Please tell me this will end!

First of all, Bryan and I had a grand old fight the other night (*was it last night?... I can't remember*) about my "secret" blog.  He doesn't want me posting about our personal business on my site.  I guess you could say we don't see eye-to-eye on this issue.

I have maybe ONE friend that I can confide to about all this stuff that goes on, and you know what?  She has a life of her own.  She can't always drop what she's doing to take a 30-minute bitch-fest hysterical phone call from me.  That's ridiculous.  Not to mention that it helps me sort through my feelings when I blog about what's going on, and that's supposed to be, like, good for my mental health, 'n shit like that. 

Anyway, I ended up crying about the whole damn thing, and I told him that I wouldn't be sharing my blog location with him.

So.  Then.  My parents came over here the other night, and my dad informed me, basically, that he wants to sell the house.  In which I currently live.  With my 2 and 1/2 kids.  And all my shit.  The house that I'm renting from him because I can't effing afford to live anywhere else.  Yeah, that house.  Well, this house.  Right now, my credit is SHIT, and Bryan's is worse, and he doesn't make 3x the rent of a cardboard box, and I don't know how to grow a money tree to help us out with a security deposit.  *sigh*  The last place we rented was a 2 bedroom 2 bath in the next town over, and it was fairly big, and I liked it.  The rent was $725.  Guess how much that same exact apartment goes for now?  Over $900.  So we're making less than we did before, and we have to move into an apartment that costs more than it did before.  I mean, I'm not good at math, but even I know that the math doesn't add up.

I knew this would happen, but I figured I had awhile to get my shit together.  We're on the waiting list for subsidized housing, but that can take up to 18 months.  I guess we're going to have to move out to the boonies or something in order to find someplace that we can actually afford.  Or something.

And.  (oh, no, I'm NOT done yet...)  Bryan lost his job.  AGAIN.  *sigh*  I haven't even caught up on all our bills yet, not even close, and he lost this cake freakin' job.  I owe my mom and dad money, and they are hounding me like crazy to pay them back.  I totally hate owing people money, and I want to pay them back ASAP, but I don't want to tell them that Bryan's unemployed again.  Hell, I don't want to tell anyone that he's out of work again, because I'm soooooooooooo freakin' tiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiired of being broooooooooooke and being the poor white trash that everyone feels sorry for.

Tomorrow I'm going to take a look at the roof of the house, because I swear to GOD there must be a big bulls-eye painted up there, somewhere, to help the gods/powers that be aim when they take a big, fat, hairy DUMP on us. 

Good gawd!

Okay, let's see.  I sew.  All kinds of things.  I can cut hair (men's and women's, although I prefer to cut women's).  I can also color hair and do highlights.

In the past couple of days I have cut Marissa's hair, cut my sister's hair, cut Bryan's hair, sewed two pairs of pants for my mom (in addition to my biz sewing) and today I'm scheduled to highlight my sister's hair.

I generally LOVE doing things for other people.  I usually get something out of it, either a feeling of satisfaction, gratitude on the recipient's part.  Ya know.

But my mom, OH.  GOOD.  LORD.  The woman thinks I'm her personal sweatshop, and that my fabric stash is subject to her whims.  After I made her two (yes, TWO) pair of silky capri pyjama pants, the ungrateful wretch turns to my sister and says, "Do you want her to make you a pair, too?"  Like I'm not standing right there, like I don't speak English, like I have NOTHING better to do than sit around all damn day and sew for you, evil demon woman.

I almost, *almost* knocked her down.  Again.  I mean, it's one thing to get down on your knees and grovel and beg and be at my mercy, but it's a whole different thing to pimp me out.

Ma'am?

I just got back from taking the kids to Baskin Robbins.

Two young (like, 16 yo) boys were behind the counter.  They both called me ma'am, like, a billion times.

Why ma'am??  Maybe it's my gaggle of kids.  Or, it could be my fat ankles.  Still, it made me want to beat them up behind the bleachers after band practice.

Sssshhh.

Pheebs woke up this morning, needing to be changed (Bryan’s job).  He got her butt all cleaned up, and then brought her back to bed with us.  She laid there, with her eyes wiiiiiiiide open, and put her face in my face, and made little noises, as if to say, “If you think I’m going back to sleep, you’re delusional, momma.  Let’s play, mmmkay?”

So I got up, and brought her out to the kitchen to get us each something to drink and get her a little snack.  It’s been “Please, up!”, or “please, that!”, or “please, down”, or just “please, please, please!” furiously until I figure out what she wants.  She’s crazy.

So I’m sitting here at the computer, and I can hear what either seems to be a) a pep rally going on or b) a fight between a woman and a dog or c) a fight between a shrill beast and something else.

It’s loud, and noisy, and I *think* there might be pom-poms involved.  Why can’t people have pep rallies and fights at normal hours?  Like midnight, or 1am?  Because then I’m dead asleep and I can’t hear you, and it’s all good, and I won’t be forced to figure out which house is yours and key your car and throw eggs at your windows in passive-aggressive protest.  Do you KNOW how HARD you’re making this on ME??

Testing

Test post.

I thought I'd give this Typepad free trial offer a go, and see how it feels.  So far, although it's confusing as hell, it seems a little more user-oriented than blogger, and I feel like I have more control.

We shall see.