I Don’t Have A Real Job

May 8, 2013

Being Blue Collar Mamma.

It means unclogging the toilet every day, twice a day. That’s 14 times a week. Sometimes it takes 2 minutes, other times 10 to 15 minutes. So on average, I spend at least an hour a week, 4 hours a month, 48 hours a year plunging a toilet.

It means I wash the dishes every day. Every goddamned day, I wash them. And every goddamn time it’s like I blink and the sink is full again. I can’t tell you how much I hate doing the goddamned dishes. I’d rather scrub the toilet that never fucking flushes right.

It means I like my kitchen table to be as clean as possible. So, naturally, my kitchen table is the collection point for everything in the apartment. Homework, food, toys, mail, clothes, wallets, keys, books, electronics, receipts, cats…everything but shoes. Shoes are never ever allowed on the table. Because that’s gross.

It means having to know where everyone’s shit is at all times. Haven’t seen it in months? Didn’t see where the owner of the thing put it? TOUGH SHIT! You better believe I still have to know where that shit is. And you know what the sad part is? 75% of the time, I DO know where everyone’s shit is.

It means having to stick to a weekly budget and having to make it stretch further and further every week. I consider myself lucky, though, because I have 3 small supermarkets within walking distance from my house. So, every week I get the circulars from all 3 and make trips to each so I can get the most for our money. But still, sometimes my budget isn’t enough and I have to ask Mr. BC for more. And I hate it.

It means being the personal assistant to the other 2 people who live here. I have to schedule everyone’s time appropriately. Play dates, after school, activities, family time, appointments, all of it. Sometimes there are schedule conflicts. They are always my fault.

It means trying to find a job that will allow me to be home everyday by 3pm so I can be there for my Lil Blue. It means being unsuccessful at finding such a job.

It means making time for everyone. Wanting to hang out with loved ones. Craving interaction with people I care about. Making plans, having people cancel on you, and having to be OK with it. It means scheduling the next cancellation. Rejection is a rule, not an exception.

It means knowing that starting every sentence the same way is probably annoying the shit out of you.

It means not recognizing myself in the mirror anymore. I’ve gained weight. My skin is weirder than it used to be. My hair is turning grey. My tits are starting to sag and I have stretch marks. And I’m kind of OK with everything but the condition of my skin.

It means that I have been writing different versions of this in my head for months. Revising it. Changing the tone to fit my mood. Trying to make it into some great piece of insight. Knowing it isn’t and accepting that failure. Acknowledging that for a long time I didn’t have the balls to say half of this stuff out loud. It means knowing I will be judged and only giving the tiniest of fucks about that.

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