Entries Tagged 'daily drama' ↓

Life is too real lately.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not taking for granted what I’ve got: a smart, though somewhat crazed, beautiful little girl; days to spend with her; good friends, who are like family. I’ve got it all – all I could ask for really – except for stability.

For the past nearly two years, I’ve had a cushion. When The Ex and I split, making first informal arrangements (then legal ones) for monthly support, I could breathe a huge sigh of relief. I dug in my heels and asked, hell, I bartered, for exactly an amount I’d need to be able to more than scrape by, with other forms of assistance. Enough so that I didn’t have to worry about paying the bills, if I was keeping my head screwed on right. He agreed.

It’s been an easy couple of years, financially, with only the two of us to worry about. Rent, utilities and groceries were the main concerns. People will always hand off kids’ clothes, regardless of our need for them; diapers always go on sale just as we needed them and had a mega-super-fabulous-deal coupon; we learned to do without certain things, like expensive beauty stuff and name-brand paper towels. I managed to keep up an expensive tobacco, caffeine and occasional-binge-drinking habit. (I use the word binge loosely, for the record.)

This is coming to an end, soon.

In fact, it seems like everything is coming to an end, soon. Too much change, too fast, all within the same six weeks or so.

In less than seven weeks I’ll be packing for the BlogHer conference, thanks to the sponsors in my footer – I don’t have the whole thing paid for, but my leftover expenses are a lot smaller now than they were. I don’t travel for a reason and I don’t shop at certain supermarkets for the same – I can’t handle crowds all that well. But mind over matter, I will have fun. Something I need to expend more effort searching for.

When I get home from BlogHer, it’ll be time to throw Isobel’s third birthday party. That’s a post unto itself.

In July, Isobel will be done with daycare for a month. The woman that takes care of her is going home with her family for the entire month of July. When they’re back in August, Isobel will likely resume her two mornings a week in the woman’s care, but the damage will have been done. I’ll have spent July scrambling to fit in 12 hours of work where there is no longer allotted time for it.

In August, The Ex and I agreed to renegotiate our support agreement. Meaning that logistically, I could have half the support that I receive now. It’s still a lot, but it wouldn’t be enough if I wasn’t making enough.

At the end of August, I’ll have to decide if we’re staying in this apartment, or giving notice to move to a larger, (and 99% likely) more expensive place. I don’t want to leave this neighbourhood, but part of me really quests for a basement suite or duplex that needs some fixing up that we’re allowed to do. With a stretch of back-, side- or front-yard, for her to leave crap all over that I can step on. For a dog or a cat. For my own bedroom. But, money is the biggest problem, as I’m honestly living in the best neighbourhood I know of, with the closest amenities, for the cheapest price. Moving will cost more than we’ll see as a reward – for a little while. But it would sure be nice to live in a space bigger than half the size of the first place I ever rented on my own when I was 15 years old.

During that same move-or-stay time, Isobel’ll start preschool. Financially, that’s not a concern because the government is real nice to single moms with low incomes when it comes to childcare. What is a concern is that right now, she’s signed up for two afternoons a week and we’re awaiting room in the five-mornings camp. That could happen by September, it could happen in the winter. I don’t know. If I keep her in just the afternoons, twice a week, that’s virtually replacing the childcare I’m used to her having now and paying $300 a month for – for free. Meaning I could still possibly do the twice-a-week daycare deal, too, since it’s the same amount of money.

This is all happening between July 23rd and September 6th. I’m freaking the fuck out.

I also have a new writing job and another coming up soon that, at the moment, are unpaid. They have awesome potential and if successful, will mean a lot to my resume. I also have a few websites to design – again, resume fodder (and, well, just fun). I’m also working on an ebook series. Mentally formulating what my portfolio and another domain will look like, considering learning Photoshop, still sitting on three different CSS texts, have the pre-existing two paying blog jobs, a need to shower and brush my teeth and am jonseing for a boyfriend.

Life is fucking fabulous, y’all.

I’m so scared that I’m going to crash and burn, and take Isobel down with me. I don’t know if ever before I’ve ever wanted to be taken care of so much. I don’t know if my current stress level will even let me allow someone to take care of me. I don’t know how to make it all better, besides just shutting up and doing shit.

So, these 900-something words are basically to say: I have a lot of stuff to deal with, I’m feeling like I’m going to drown, and instead of hiding and backing away from it all, I’m strapping on my shit-kicking boots and getting sweaty.

Colleen called me on it this weekend.

I’ve been masquerading as something I’m really not entirely. I have a perfectly crafted, rarely unwavering exterior that cracks only under the pressure of performance. You may see me on the street with my gothy, crazed hair, the stud in my chin and ink on various surfaces, plain teeshirt concealing boobs and stretch marks, loose jeans ankle-cuffing my chucks, blowing smoke out the side of my thin lips. It would lead you to assume a lot of things about me.

Standoffish. Closed in. One of the boys. Untouchable. Pissed off.

But under that shell, the surface that’s so safe and ironically, what seems to attract so many, there’s a hidden identity you have probably never (and likely will never) meet.

I am a girly girl.

Through and through, if I had a million hours in a day, disposable income to devote to the pursuit of pink and curves, I would have an entirely different persona on display.

That girl standing there smoking would have changed brands, in the least, if she was a smoker at all. There’s something sexy about a bed-headed woman with black-lined lids exhaling a plume of smoke – but I don’t know if I could fit that into the actual me. That’s more the current externalized visage – but no, replace the word sexy with down-trodden.

Instead of manic bed-head, barely contained into a bun at the top of my head, I’d have cascading curls, shining in the sunlight. Dark auburn, without much of a trace of goth, my hair would bring to mind 40s movie starlet.

I’d keep the piercing, but consider a cubic zirconia stone. I’d still show most of the tattoos, but I’d also have a few softer ones, that weren’t so comprised of harsh black lines filled in with more black. I’d have gotten the one I planned on my left ankle so many years back – a miasma of purples and blues, based on Van Gogh’s celestial body in Starry Night. I’d have a bracelet of violets.

A carelessly put together day would still call for slingbacks and a pencil skirt, a crisp white wrap-around blouse would make severe the slingbacks and lace underthings. The diamond solitaire necklace would glitter and dazzle. But on a more effort-filled day, I would be pure chiffon and cashmere, a-lined and flowy and hugging curves. I would look like a really expensive perfume smells.

Every day would be an exercise in smoothness, because to me, the really deep inside of me me, girly goes with uncrinkled foreheads, moonlight reflecting off of bared shoulders and a peaceful walk on air. Girly means giggling softly and being able to wink subtly without looking as if I might be having a stroke.

My apartment, oh, how gorgeous it would be. Flowers everywhere, clean and like breathing in love, down to a pink-green-chocolate colour scheme. There’d be chenille and velvet, woven throws to make warm when winter had chilled to the bone. Black and white photographs would be matted and framed in black wood, glass candle holders would adorn every surface and the bathroom would be gracefully staged for a daily bubble bath.

You know why I don’t do all that?

It’s so much work, thinking about it. Visualizing the prize, the final moment, I smile. Imagine the what ifs. Picture my everyday bliss.

And then I shove that fantasy back down into the dark hole that I, in turn, project on the outside. It’s so much effort, the perfecting, the acceptance of curves, refinement, alone, that I’d be too aware if I wasn’t acing it. If it wasn’t perfect. I’d be so much more shallowly displayed, and I would feel as if I’d failed at life, when a blemish came to town and my crows’ feet showed.

I mean. Prize example? If I hadn’t beat the shit out of my body for so long, instead of being shaped like a breasted Kate Moss, I’d be sitting here in Scarlett Johansson form. That, in its essence, is the picture of girly, lacking awkwardly sharp elbows and knobby knees, begging for silk and satin and lace.

That would mean allowing myself to fatten up and then not only embracing it, but allowing it display to the world. Now, if I’m feeling a bit dodgy in the waistline, I wear the really baggy size four jeans – the concept of loving my shape in a 6 or higher is something so foreign

(and yes, I feel like a dink for using numbers with this example. I’m sorry, everyone who wears a size 6 or higher. I still love you. I just couldn’t love me.)

that it seems impossible.

But god, how I’d have to rein in the reins. I’d have to turn all of my control into controlling the control. Does that make sense?

Plus, I’d have to shave my legs a lot more often.