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Let's Try This Again
Feb. 15th, 2005 12:19 pmThird time's the charm? Well, let's see.
Things Steve would prefer me not to talk about "in public", thus leading to this diary:
1. Money troubles.
2. "Family" troubles.
3. Stupid-ass decisions, or lack thereof.
4. How much he makes me crazy, and how.
5. The cat.
This last won’t be much of an issue very soon, since Shadow has but one scant week left to live—but still, the looming spectre of Steve trotting out: "I killed my cat ‘for you’" for the rest of our married lives does frighten me a trifle; he’s actually killing his cat "for" Cal, but lay that by. And lay by, too, the fact that he recently told me "saying ‘but lay that by’ doesn’t excuse making hurtful statements", thus all but robbing me of the chance to voice many observations AT ALL…
Cal’s finally asleep now, after screaming for a solid hour. Might have been his teeth, or sensory overstimulation (to which, as he steadily becomes more of a person, he seems distressingly prone). But whenever he flips, and squirms, and shrieks inconsolably like a demented little owl—-won’t take the bottle, won’t be soothed, no comfortable positions to be found, etc.-—it just makes me feel like the single worst mother in the world. In the motherfuckin’ WORLD.
Yesterday we had to shop, after about a week of doing only the most rudimentary grocery-related upkeep; Steve freaked out because the bill came in at $200-plus, and our balance wouldn’t cover it. Forget, conveniently—as he seems to have—that our balance somehow shrank so far down by the end of the week before last that I had to borrow a hundred from my Dad in order to get a few little things over the weekend, like formula for our baby, or toilet paper for us. Forget that the only money we received last week was my parental leave payment, whereas he doesn’t get paid until tomorrow. And very much forget, as he must have, that according to the condo manager, we’re still somehow two months in arrears for our maintenance fees—a whopping $500-plus, which he was supposed to take care of.
"Who balances the budget in your house?" Dad asked. To which I replied: "Well, Steve…though I usually seem to end up paying the bills, somehow…"
The fact is that we owe money, a lot of money. Steve owes it on his credit card. I owe it on a credit card I got long before I ever knew him. We both owe it on our mortgage, on the loan we took out from the bank when we consolidated our debt, on various services. Along with the maintenance fee fuck-up, I somehow owe a similar amount to the government for GST going back to three years ago; last week a bill came from Bell Mobility came, claiming we owe almost $300 on my cellphone. And how this happened I have no idea: Some in theory, I suppose. But none in emotional reality.
"Babies make their own luck," Dad has been quick to say, intermittently, during his visit. And I guess that’s true, because with each new expense incurred has—thus far—come an offer to help out, financially. Steve’s parents bought us a crib. Mom bought us furniture. Dad and Steve’s Dad have promised to help replace the carpet Shadow has rendered pretty much completely uncleanable. Steve’s Dad has even talked about paying off my credit card debt, which would at least keep Capitol One from phoning every five minutes—though they’ve been eerily silent of late, leading me to believe that those "VERY URGENT CALLS" for Gemma Files have probably been transferred over to a genuine collection agency.
So, good, right? But Steve resents the help, or even the offer of help. He thinks we’re falling dwon on the job morally by not having enough money to take care of this stuff ourselves. Whereas I just say thanks, thanks SO much, and bring it fucking on. Bring it.
Fuck, man. I’m really not qualified for this type of crap.
Well, whatever: More boring raving and complaining, but don’t worry—I’ll be back to the fun fannish stuff soon enough. Right after I deal with that screaming baby who just woke up in the corner.
Things Steve would prefer me not to talk about "in public", thus leading to this diary:
1. Money troubles.
2. "Family" troubles.
3. Stupid-ass decisions, or lack thereof.
4. How much he makes me crazy, and how.
5. The cat.
This last won’t be much of an issue very soon, since Shadow has but one scant week left to live—but still, the looming spectre of Steve trotting out: "I killed my cat ‘for you’" for the rest of our married lives does frighten me a trifle; he’s actually killing his cat "for" Cal, but lay that by. And lay by, too, the fact that he recently told me "saying ‘but lay that by’ doesn’t excuse making hurtful statements", thus all but robbing me of the chance to voice many observations AT ALL…
Cal’s finally asleep now, after screaming for a solid hour. Might have been his teeth, or sensory overstimulation (to which, as he steadily becomes more of a person, he seems distressingly prone). But whenever he flips, and squirms, and shrieks inconsolably like a demented little owl—-won’t take the bottle, won’t be soothed, no comfortable positions to be found, etc.-—it just makes me feel like the single worst mother in the world. In the motherfuckin’ WORLD.
Yesterday we had to shop, after about a week of doing only the most rudimentary grocery-related upkeep; Steve freaked out because the bill came in at $200-plus, and our balance wouldn’t cover it. Forget, conveniently—as he seems to have—that our balance somehow shrank so far down by the end of the week before last that I had to borrow a hundred from my Dad in order to get a few little things over the weekend, like formula for our baby, or toilet paper for us. Forget that the only money we received last week was my parental leave payment, whereas he doesn’t get paid until tomorrow. And very much forget, as he must have, that according to the condo manager, we’re still somehow two months in arrears for our maintenance fees—a whopping $500-plus, which he was supposed to take care of.
"Who balances the budget in your house?" Dad asked. To which I replied: "Well, Steve…though I usually seem to end up paying the bills, somehow…"
The fact is that we owe money, a lot of money. Steve owes it on his credit card. I owe it on a credit card I got long before I ever knew him. We both owe it on our mortgage, on the loan we took out from the bank when we consolidated our debt, on various services. Along with the maintenance fee fuck-up, I somehow owe a similar amount to the government for GST going back to three years ago; last week a bill came from Bell Mobility came, claiming we owe almost $300 on my cellphone. And how this happened I have no idea: Some in theory, I suppose. But none in emotional reality.
"Babies make their own luck," Dad has been quick to say, intermittently, during his visit. And I guess that’s true, because with each new expense incurred has—thus far—come an offer to help out, financially. Steve’s parents bought us a crib. Mom bought us furniture. Dad and Steve’s Dad have promised to help replace the carpet Shadow has rendered pretty much completely uncleanable. Steve’s Dad has even talked about paying off my credit card debt, which would at least keep Capitol One from phoning every five minutes—though they’ve been eerily silent of late, leading me to believe that those "VERY URGENT CALLS" for Gemma Files have probably been transferred over to a genuine collection agency.
So, good, right? But Steve resents the help, or even the offer of help. He thinks we’re falling dwon on the job morally by not having enough money to take care of this stuff ourselves. Whereas I just say thanks, thanks SO much, and bring it fucking on. Bring it.
Fuck, man. I’m really not qualified for this type of crap.
Well, whatever: More boring raving and complaining, but don’t worry—I’ll be back to the fun fannish stuff soon enough. Right after I deal with that screaming baby who just woke up in the corner.
