent-paying job seems to be a sure thing, and I certainly hope he's right about that. He will need one. I'm a long way from giving up hope that he will start behaving in a mature manner. He has the foundation - he just needs a more immediate sense of the consequences when he hatches one of his hare-brained ideas. It can be said that both his father and I made decisions through the last 15 years that have contributed to Wally's mindset...but there is no way to turn back the clock. Even abject apologies from both of us would make little difference. I've used Carl (my husband, Wally's stepfather) as an example of things Wally shouldn't do -- quit school, start smoking, lock himself into a dead-end job and/or "up and move" when things get stressful. I think he understands the truth of this.

He has a girlfriend he seems to be fairly nuts over -- this is the first one he's really gone on about. But I'm uneasy that he may grab onto her as a life raft. I hope her parents are strict and protective, because if they're not, she could be vulnerable to the urge to rescue and take care of Wally as he bumbles his way along to stability. Click Here to Read More..

Let's Go Sailing Down Denial River

So, I'm using a social-networking site to keep track of Wally. He obliges me by posting these cryptic little snippets, which I'm sure are intentionally designed to push every possible button. Things like "I don't like my new probation slip," and "I'm ready for an evening of underage drinking and intravenous drug use."

Now, I don't believe he does any intravenous drugs -- that really isn't his style. I believe that comment was sarcasm. The drinking, however, is another story. While he abstained after moving back into my home, mainly because he had no friends to hang with, he certainly did quite a bit while living with Doug between ages 13 and 16 -- his circle of friends was affluent and certain of their invincibility. Once he moved out to live on his own, the pattern reasserted itself.

Wally should not drink. No kid his age should drink, but especially someone whose maternal grandparents were both alcoholics, and whose paternal grandmother and uncle have shown a propensity toward substance abuse.

The most recent alarming post was that he had been kicked out of his dorm. This is finals week and he will soon be traveling back to Doug's neck of the woods for his winter break. I texted him with a brief question as to his circumstances; he called back and told me the whole sad story: Unruly behavior indoors, more unruly behavior out of doors, a window broken, police called, alcohol found on him, etc. There were a few "I messed up" comments, but most of what I heard from him was along the lines of:

• "It's finals week -- can't they give us a break?"
• "How can they throw us out into the street? Don't they realize we're thousands of miles from home?"
• "This is just another way they rip us off -- I'll have to pay to get my dorm room back and probably have to take some stupid sobriety course."
• "They were so NASTY to us!"
• "So we were making a lot of noise -- couldn't someone just tell us that without calling the cops?"
  
• "I hate having to tell Dad -- he'll freak out; he's known to be irrational."
• "I don't drink anywhere near as much as some other dudes on campus."
• "Dad says I need to quit drinking -- oh, like he doesn't? He's the world's biggest hypocrite."

After expressing a reasonable amount of sympathy for his immediate predicament, I took the liberty of reminding him (via text message) that it isn't THAT hard to make good decisions. His response? "K."

Within the last month or so, he's expressed the desire to leave the rather large university he's attending and return to the environment he's called "home" on and off since 2002. I asked him if "up and moving" is going to be his default response to any difficulty. True, he's been "up and moving" along with one parent figure or the other since he was five and a half, but his father lived in his childhood home until age 27 or so, and ditto for me until about age 22 -- for us, the frequent moves are a relatively recent phenomenon. No, this activity is much more typical of the stepfather he so loathes. When I pointed it out to him, it seemed to get through. But now I'm not sure. I fear that instability is the norm for him -- one mini-drama after another. He was in trouble with the law for petty vandalism at age 13; refused to settle down and abide by the rules when living with Doug and Judith, thereby getting himself kicked out and sent back to live with Carl and me; continually restless, oppositional and uncommunicative for the entire year and a half he was with us; one can only guess what sorts of scrapes he encountered once he moved out and was on his own before heading off to the university. I know about 3 traffic tickets, one of which I paid. He seems to have fallen into that pattern of continually craving "excitement" and risk, especially if it involves other people. I'm amazed at his level of extroversion -- this is someone who seems incapable of just relaxing by himself. Doug is like that to a degree, although for him it's more of a strong need for one partner. Wally doesn't seem satisfied without a throng.

It's sad; I have no idea what to do about him. This is not to say that the divorce and parent remarriages on both sides aren't at the root of it, because I'm sure they are ... but what to do? Divorce Carl? Have Doug divorce Judith and get back with me? Apologize for ruining Wally's childhood? I've done that already, to a limited extent. Wally's been in counseling with Doug, Judith and more than one practitioner. He is not a stupid person; he has the ability to look himself in the eye and decide to grow up.

Question is, will he? And when?

Edited to add: Reading over his remarks leads me to the conclusion that he's way out of control and headed in a far more grim direction. Time to tie up the raft... Click Here to Read More..

Checking in with a Quick & Shallow Update

After being advised a week or two ago that I'm pre-diabetic, I've stepped up my weight-loss efforts. The result is a loss of 3 lbs, which normally would make me say "So what?" since usually the first 3 lbs is just water ... but it's really the first time my weight has gone down AT ALL in a couple of years. As a corollary, there's the money situation, which is actually helping in an odd sort of way. We haven't the money to stock up food-wise; we tend to buy enough for a day or two. So Carl buys his all-important meat; I head for the produce and dairy aisles and keep myself supplied with salads and yogurt. Also those Carl Buddig 90-calorie one-sandwich-at-a-time packets that sell for less than a dollar. I'd swear my hair has more red in it lately, with all the carrots I've been eating...

This weekend promises to be absolutely jam-packed, especially with neighborhood activities -- fall festival next Saturday. Next Thursday, a vacation day. Already overbooked.

Wally's birthday is coming up and I'm hoping to be able to send him something. Looking forward to the start of the year, since the company will be offering flexible spending accounts and I found that very helpful a few years back.

My bff hasn't called or e-mailed lately; I assume she's paralyzed with shock. She frequently sends me her latest Obama-is-a-muslim-we're-all-doomed 2nd-hand screed. I just skim through the stupidity and delete with no comment. Lately, though, there have been some great essays on some of the hypocrisy that surrounds the Obama-vs-Palin brouhaha and I gave in to the temptation to share one with her. She'd BETTER not take offense at one pro-Obama e-mail after all the stuff she and others have flooded me with over the years.

I'm looking forward to the presidential debates (I think), but am especially looking forward to November 4th just getting here, already. Click Here to Read More..

A handful of random one-liners

Just not organized enough to stick to one topic today, so here's where I dump the lint-catcher that resides between my ears...

Didn't want to to go church today, but glad I did.
A lot of people there have suffered losses in just the last week or so.
The choir has some good new people in it.
I waited too long to see the doctor about my foot, but we're working on getting it taken care of now.
Life could be better.
Why does the mutt next door always stop making noise as soon as I put on music to drown it out?
If Wally loses much more weight, he will disappear.
Seriously thinking about changing the theme for this blog, but worried I'll make a hash of it.
The days go by too damn fast.
Talked to my bff last night; it was good to catch up.
She hates weddings as much as I do.
I'd rather go to a funeral than a wedding.
At least with a funeral you can leave early and people assume you're grief-stricken and not just bored silly.
Funerals are way cheaper, too -- no gifts expected.
I'm feeling glimmers of optimism for this presidential election.
I just hope no one I'm pulling for does anything monumentally stupid to screw it up before Nov. 4.
Interesting how the tide seems to have shifted just recently.
Took long enough.
Michael Clayton was such a boring, pointless movie, I sent it back to Netflix after sticking with it for 30 minutes.
I like listening to Chris Isaak and have no idea why.
Coffee's ready; be right back.
Coffee pot needs cleaning.
Bookcases need reorganizing.
We surely do need rain.
The kitchen counter is a mess.
We really need a new refrigerator.
Facebook is addictive.
The husband of a friend of mine has been diagnosed with squamous-cell carcinoma.
Christmas will be here before we know it.
Anticipation of a bad outcome often keeps me from taking decisive action.
There sure are a lot of people in the news media who get paid beaucoups bucks and still haven't a clue about spelling, grammar or usage.
Ahh -- Warren Zevon.
Die Hard is still a great movie.
The first one.
Samsung makes better cell phones than Nokia.
I need to call Pete and wish him a happy 61st.
Slim Fast is a better idea than a milkshake from Arby's today.
They're closing Coney Island's Astroland.
Putting up more yuppie condos, no doubt.
I just hate what they're doing to New York City.
I'm so, so glad that Thomas Kinkeade is out of Carl's price range.
It's amazing how things can change in ten years.
Another hopeful sign: Michael Dowd
I don't even want to think about a fall wardrobe.
Comedians annoy me when they toss out what made them famous in the first place and go out of their way to create a "serious" public image.
Chicken parmigiana sounds like a good plan for dinner tonight.
I haven't owned a swimsuit since 2005.
Being an only child isn't such a terrible thing.
With an older sibling I'd have been an insufferable brat.
With a younger sibling I'd have been an overbearing bully.
The guy next door finally emptied out the crap from the bed of his old pickup.
There was someone sleeping in there yesterday.
Why do all ice cream trucks use the same music?
And what does "Turkey in the Straw" have to do with ice cream?
If I had my way, all existing recordings from Evanescence would be destroyed, and the lead singer would be sentenced to sing nothing but polkas for the rest of her life.
Three vacation days left.
One is scheduled already.
Sitting here doing this is not the best use of my time. Click Here to Read More..

Food and Money

Carl's hours have been cut -- now it's something like 3-4 days a week, 4 hours a day. A couple of days ago we went food shopping and I ended up having to bail him out with a dollar - he underestimated the $26 total.

We've been together 11 years now; our food philosophies are so very different, but it really only becomes apparent when the money gets tight like this.

-He's extremely underweight; has virtually no body fat. Since getting dentures last year and discovering that they don't fit properly, he's eating even less. He also smokes about a pack a day, maybe more. And yet, he's as strong as an ox. When we moved to NYC for a year, he moved most of our furniture up 3 flights of stairs to our ancient apartment, most of the time with a Marlboro clenched in his teeth.

And, he eats Little Debbies like they're going out of style.

-I, on the other hand, continue to pack on the pounds, mainly due to lack of exercise, since I'm not a big eater. I think I have a condition called myoadenylate deaminase deficiency, but have never taken the time to have it diagnosed or to invest in a supplement. That's for another day. Honest!

-Carl was raised in a household with six siblings and one working mom. They often went to school with their shoes duct-taped together. I don't think any of the kids finished high school. So we're not talking about a worldly bunch. Very salt-of-the-earth, very meat and potatoes. The type of mentality that says "Well, we're not officially poor because we can still afford to put meat on the table."

Carl is completely entrenched in that mindset. Any time I sit down to a meal that does not include meat (such as a spinach omelet or a cheese sandwich, or baked squash...) he'll look at my plate and say "No meat?" In our 11 years together, the one and ONLY area in which I've had the tiniest influence on him is in the area of flavorings. I can't count the number of times I will reach for the sage, or rosemary, or vinegar, only to have him say "Momma never put that stuff on anything...she worked 10 hours a day and raised six kids; she didn't have the time or the money for anything more than salt and pepper." But he doesn't complain about it anymore, even when I reach for the garlic. He still finds it odd that I use more than one pan and one spoon when making anything; he complains that I "mess up" his kitchen when I experiment, so most of the time I stay out of the kitchen (and on the computer) and he takes care of meals.

I was raised differently. My parents weren't rich or worldly by any stretch, and Dad was also a high school dropout, but they had lived together in NYC for a number of years before I came along, and made it their business to learn about various types of cuisine. Back in the 1960s, I stood out among my classmates because I knew the difference between Moo Goo Gai Pan and Baked Clams Oreganato. We went out to eat fairly often. Once my parents got into a loud argument with an obnoxious waitress in a diner we liked, who insisted that a seven-year-old (meaning me) would not eat brook trout and should order from the kids' menu. I not only got my fish, I ate it right down to the bone. She grudgingly gave me a lollipop (a green, broken one) and grumbled something about me being "spoiled." In my teens I subscribed to Gourmet magazine and liked to peruse cookbooks. I didn't cook much; just found food to be an interesting subject.

I like a steak as much as anyone, but could be a vegetarian if I needed to. I am not the least bit fussy about any food. Store brands, for the most part, are just as good as national -- another area where Carl and I differ. He thinks most vegetables are alien invaders from another planet, mushrooms in particular, and the ones he likes, he prefers southern style: boiled to oblivion with some sort of pork flavoring. One of the few instances where I will say "yuk." In fact, I've learned that when Carl mentions "vegetables," he exclusively means the kind you need a can opener to get to. If I'm talking about fresh veggies (the healthier type), I always have to say "produce."

Carl believes in a full, sit-down meal, with a beginning, a middle and an end. I will randomly graze -- heat up a can of green beans, throw a pat of butter on it, and call it a meal...then an hour or so later decide I'd like an egg. To me, food is food. I eat because I have to; try to make semi-healthy decisions, and then get back to the computer. That's why, when he says "There's nothing to eat in the house," I'm silently thinking, Whatchoo talkin' 'bout, Willis? There's pasta [which he hates, more on that later], rice, canned soup, plenty of canned veggies, frozen stuff that's open [another taboo with Carl: once it's been opened, he won't touch it a second time. It falls to me to make all-gone with it].

So, when we got to the grocery store the other night, his first stop was the frozen food aisle. Stouffer's, Marie Callenders, Swanson Hungry Man. And here we are with $25 to spare. I made a snap decision: I told him to get whatever he wanted and not to worry about me, then picked out one large potato, a few cans of store-brand soup, and my one indulgence: a can of Underwood turkey spread, which is apparently a new product. Carl ended up having a bowl of cereal for dinner and the turkey spread the night after that.

It irks me that veggies are now so damn expensive. My mom used to give me a bowl of green peppers, carrots & celery to eat while I read in bed at night. She cut and peeled the carrots herself, by the way -- they didn't have the pre-packaged stuff back then.

In the two years between divorcing Doug and meeting Carl, I fell into the classic single-mom eating pattern: Pasta, ramen noodles and processed stuff. I didn't even think about what I was feeding Wally. As long as he had something to eat, I figured everything was fine. We both liked pasta. So a couple of weeks after Carl and I started keeping steady company he came over for dinner and asked what we were having. As soon as I said "pasta," his eyes rolled, and I suddenly realized that yes, I was serving pasta in some form or another nearly every night. I didn't mind him pointing this out to me. But now, it seems the shoe is on the other foot, because if we're not having meat loaf, it's hamburger helper, or quarter pounders from Mickey-D's, or his favorite rice & hamburger concoction...he says he doesn't like chicken very much; he no longer cares much for pork. It all seems to have narrowed down to hamburger at least 3x a week. Seafood occasionally -- not fish, God forbid, unless it's beer-battered, and shrimp almost anytime.

Side note: To Carl, "pasta" does not include spaghetti. Spaghetti is fine; he just doesn't like ziti, rigatoni, spirals, bowties or other shapes. Go figure. If I ever suggested "couscous," he'd probably either burst out laughing or call 911.

So I guess the point of this rambling monologue is, I'm trying to figure out a workable strategy to eat healthy and save money. With the huge differences between Carl's eating habits and mine, it isn't going to be easy.

~I've edited this thing at least a dozen times since starting it Friday morning. New thoughts keep popping in. Click Here to Read More..

Wally's Back

My DS called this evening, in a much more conciliatory mood than he's been in since late May. While he's not exactly Mr. Warmth, at least he didn't swear at me or slam the phone in my ear.

Carl, of course, doesn't consider this good news because he once again has competition for my care and attention ... but a Quarter Pounder With Cheese seems to have soothed his mood for now. Click Here to Read More..

I Had Almost Forgotten

Carl came home from work early, having been slightly injured in a mishap. Yes, it's a legitimate, visible injury. This is an improvement over previous occurrences, where on his first day back at work after two days off he'd be almost frantic to find some reason not to go in. Ever since I've known him, the first day back at work has been the day when he's most likely to get up feeling sick, or to spend an hour at work and then go home not feeling well. Re-entry after 2 days off is really, really difficult for him.

Today was the first time in a long time he'd come home early on the first day; hope he's not getting back into that habit. The last place he worked, it was almost a weekly thing. Click Here to Read More..

The Threshold of Adversity

Quick reference:
Wally's my son.
Doug is his father (my ex)
Carl is my husband now.
That's all you get.
---
In the midst of all the current drama with Doug & Wally, I've gained an even sharper insight into Doug.

Of the three of us, Wally for certain has come closest to experiencing true adversity. He had to live in his car for a couple of weeks. He was injured in a car wreck and hospitalized with salmonella some years back. And, most obviously, he's experienced the divorce of his parents. Add to that his level of stress at age 18 and I'd definitely give him the highest score for true adversity.

Neither Doug nor I had parents who divorced. However, I lived through 22 years of violence and alcoholic chaos in my formative years and have struggled monetarily.

For a very long time, I was convinced that my childhood was the definition of "dysfunctional." I've gradually come to understand that it wasn't a perfect existence, but by and large, my parents were decent folks with redeeming qualities, and things could have been a great deal worse. My parents shielded me from a lot of common realities of life, the main one being money. As the cliche goes, we were poor, but I didn't know it. At least not until maybe the last couple of years of high school.

Doug had two parents who were absolutely nuts about each other. They were kind toward Doug and his brother Frank -- not indulgent, but certainly not hostile or malicious. Those people just didn't know the meaning of, well, mean. It wasn't in their nature. But at worst, they included Frank, the first-born, in their little circle, and when Doug came along it was sort of a "been there/done that" experience for them. Or to put it a different way, Frank was The Heir. Doug was The Spare. It wasn't glaringly apparent to the casual observer, but Doug was treated as a fairly limp second to Frank. I witnessed this a few times myself, in the way his parents reacted when there was a dilemma. Anything Frank suggested was greeted with smiles and receptive attitudes, while Doug's ideas were looked upon with skepticism. As Doug tells it, Frank got into a bit of trouble in his teens and the parents remained determinedly oblivious to all of it ... only to become belatedly suspicious once Doug reached that age, and begin scrutinizing everything he did, even when he was a young Mr. Clean. Both brothers were pretty bright, but as different as two people could be. Frank was a hippie; Doug was a yuppie, right from the get-go. Frank was, and still is, quite non-materialistic. Doug, however, was IMO hard-wired to lust after money and to take the Scarlett O'Hara attitude that money is the only thing you can depend upon in this world.

Side note: I've been keeping a running list of traits held in common by Doug and my mother -- there are over a dozen of them, and this "money is the only thing that matters in this world" is yet another sentiment that they seem to have shared.

So Doug grew up with the sneaking suspicion that he wasn't loved much for himself. He was the odd man out, physically, in his family, looking like some of his mother's relatives, but not much like his mother, father or brother. He would often bitterly recount how his parents would leave him to get to and from sporting events on his own, either by bus or on foot if he didn't have bus fare, in the dead of winter. His mother had a falling-out with her mother and sisters. Not a violent one, just a decision to avoid each other as much as possible. Doug thought this, too, was some sort of psychic nightmare.

But in truth, he didn't understand real adversity. The family was never anywhere near poor. I applaud Doug and his parents for having what appears to be a natural, Depression-era sense of thrift and money-management. My parents did not have this. I've had to learn it very much the hard way, and have to admit that rather than graduating from The School of Hard Knocks, I've been left back a few times. Right now I'm still in the Remedial program.

I take it somewhat in stride when the money falls short. Since the divorce, I haven't lived in anything approaching an upscale environment. Possibly the last place we lived would be termed lower-middle class, while this neighborhood and others over the last 13 years would be "upper-lower class," with a more intense police presence and an aura of seediness.

The thing about Doug that led to this current battle is, he's been whining his head off about money, and I hear echoes of the guy I was married to for 13 years -- wailing about his idea of poverty, all the while I very much doubt he's ever seen dollar figures in red in his personal ledger. And then I shared my e-mail back to him with the same people he originally wrote to, and he's just outraged. He has enlisted Wally in his efforts to condemn my "bad manners."

In my experience, bad manners take the form of rocks thrown through windows.

Doug just doesn't get it. His threshold of adversity is so low, it's laughable.

Wally is showing tendencies toward ruthlessness, but at least I understand where it comes from. His aforementioned experience with true adversity has brought him out of it with no intentions of living his life on the edge of disaster, and preferring not to have anyone around him (such as his mama) that would tolerate living in such a state.

Adding Carl into the mix, as much adversity as Wally has seen, Carl beats him by many a mile. As I've written here more than once, his family was truly poor. Single mom, six kids, one bathroom, clothes donated or patched (with duct tape in the case of their shoes).

As for me, I don't know whether I'm "complacent," as Doug describes me, or just sufficiently at peace with my place in the world not to frantically fight to attain higher ground. Click Here to Read More..

The Continung Saga of Wally's Car

After several months of paralysis, I decided on a course of action regarding Wally's car.

I mentioned this in my long posts about Wally in Feb and March, but there's this car sitting in the parking lot of a gas station many hundreds of miles away from where I live - I think it has a tarp over it but can't recall. All 4 tires are flat, and one of the windows doesn't work.

It's the car I bought for him about a year ago, which has been sitting at that gas station for about 6 or 7 months now. When I say "bought," I mean I signed the agreement to pay for it in installments.

The warranty coverage ends at the close of this month and I don't have the funds to renew it, even for 3 months. I've sent the gas station guy a certified letter informing him that I will pay only the repair charges that I previously agreed to, which come to $250 ($150 of which I've already paid). All he had to do was call the warranty company -- an (800) number, for Pete's sake. But he never did. Why, I have no idea. Perhaps he was holding out for the other $100. The guy who sold me the car thinks he's holding out so he can slap somebody with a mechanic's lien. Frankly my dear, I don't give a shite. The only thing I can afford to do right now is keep making those little bitty weekly payments until I get it done, and that should take less than 4 months. Then I'll get the title, and I don't know what will come next. But at least I'm doing something. If the moron wants to take me to small claims court somewhere down the line, I sez, Bring it On!!!

In other car news, Carl got a mailing from AARP, describing their auto club coverage, which is a lot cheaper than Triple-A. My AAA expires at the end of this month also and I think I'll make the switch. My warehouse club membership expires also. I really have to renew that.
Click Here to Read More..

I am a liar

In yesterday's post I said I had "no idea" what the problem is, and of course that's a dirty lie. I know perfectly well what the problem is.

Every time Carl or Wally gets some emotional twitch they go and make some drastic change in their lives that ends up COSTING ME MONEY!!!

• 1999: Carl and I visit NYC. Carl's never been there; he is in awe and sees muchos opportunidades for employment in his field. Conclusion: We have to move to NY ASAP. Sure, sez me. I always wanted to live there anyway. So I quit a nice, secure, good-paying job and sell the condo that I could actually afford, and pack up like a Gypsy and move to NYC. Get an apartment that costs me a ridiculous amount per month, take a job I hate, and meanwhile, Carl never gets off the ground with this dream job he thinks he'll get. He can never see past the short-term. The extremely short-term. As in, somebody pisses him off today, and he's outa there. At least that's what he did in NY. I suppose that would have been a good time to break off the marriage altogether, but having just been through a divorce a few years before, I couldn't get my head around doing that again.
  
• Similar impulse a year later. Carl is miserable at work, as am I. The only one of us who was happy was Wally. But Carl gets upset because someone makes a disparaging remark about the place we moved from. He misses his family - the one that makes him miserable. At any rate, we buy a house "back home" and move there a year after moving to NYC. I didn't have a job; I didn't even have the reasonably nice car I'd sold before moving to NY. I finally found a used one I could barely afford and it lasted three and a half years before finally dying. I was so despondent during the first month or two, I began to think about killing myself.
  
• On 9/11 I was at least working. It was a temp job but permanent hire was a certainty. But I was very preoccupied. Wonder why? So I applied myself very little to my job, even after getting the permanent gig. My performance was truly crappy and I got fired. It was the first time in my life that had ever happened. Not the first time I'd left a job with less than favorable reviews, but certainly the first time I'd been flat-out fired. That led to more than a year of temp work, and it wasn't always steady. Perhaps coincidentally, perhaps not, later in the year I ditched religion and things started looking up the tiniest bit. I got a long-term temp job that did me pretty well. But it wasn't the answer to everything. The depression started to lift just enough to get me out there on the job hunt again. Finally - a good break, and that led to the job I had from '03 to '06. Great benefits (even though I had to ultimately take Carl off my coverage because the minute I got insurance coverage he started having his phantom stomach and chest pains that no doctor could ever find a diagnosis for).
  
• Since I've known Carl, he's worked for: OHH, S&S, TB, RHG, TMG, CPRV, PH, a couple of other places in NYC, back to RHG, GC, BSP, CCD and now CB. That's at least 14 different jobs, and we've only been together for 10 years. My track record isn't great either: JRA when we met, then BHRV, BHRNP, CPUN, temp jobs, PST, PH and the place where I am now.
  
• Together, we've lived in 4 different places. If it weren't for Carl, most likely I'd have stayed in the condo and might even still be there, who knows? The BHRV job might or might not have lasted. I can't blame Carl - entirely - for my less than stellar work ethic over the years. But without some of the strife between him & Wally, and the money worries, I might possibly have been less preoccupied and scattered, and may have done a better job. Thank the ordered universe I've finally gotten it together to the point where I'm not late for work all the time and have the ability to assess the consequences of an action before I commit to it.
  
• But it's still difficult to buckle down and move ahead because of all these constant changes that cost me money.
  
• As for Wally, I can't blame him directly for a lot of that. Much of the situation we're in right now is because of Doug. Doug, who kicked Wally out when he could have hung in for another year or two until Wally finished high school. But no, he sent Wally back to Carl and me, just as things were going pretty well. Then he cuts off the child support, which I don't have the time or energy to go after. And at about the same time, Carl gets another of his "let's move to a better place" impulses, and as usual, I go along. I don't regret moving to this town. It's much better suited to me; I feel like I've flourished, at least socially. I like the job I do and the company I work for. But bottom line, we should be doing better, rather than struggling. We wouldn't be struggling so much if Carl had just behaved like a grownup. He was making good money and all he had to do was ignore the owner and the manager of the company. He knows he had a good thing going and was better off there, but doesn't want to admit it yet. True, the place could go under; they were in trouble with regard to taxes and other issues, but other than a late paycheck once in awhile, that didn't affect Carl directly. Week to week, he made GOOD money. True, the place he's at now has benefits. But here's the thing: Carl NEVER stays in one place long enough to make insurance a reality. He's had insurance twice and either dropped the coverage or quit the job shortly after getting it. If he dies, I'll have to go to his family to afford the funeral. If something happens to me, Carl and Wally will be substantially enriched. Of course, Wally would blow the money immediately; Carl would save it but not find any way to invest or supplement it.
  

Enough bitching (for now, anyway...). I have decided, while writing this, that I am going to do one thing. I'm going to hand Carl the bill for the carpeting at the old house, the carpeting we bought to make the house sellable, and tell him I want him to take care of it, and I don't care how he does it. I just want it done. Maybe it will spur him to do something about his income. Click Here to Read More..

Burnout? Fatigue? Depression? Whaaaaat?

I have no idea what the problem is, so don't even ask. All I know is, I feel less buoyant than I did a year ago. Last year was such a GOOD year, and almost as soon as this one started, I felt things going downhill.

Mainly it's the money (or lack thereof). I have been so drained, so sapped, mainly by Wally, since last Memorial Day. It's been one thing after another.

Now Carl has this new job, and OF COURSE he's making much less money. I haven't yet heard him say he regrets changing jobs. I know the last place was awful. He's faced with a choice: Endure interpersonal strife and a feeling of being beaten about the head daily while still making more money than ever in his life, vs. working in a place where co-workers help each other out, treat each other with respect, and the corporation has a structure ... all the while making much less money (and getting fewer breaks, which leaves him feeling very exhausted at day's end). At least he understands the dilemma. He always asks me, "Would you be mad at me if I got a different job?" I always say no. It's his life. Just as I wouldn't want him to be overbearing with me about my life choices. And he isn't -- he puts up with my never-ending whirwind of social activities. I know he wishes I'd go back to the way things used to be, where I'd get off work at 3:30, get home by 4, change into pajamas and just sit around until it was time for bed.

I still get such a kick out of this small city we live in. I love how you can walk into a restaurant or store and see people you actually know. I love how you can turn on the TV and see people you know on the news. I can't say why exactly, but it's so different from other places I've lived.

But -- this year, I find myself getting little flurries in my stomach whenever a new situation comes up. I'm seeing the negative in things a lot more. Last year I bought 3 new pairs of shoes all at the same time, something I'd never done before. I bought capris, tops, jewelry and makeup. Now I look forward with dread to going shopping. I guess because the money is so tight. And I owe so many people!

And I do worry about this neighborhood. There's been an increase in crime. We've been hit something like 4 separate times, just property crime but still. Too many druggies with guns around here.

Church is great, but I'm starting to see what one of the guys was saying about burnout. A year ago, no way.

I'm needing to buy myself a weekly-format calendar instead of the little monthly one I have now.

Underneath it all is money - that sense of doom, like the whole house of cards is going to come tumbling down.

I know there's a remedy for it, and it's ENTIRELY about attitude. Yes, my claim to fame on this blog is having a bad one, and I play it up for laughs, really. However, in the last couple of years, I've learned ways to really banish negativity and force through a positive affirming mindset. And it really does work. Even when I work on it for a minute at a time, I see instant results.

This too shall pass. Things will be good again, and meanwhile, I can build on what I know. Click Here to Read More..

Home again. Home. AGAIN.

I got up at 6am to drive Carl to work. The buses don't start running until noonish and why call a cab when I'm here. Dropped him off and went home. I had no intention of going back to bed -- it was an hour and a half or so before it was time to get ready for church, and I had some things to catch up on from last week. Got settled, started my work, and then the phone rang.

It was Carl.

"They had too many people in, so they asked me if I wanted the day off. Come get me?"

OH, I was mad, on so many levels. This is the second Sunday in a row he's taken off, both times for stupid reasons. Why couldn't he have said no when they asked him if he wanted the day off? And of course, nothing I have to do at home is important, all I have to do all day is run my ass back and forth for him. Just so he can come home, take out his dentures, throw on his robe & pj's and lounge in front of the tv, taking occasional breaks for coffee and smokes? And naps, of course. Mustn't forget the naps. And of course, if I should happen to vary MY schedule and be off during the day, oh, that's different. I'm invading his fucking precious space and disrupting his routine. But somehow it's supposed to be a great treat for him to be hanging around the house cramping my style when all I want is a day to myself when I'm not feeling like shit. And then his "normal" weekend is tomorrow and Tuesday anyway. He offered to switch with anyone who wanted the day off on Tuesday, but no one will take him up on it. Nobody ever does. I now get paid for days off, provided I don't take more than 5 and provided I announce them in advance. But he doesn't get paid unless he works. I'm so sick of being poor. But every time I talk about getting a second job, he protests. "I don't see enough of you," he says.

I don't share the sentiment.

So, how do I show my wrath? Well, first I almost wrecked the car going way too fast on the interstate when it had started to pour rain. I slowed down ... When I picked His Highness up I demanded that he put gas in the car, since it had already started getting low with all these trips I've been making for him. Then he asked me what I wanted for Mother's Day and instead of giving him the usual "Oh, I don't care..." crap, I said "I need money. Put some in my account." He agreed readily. Good. But I still ought to kick his ass out once and for all. One day I believe I will.

Mother FUCKING slacker.

My father NEVER missed a day of work in 25 years. Not even when he'd spent the entire weekend getting shitfaced. Click Here to Read More..

Mah Weekend

90% great.

I found the campground Friday evening with a minimum of trouble, and before the sun went down. Dinner was very welcome and extremely good. Nice mellow time around the campfire, complete with guitar and harmonica.

Went on a nature hike Saturday with 5 others. Really a beautiful place, and the guy who led us is an expert on birds so he was able to identify the calls of several species. I never knew there were so many different varieties of warbler. We saw deer, wild turkeys and people rapelling off cliffsides.

It was a fairly strenuous walk and went on for about 3 hours. My body has inefficient oxygen exchange, so prolonged exertion leaves me way out of breath. I was fine until really just the last leg of the walk, where I found myself gasping. Fortunately, I recovered without anyone noticing and asking if I was okay. However, my right leg has been on fire ever since then, from the hip all the way down to mid-calf. I've had to adjust to a different sleeping position because it's the only one that doesn't hurt. Took 4 Advil upon returning, followed by a brief nap. Too many people going in and out, slamming the squeaky doors to really sleep, but it did help.

Pleasant afternoon and evening. Very quiet all around because there was NO cell phone service or internet available. The place isn't terribly far from home, really just 2 counties, but once you get about 25-30 miles from town, cell service disappears. Our lodge had a pay phone but it didn't work. That is, until 2:30 or 3:00 am Sunday, when the damn thing rang twice, waking us up. Having to make myself fall asleep 3 different times did not make me a "happy camper" at breakfast. But gradually things got better.

The Tire was low as I left home and still looked low even after I put air in it. Saturday it looked even lower but still driveable; this morning it was flat as a pancake. A team of 4 guys got the tire changed, so that was OK.

When I got back in cell range I played all the messages Carl had left. We had agreed that I'd call the restaurant since he works early hours, and hopefully be able to pick him up. When I called, I got a manager, who asked if I was Carl's wife, and then proceeded to tell me that Carl had called out today, being too upset to work because he hadn't heard from me and thought I was missing.

I called home and when Carl picked up the phone, I yelled "I'M NOT DEAD!" and proceeded to explain that I was out in the wilderness where there were no phones available, and that if the shoe were on the other foot, I would have gone to work! He got defensive, but once I got home, we were happy enough to see each other so that all was forgiven.

I am SO gonna crash tonight. Click Here to Read More..

An Era is Ending

Actually, less than 2 years, but it felt like an era. Carl has gotten the job he's been after for the last month. He starts in about 10 days. Hooway.

If he doesn't sign up for the medical insurance, I may have to kill him.

[edited the next day] On the current job, he's been told not to come back next Monday -- supposedly the day he took off for the interview was a no-no ...
We'll see. There are other back-up options before he starts at the new place.

***

Two posts in one day? I'm getting BLABBERY again. The real reason for the loquacity is that it feels like Friday. One more day, one more day.

I'm in a month-long feminine theology workshop. A bunch of us femmes sat around talking about our earliest impressions of sexual issues (menstruation, relationship, childbirth, menopause, etc).

It occurs to me that EVERY WOMAN I KNOW feels she comes from a home environment where these matters were treated with secrecy and embarrassment to some degree or other. Is this inevitable, and is it universal? I would say yes, it's universal, and in some cultures it's downright pathological (FGM, for example). I think my mom wanted to pretend that it wasn't that way in our home, and I must give her credit -- she boldly went where other moms dared not go. She did the best she could, she really did.

I still haven't figured my mother out, and I suppose I never will. Click Here to Read More..

I Led Me Not into Temptation.

Very quick post for now.

I was SO tempted to call Carl at work and start talking about a story I'd heard on the radio, about how the Atlanta Braves will be disbanding because they hadn't won enough games and weren't supporting the City of Atlanta with revenues ... and how Turner Field is slated to be converted to mixed-income housing after the Braves finish their last season in 2012.

And then after he started foaming at the mouth on the floor I'd have yelled "Gotcha! April Fool!"

But I didn't.

I was good.

However, when I came home and told him what I almost but not quite did to him, he informed me that if I'd done that, he would have left work, come directly to my office and killed me on the spot. "Because," he said "you are officially sick and twisted."

We have such a sweet marriage... Click Here to Read More..

So much for the night shift

Well, to no great surprise, Carl is already home and in bed, when he was supposed to be working until the wee morning hours. He usually works 1st or 2nd shift but the schedule was changed. He's been complaining about it for days but I drove him in this afternoon so I'd have the car. He made it to almost half the shift, but then bent down to pick up something and when he straightened up he was dizzy and shaky and his pulse was sky-high. They called an ambulance right away but because it wasn't an injury, which would be covered by worker's comp, he refused it and instead let them call me. He told them he just needed to sit down for a few minutes, but they apparently wanted him out of their hair to avoid liability or whatever. I don't know what his problem is. He had a headache and didn't eat much before going in; I imagine some extra fortification might keep him on a more even keel. He just hates being there; I understand that. He's got another interview later in the week, on what would normally be his day off, but he was scheduled for that day. Again, he thinks his boss is doing it deliberately, either to provoke him into quitting or to block him from going on interviews. If he loses his job we are going to be in serious trouble. Click Here to Read More..

Oh, Carl, Wait Until You Get Home!!!

Carl got his schedule changed this week and has to work a very different shift 2x. He is so pissed. He thinks his boss deliberately changed his schedule because she got wind that he's actively looking for another job. I think he's paranoid, although granted, she is a biotch. But at any rate, he's been discouraged because first he had to delay going for an interview several times last week due to things being extremely busy where he works now, and then when he finally got over to the place, a person he didn't know blew him off by saying they weren't hiring at all. Well, today the answering machine had a message from the same place he's been trying to get hired at, and they are interested.

I wrote him a note and stuck it on the fridge for when he finally gets home.

---
Marilyn is now my next-door neighbor. She's been catty-corner from me since last May when we moved to our new office space. At first she wanted a window cubicle like mine but was afraid the windows would produce too much glare. By the time she realized she was wrong about this, it was too late. She was already ensconced in the aisle-side cube, and the IT guys were very busy with everyone else's installations, so she stayed put. But after Miss K left a couple of weeks ago, Marilyn saw her opportunity and got permission to move. Now I'm sure she'll be peeking around the dividing wall to talk to me several times a day.

Maybe she'll bypass me altogether and talk to Linda, who sits on the other side of me and is also the gabby type. Click Here to Read More..

Wants, Needs, To-Do's, Etc.

Well, here's another busy Saturday. Had the alarm set for 7, but was awake long before that. Loud thunder, loud rain (meaning there will be a lake between the front step and the car, so I'll need my trusty rain boots), cat coughing up a hairball, Carl going in and out waiting for his cab, and finally some unknown person calling at about 6am but not leaving a message. Add into the mix the normal stuff like needing to go to the bathroom, etc and there was no point waiting for 7 to come around.

So much to do today! Have to get down to the bank and close out Wally's account. Or should I say, our account -- I set it up for him, but he was under 18 so my name went on it about 2 years ago. He's been overdrawn more times than I can count. I've replaced the "divots" a couple of times, most recently this last week. I have to appear in person to close out the account and I warned him over the phone that I might be calling him "early" to get information from him if the bank requires it. Ironic: At age 18 I had a joint account with my dad because I was a minor when it was set up. He and my mom went in and took most of the money I'd saved up because they weren't able to make their mortgage payment. They just went in and took it; never gave it back, and my mom, when she got drunk and abusive, would sometimes say "You'll never get it back because you don't deserve it." Then Doug stole money from me during our marriage, and now my son is costing me money because of a joint account. I'll say one thing, Carl doesn't steal money from me. I don't have a joint account with him, because he's always let me handle the financial reins. It's too much for him to deal with. When he got his bank account, I was insistent that he NOT set it up jointly with me. I am a staunch believer in separate bank accounts for married couples. Call me a cynic, but you just can't trust anyone any more.

Have to recycle and do a spot of shopping. Play rehearsal at 4, followed by a church reception at 6 -- it's pledgy-pledgy time and I'm going to have to tell someone that my pledge for the upcoming year will be a bit over half what it was this time around. But last year Wally was living at home with no car or insurance or rent expenses. No ridiculous cell-phone excesses either. I want a pledge I can fulfill without having to drain my IRA again.

Have to also do the minutes from last Saturday (if I want an excuse, I can always say that I never got the ATTENDANCE SHEET back -- hello??? Charlotte? Irene???!), but that's a very flimsy excuse. I will get it done today.

Need to send back the bra I ordered. Do I want a larger size or something different altogether? Or maybe just the money back?

We need a refrigerator! The old, dinky one that came with this house leaks like crazy. It's awful. We can't use the vegetable bin at all; it just fills up with water.

We have to do something about our yard -- it's full of ruts where water accumulates. I almost killed myself walking across it the other day to give Paul a pint of strawberries. I wonder if it would make sense to install a deck of sorts -- like a raised walkway, even just lay down a couple of pallets -- to cover that spot where the water pools so we wouldn't have to get soaked going from the door to the car, at least until we can afford a more long-term solution such as grading the land so the water won't run this way every time.

Have to get the taxes going -- just get the forms filled in, but I want to wait to file until I've had a chance to confer with Wally when I see him about his FAFS.

I'm relieved that he'll be attending college not far from where his uncle and grandmother are. I think, though, that his college is about equidistant from here to where he is now ... just in a totally different direction.

A few days ago I was mulling over some of Carl's characteristics and came to the conclusion that some of his astrological configurations are different from what I'd been assuming all this time. Specifically, I think his rising sign is Taurus, rather than Cancer. When I put everything together that I know about him, this makes more sense. It works better in terms of the compatibility between the two of us, as well.
Click Here to Read More..

Heavy Stuff Part 2 of 2

But the problems didn't go away. Carl and I, meanwhile, were finally gaining a bit of financial ground, and had found a place, not too far from where we were, that we decided we'd like to live in. There were a few hurdles to overcome, but we felt that this move could end up being the last one for a long time.

Right around the time we made the decision and began the preparations to sell the house, I began getting e-mails from Doug. The situation with Wally had not improved. Doug was worried that the tension would kill his marriage, and he was very committed to his wife. Since I was available and obviously very fond of Wally, Doug was thinking that if things didn't get better, Wally would have to move back in with me.

The next six months were a three-ring circus. We were trying to sell the house we were in, buy a house in the other town, and prepare for the possibility of Wally coming to live with us. By this time, I was very worried about Wally, because Doug had escalated things to the point that Wally was using a prescription medication that is commonly prescribed for psychosis. He, Doug, and Doug's wife had participated in several sessions of group and individual therapy to cope with the conflicts between them. None of it seemed to do any good. Her son, by the way, had moved in with his father just before the wedding, and reportedly, he was not doing well, either. There was talk of heavy drug use.

At one point, Carl and I concluded that the move was not meant to happen, because we'd been derailed in our efforts to sell the house. We'd also been unsuccessful in negotiating the purchase of a house in the other city. It became a solid agreement that Wally would move back with us during the Christmas break in 10th grade.

I knew how miserable Wally was, having to leave the place he'd come to think of as home and move back to a home where he'd be picked on incessantly by Carl and where he'd feel completely out of place. But I was also feeling protective of Wally, half believing that Doug had backed him into a corner and put so much pressure on Wally that Wally was now half out of his mind.

We made arrangements for Wally to come and live with us, reconfiguring the spare room that was once his when he lived with us. We knew Wally’s sloppy habits hadn’t changed and were hoping to enable some improvement. Boxes began arriving from New Jersey, containing random items from Wally’s room. I didn’t know if they’d been piled in there by Wally or his father.

When Wally got off the plane, he looked like he was in shock. It was all he could do to keep from crying. I did my best to comfort & cheer him, but he was silent all the way back to the house. Finally, he let his misery out a little. The happy core of his life was not in my home or his father’s; he felt like his real self among his friends, and in school. Without those two elements, he just drifted.

At the house, we tried to establish routines and rules, though without more than one or two friends, and those living some distance away, he had little to do.

We enrolled him in school, and he did the best he could to maintain a routine. But he couldn’t get over the contrasts between the entire environment here versus what he’d gotten used to. North vs. South, English-Irish and African-American Christian versus Jewish and Italian Catholic, lower midde-class versus affluent. He hated his new school and had nothing good to say about any of it. But he did the best he could to conform to our expectations; he was so miserable and depressed, it was easier to just drag himself through the day instead of trying to assert himself.

However, as the months went by, things did change gradually. After about 2 or 3 weeks he asked me if I would mind if he stopped using the prescribed medication. I said it was up to him. He’d already cut the doses in half because a full dose made him sleepy. When he stopped taking the pills, the difference was a subtle one. There was more sarcasm, a bit more “attitude.” But it wasn’t anything radical. He was an intelligent teenager who didn’t want to be where he was.

Soon after Wally arrived, we finally got a solid offer on our house. We soon took another trip up to our prospective new home, found a house and got both transactions rolling.

We’d been through this two other times, and decided to stay put until Wally’s school year ended. The people who were buying our house certainly would have preferred to have us move sooner, but they understood what we needed and agreed.

I would so have loved to make this last move without having to uproot Wally yet again, but due to Doug’s insistence (or his wife’s) on having Wally move out of their place as soon as possible, we had no choice. So once again, we were packing his things and getting him ready for yet another school.

Wally wasn’t completely miserable because he had found a job at a store within walking distance of the house. I discovered something about my son: He had inherited some of his father’s workaholic tendencies. In the two months or so between moving here and getting the job, he had resolved that one way or another, his time with Carl and me was going to be kept to an absolute minimum, and his single purpose in life would be to move himself back to the Northeast. He did reasonably well in school, but the job became all-important. He put in for as many hours as he could, even though he wasn’t even 17 yet. Like most business owners, his manager was more than happy to accept the services of someone who was willing to work 7 days a week.

Carl and I had plenty to keep us occupied as we finalized the plans for the move, which was to take place over Memorial Day weekend. We saw very little of Wally, who went directly from school to work, calling me at the end of the work day to pick him up. We noted with some dismay that his room was the usual chaos – he had done nothing to pack or organize, and all of that was left to us. At one point, we gave him a hard time about it, and he made no bones about telling us that the only thing he cared about was making enough money to save up and go back up north. He worked through the weekend, and I had to take time from setting things up in the new place to make the 150-mile drive to get him from work and bring him to our new home.

He was only with us for two weeks; he had saved up enough money to spend the summer back with his friends, and he did. And so we had a bit of breathing space in setting up the new house, finding ourselves jobs and relaxing before Wally came back to start his junior year of high school.

After a fairly peaceful, quiet summer, the pace picked up when Wally returned. We soon learned that our new city had a school system in chaos. Most parents who could afford it put their kids into private school. This was something completely new to Carl, to Wally, and to me: None of us had ever known anything but public schools. We looked at our choices and reluctantly decided to let Wally continue at the school he’d been assigned to. He was clearly not happy, but he was more determined than ever that this would be the last year he spent with us; his goals were to get a job and head back north for his senior year.

The fall was rough; he and Carl got along even worse than they had before. Carl was protective of this new house we’d moved into. He didn’t want anything messed up, and Wally was a professional messer-upper. I’m sure that much of Wally’s piggy habits were his way of expressing his contempt for Carl and for me, to a lesser extent. He refused to do chores and basically just wanted to stay in his room unless he wanted something from me. He ate in his room and left used forks, dishes and cups there. Carl would go in there regularly and “inspect,” which infuriated Wally. Their constant bickering left me so drained and defeated, that often I would come home from work and get into bed, where I would stay, reading, with the door closed, in order to avoid having to witness any of it. On two separate occasions, Carl provoked Wally to the point that Wally took his fist and pounded large holes in our walls. Spackling only covered them slightly. Carl called the police, but the officer had little sympathy for Carl. There was now a considerable amount of tension between Carl and me.

After the last incident, it seemed like a good idea for Wally and me to get out of town for a few days. We went to visit my best friend and her husband, who lived in a rural part of the Midwest. I was interested to see how Wally would respond to this type of quiet, peaceful environment. It wasn’t upscale or the opposite; it was an atmosphere he’d never had the opportunity to experience. We had a good time for three and a half days; Wally seemed to enjoy the new sights and sounds and this did my heart good.

My friend’s husband invited Wally to go out and target-shoot, which rural folks do on a regular basis. They had enough land to do this safely.

It was a beautiful late-fall day. We had planned to go back home that afternoon, but agreed to stay an extra day so we could meet some of my friend’s neighbors. Ultimately, I wished I’d stuck to the original schedule. The day (and the trip) ended badly. My friend’s husband came back to the house with Wally clinging to his shoulders. He’d managed to shoot himself in the foot with a .22 pistol. Wally could never adequately explain how he’d done it. It seemed he was just “zoning out” as he would sometimes do, and with the gun in his hand and his finger on the trigger, he gave it a squeeze and ended up with a bullet embedded in the bone.

We spent the next several hours at the hospital; they decided not to surgically remove the bullet for a number of reasons. It would have been a complicated and painful procedure; we were hundreds of miles from home and the doctors felt such a decision should be made there; I also didn’t have much insurance beyond inpatient, since I was still working temp.

Once again, I found myself in a confused haze, back in the “one step at a time” mode. Early the next morning we departed, with Wally propped in the back of my SUV, sleeping most of the way, taking painkillers. I met up with my sister-in-law coming back from her own visit to a friend and we were able to keep each other company via cell phone for most of the trip.

I never asked Doug for any money to defray Wally’s medical expenses, but Doug suddenly assumed the role of protective, righteous parent and threatened to have my friends arrested or sued for negligence. I had no intention of getting them into any trouble, and as a result, Doug cut off the minimally adequate child support payments he’d been sending. He and I had never had a formal support agreement, and therefore it was difficult if not impossible to go through legal channels to get any money from him.

I was able to meet the medical expenses by taking a withdrawal from my IRA. A doctor categorically advised Wally not to opt for surgery: the bullet was firmly embedded and not causing any ongoing problems. Surgery would endanger blood vessels, nerves and bone and create an infection risk. After two months, Wally didn’t even limp anymore, so we were all in agreement that he got off very lucky. But it was just another example of Wally’s occasionally erratic and inexplicable behavior. I found myself wondering if the prescription he’d brought down with him might have prevented this episode, but Wally was utterly resistant at considering going back on those meds.

It took him a surprisingly long time to find a job; he was already into the second semester of the term when something finally came up. I was willing to pick him up late at night when he finished. He still managed to keep up his grades, and that was enough to tell me that the school offered no academic challenges. His year living here cemented his impressions that the South was not for him. One thing I was able to offer him was driving instruction, and he did pretty well with that. In due time, he got his license.

Once he got the job, things moved very fast. Electronic gadgets were kind of an obsession with Wally. He always had his eye on a “better” cell phone, iPod, stereo system. But the cell phone and iPods frequently got lost or broken. As a rule, he didn’t take care of things. He seemed to think everything was disposable. Enjoy it for awhile, but if it gets dirty or broken, you toss it out and get something better. Still, I knew he needed to keep in touch with people, so I got him a nice cell phone and put him on my plan.

Soon, the school year was nearly over and so was the term of his learner’s permit. He was eager to get his license, and then came the time to find him a car. He wasn’t sure how he was going to handle the everyday details of living up North, but he was going to do it one way or the other. There was no point in trying to stop him. He would be turning 18 in just a few months.

He had some money saved up and began inquiring about rooms for rent. We found him a used car at a dealership where you made weekly payments and if you fell behind, the engine was coded not to start. Wally made the down payment and I agreed to make the weeklies for about two years. However, the car was in bad shape, beyond what we were aware. It malfunctioned almost immediately, delaying Wally’s departure for over a week.

But depart, he did, in the usual rush. I saw him at lunch; we hugged goodbye; I went back to work and by the time I got home, he was gone.

A few weeks later I drove up to see him and bring whatever large possessions he’d left behind. He had gotten a rented room and was still looking for work, but he still had his savings.

That fall, the car died; his father leased him a better one and I agreed to pay for the insurance, which was much steeper than what I’d been paying on the policy we got him down here. He started school, found a job, and was relatively stable, but his decisions were still costing me quite a bit of money. The new cell phone broke, but not before he rang up more than $180 in extra calls. So I was paying retroactively for the calls and monthly service on a phone that no longer existed, with a 2-year contract that could only be cancelled with another large outlay. My own finances began to edge into the scarcity zone and were only rescued by a fortuitous year-end bonus at work and another withdrawal from my retirement funds.

But there was more bad news, which brings us about up to where we are now. Wally lost his job. He moved from the first boarding house into another less expensive one, but could not make the rent payments and began making excuses. He did not have a formal lease and the landlord played hardball, keeping his possessions as collateral until he could pay. The options, as Doug pointed out to him, were a) drop out of school and work full time; b) move back down south, or c) move in with Doug, who had moved from the previous home to another state around the time that Wally moved back in with us two years previously. Wally rejected every one of these … and now he’s homeless, living in his car. I have no idea what he’s going to do . The part of the country where he lives has been swept by the serial snowstorms that have been in the news.

And that’s the story of my son. I feel utterly helpless when it comes to Wally, and feel like a dismal failure as a parent.

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Heavy Stuff, Part 1

Okay, after more than 2 years of toodly-doodling my way through this blog, I am ready to sit down and unburden myself about the main problem in my life. People on MySpace and LJ know who I am, but I don't think anyone here does, so it feels more anonymous and safe.

It's my son. "Wally" is 18, and I can't get over the incredible contrast between his life and mine when I was that age. We're roughly 31 years apart in age. Whereas, I lived with my parents (in the same house, mainly with the same furniture!) for nearly 23 years, he has bounced between his father and me; he's lived in 4 states, 4 different places in one state, and is currently homeless in another.

He hasn't finished high school yet. He is on his own, trying to finish and get to college. My heart just aches for him, but I can't think of anything really concrete that I can do for him, other than just be there when he calls; listen, and try to come up with some ideas for him.

Here's a rough chronology.

He was the most wonderful, fantastic baby who ever lived. Okay, I'm his mom and I'm biased, but he really, truly was incredible. He was lovely to look at, he smiled and laughed and just brought a lot of joy to my life, his father's, his grandmother's, and pretty much anyone who met him. I was in awe of him.

Problems? For his first 2 months or so, he had pretty bad colic, but I had to have surgery not long after he was born, necessitating a switch from nursing to bottle-feeding. The more dense formula seemed to satisfy his hunger better -- he was a big baby, over 9 lbs. -- and definitely calmed him down.

We always worried about him, as parents do. He didn't get his first tooth until he was more than a year old. He started trying to walk close to a year, but didn't really "take off" until he was 15 months old. I was a slow walker too -- 18 months -- but then, I was a preemie. I think he was average for toilet training -- 2 years, 9 months -- but there were some odd glitches, which I'll get to later.

I think his father and I put a lot of pressure on him in the preschool years. His father had this odd notion that school was really just for socialization, and that academic skills needed to be taught by parents. So if he couldn't read by age 4, it was the end of the world. I'm sure he sensed this pressure.

He used "w" for "r" and "l" for a long time, but, as was very typical of him, he somehow just figured out the right way to pronounce things on his own, in his own time.

Last of all, he sucked his thumb until he was almost 11. This one especially gave his father fits. He tried wrapping gauze and adhesive tape around Wally's thumb to break him of the habit, but Wally was in preschool and we got some veiled threats from the caregivers that they might report this as abuse if we didn't ease off. So Wally kept sucking that thumb for years ... and then one day he simply stopped.

Right up until he left home at age 17 (and who knows, possibly still), Wally had encopresis. He would hold it in for days sometimes, until he "had an accident." I remember spending a lot of time washing his underwear in hot water with bleach. Then he'd decide to "go" at odd times. He'd wait until we were visiting a neighbor, then go into their bathroom, lock himself in, and stay there for the better part of an hour. Inevitably, he'd clog up the toilet, to my tremendous embarrassment. Sometimes he'd clog our toilet too. The last episode was a few months before he left home. I got a call at work -- "Hey mom, both toilets are clogged. I've been using the plunger but nothing works." That time, the plumber cost me 80 bucks.

All of these things were happening while his father and I were still together. We didn't fight in any kind of loud way (like my parents), and there really wasn't too much tension, at least until Wally was around 4. Then things started changing; there was a lot of stress. But the thumb-sucking and encopresis were already present. For these things, I cannot blame the divorce.

Wally went through something of a bad patch when he was about 4 or 5. His father and I split when he was 5 and a half. The break came boiling up, seemingly out of nowhere. I gave in on a lot of things, mainly because I wanted to keep the atmosphere calm for Wally and not frighten him. But by that time, Wally was demonstrating traits that he'd carry with him right into young adulthood.

I guess Wally can best be described as passive-aggressive. His shortcomings will sneak up on people, and I suspect there's a strong element of self-sabotage in him. His personality is impeccable. He has a ready smile, gorgeous eyes, a very adult-like demeanor (he's always had that -- people were remarking on it when he was only a toddler), and a lot of very obvious intelligence. But just when everyone's relaxing, feeling confident in Wally, he will "pull something." People will then look twice at him, with that unmistakable glint of doubt in their eyes. When he was 5 or 6, he decided one of his friends wasn't "cool" enough for him, and drove her away in tears. I'm surprised the girl's mother wanted to speak to me after that. It was inevitable that people would start out giving Wally an A+ in terms of personality, and gradually, it would go down to a C or a D. Once we went to a store and he smiled at the cashier. She smiled back, and then Wally decided to put on a mean face. The cashier actually looked frightened. Other times, Wally would start repeating words at random. We were in a restaurant, seated near an old couple, and he started chanting "Mee-maw." It was in the south, and that's what grandmothers are often called. It wasn't something he ever called his own grandmother -- he just seemed to pick the right set of syllables out of the air that would be the most disruptive at that moment. 95 percent of the time, though, he was very well behaved in public. That's why episodes like that were so disturbing. You could never plan for them, or figure out where they came from.

No question, he had a turbulent childhood. After the divorce, I tried to keep things light, and for awhile it worked, mostly. We moved into an apartment complex and made friends pretty quickly. It was right at the beginning of the summer, and we had a pool to swim in and new places to explore. The apartment was small, but our house had been huge, and Wally often lost me in it. I felt good that he could always walk around the corner and find me in the next room.

But around the time he turned 6, just starting kindergarten, his closest friend DJ's parents also split. That one was traumatic: a cheating husband, a murderously jealous wife, threats, hostility, open warfare. Everything I'd tried to shield him from, was getting thrown right into his face with no warning. Suddenly, he was "grown up" enough to understand everything that was going on and it hit him hard. His father was getting his life together and wasn't even sure he wouldn't move out of state, so he put a deliberate distance between him and Wally, only seeing him for occasional visits. And very soon after that, he met the new Mrs. Wally liked her just fine, which was a relief. She was a pretty nice person with her own son, a few years older than Wally. Things were reasonably peaceful. Wally adapted to all the changes -- new kindergarten, new after-school, Mom's new job, and soon, a new and bigger home when I bought a condo.

At this point, Wally was in first and second grade. Once we went to the school grounds a week or two before it opened so he could ride his bike around the paths and check the place out. When he was out of my sight for about 5 minutes I went looking for him and discovered he had joined up with two boys who were busy throwing rocks at the cafeteria windows!

From the age of 2 or so, Wally was a nut for clothes. He was very particular about which shoes he wore, and would refuse to wear a pair he didn't like, even if I'd spent a lot of money on them. After the divorce, we found ourselves living always in a poor part of town, but sending Wally to school in a neighborhood full of affluent people. Later in the school year, when it became obvious that I didn't make enough money to buy him all the cool clothes the other kids wore, Wally began using the Lost & Found as his own personal thrift shop. When one kid challenged him that he was wearing a stolen jacket, I found out what he was doing and put a stop to it. But quite often, classmates would invite him out, and if I gave Wally ten dollars, he would end up needing 20 to keep up with the other kids, and invariably someone else's parents would end up paying for it. Even at an early age, Wally would keep this from me. When I found out and tried to pay the parents back, they would tactfully refuse, saying it was worth it to have Wally's company. When Wally wanted to make a good impression on someone, he could do so very easily.

Things went on reasonably well until just before Wally's 8th birthday, when I happened to meet a man who lived in our condo complex. The attraction was immediate and mutual. We got engaged less than 3 weeks after we met, and were married 5 months later.

"Carl" and I are still happily married, 10 years later, but when it came to Wally, it was a rough go. Those were the years when Dr. Laura was at her peak of fame, and you know I suffered with guilt for having brought the complications of a step-parent into Wally's life. Especially when it became obvious that the two of them really couldn't stand each other.

Carl was light-years away from Wally's father, and that's always been one of the things I liked best about him. Wally's father, "Doug," liked to live in the intellectual sphere. He had a "small-market" mentality. Anything that was popular or known by more than 10 people was "common." I had been with Doug since my early 20s and had moved out of my parents' house and directly into his, so in many ways, he was just another parent to me. It took a long time to work my way out from under Doug's psychological influence. Doug always made me feel stupid and incompetent.

Carl had limited education and limited income potential, though he was always steadily employed. Unlike Doug, whose parents had a stable, upwardly mobile marriage, Carl came from a single parent family, with loads of siblings and half-siblings, and had grown up in abject poverty. When he looked at me, he must have thought I had a lot of advantages. And for my part, being with Carl helped me feel like a "leader" in our relationship, rather than just a subject.

Carl treated me great, but somehow, when he was anywhere near Wally, all his childhood feelings of sibling rivalry and deprivation came flooding in. He could not see Wally as a kid, while he was an adult. It became constant competition. They even fought over the last slices of bread in the loaf, or a plate of brownies I'd brought home from work.

Carl was not physically abusive toward Wally -- he never touched Wally, and if he had, I'd have shown him the door. But there were numerous times in our marriage that I entertained thoughts of another divorce. There was hardly ever a moment's peace between them. When Carl would start complaining and finding fault, Wally would retreat into a sullen silence. I've done a lot of second-guessing over the years. When I ask myself if I'd "do it all over" with Carl, knowing then what I know now, the answer is no. I would not. I love Carl. We have a good relationship as a couple. But Wally suffered for it; there's no question. I kept hoping things would work out. They didn't. Wally became more and more angry and cynical, but as always, it was kept under wraps. Wally was always able to control the outward expression of his feelings, but had mastered the passive-aggression. Wally never did anything overtly scary -- he just dropped little hints that were supposed to be scary. Carl was the one who would snoop around in Wally's dresser and find things to show me. Like a cigarette lighter, or a racy magazine. Then Wally would lie and say he was "holding it" for a friend.

Carl, Wally and I moved twice out of state. One place was Wally's favorite, but we were only there for a year because the job situation didn't pan out. We moved back to "home base," and Wally became even more discouraged. By this time, he was ready for middle school. Before our move, I had asked his father if he thought he might want to take Wally, since Wally was now old enough to be needing more of a male influence (someone he didn't hate, like Carl). Doug said no, he didn't feel ready for that kind of responsibility, and that was why Wally ended up moving twice in the space of a year with us. After we moved back, Wally spent one more unhappy school year with Carl and me. Things were much worse now, because the move had eaten up a lot of money and my job situation was not stable. I'm sure Wally got tired of feeling like he was poor. During that time, Doug and his wife moved several hundred miles away, and Doug informed Wally that once they were settled, Wally could join them. Wally was, of course, thrilled. His dad and his wife were making a lot of money at that point; they lived in an affluent area and Wally would be going to one of the best public schools.

And so, a few months shy of age 13, Wally left my home. I missed him, but also felt relief that someone else was in charge of the complicated needs of an adolescent. I could work longer hours and relax a bit.

Things were reasonably good for the next 3 years or so. Looking back, I can't believe how quickly they went by. I saw Wally a few times a year when he came to visit. Once, he got off the plane and had grown so much (his hair included) that it took longer than usual to recognize him.

I was happy that Wally had a chance at the type of lifestyle he always seemed to have craved. But there were problems. I never got the whole story from his father, but bits and pieces came across, and I knew the situation was far from rosy.

Wally had been "acting out" in strange ways, and most of them were the usual passive-aggressive stuff. He kept his room a pigsty, despite the new furniture and huge walk-in closet. He continually "forgot" to do the chores he'd agreed to. He tried to keep his school progress a secret. He continued the habits he'd formed while with me -- letting his friends' parents pay his way when they went out, rather than asking his father for money.

Less than a year after he went to live there, he was in serious trouble. He'd begun pilfering things that belonged to classmates. There were always suspicions, but he managed to deflect them, until his father searched his room and found someone's wallet. Wally came very close to Juvenile Detention. From what I heard (mostly from Wally), he got counseling, wrote an apology to the offended party, and had the incident expunged from his record.

But the worries lingered. He came down for a visit and I brought him to the office where I was putting in some overtime during the holidays. We only spent a few hours there, but while I was working at my desk, I suddenly smelled the distinctive odor of a match being lit. I raced through the office (no one was there except Wally and me) and asked him if he'd lit a match. He said he hadn't; I knew (and still know) that he had, and as proof, he continually asked me throughout the rest of the day if I'd ever figured out where "that match smell" had come from. Wally was not a good liar.

My contact with Wally was sporadic over the next couple of years. Whatever problems he was coping with were mostly kept from me. Either it was a matter of no one wanting to worry me, no one wanting my input, or simple pride on Doug's part of wanting to handle all of this himself.

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