I said, I need a new cup. That's when Ella, my 6 year old daughter and savior, chimed in with, "But you have a new cup - that I Love New York cup that B___ gave you!" We grown-ups laughed so hard we snorted.
Yes, indeed, my good friend had brought me back a souvenir mug from her trip to New York City and New Jersey, as a thank-you for house-sitting during the holidays. On it was the iconic "I (Heart) NY" graphic slogan.
Of course.
So, mama's got a brand-new cup. What the hell am I complaining about? In my last blog I was hyperventilating about the fact that we Americans, near as I can figure, are headed for enslavement or similar disasters because the means of producing our own energy and food has pretty much been taken away from us, with our enthusiastic consent. In fact, if you do grow your own food or chop your own firewood or build your own house, you're still considered "quaint" and slightly off-kilter.
I was feeling pretty smug and self-righteous for awhile there because being half red-neck and half white-trash, there are certain skills, shall we say, that I've learned along the way that should help me when the End Times come. Also I'm a recovering archaeologist who has long been studying the ways of the ancients, and I used to hang out with survivalists. For awhile there I basically lived out of my car. What I'm trying to say is, I've never really been comfortable. There has always been some sort of hardship in my life, mostly financial, but also with a good deal of emotional, physical, mental and spiritual abuse thrown in for good measure. Since I married my sweet baboo, the abuse part has been exed out, but the financial hardship remains. Ah well, at least we have love, right?
Sure. As anyone who is not Donald Trump knows, when you're constantly stressed and struggling, that love can get a wee bit strained. You start blaming each other for your situation, and even glancing over the fences occasionally to see if the grass really is greener over there. (It's just my lizard -brained monkey-mind trying to ensure my survival, I don't feel guilt about it. ) Married or not, I think everyone can relate to having compulsive reactions to those people/blogs/pundits/know-it-alls-who've-never-worked-a-day-in-their-lives who tell you to count your blessings or practice gratitude as a way to grow abundance. Namely, the uncontrollable compulsion to punch someone right in the kisser. There are times when it is impossible, and I believe inappropriate, to feel gratitude. And those times include when you see that your family's options are dwindling even faster than your spirit is being ground into the dirt. The appropriate reaction, I believe, is to assess your resources- yes- but this is different than gratitude; and then act according to your deepest convictions and values in using those resources to their utmost. One resource I didn't used to count: my imagination. AKA, resourcefulness, inventiveness, and plain ol' not panicking. Also I actually enjoy figuring things out on my own, in small groups, or whatever.
But anyway, this fact of my uncomfortableness throughout life gives me some comfort. When I'm cleaning the usually very large, very nice houses of yuppie couples who are 10 years younger than me and make 10 times as much money, I bear them no ill will but I do think - WoW- when all of this comes crumbling down, it is going to be ROUGH for these people who have known nothing but comfort, or think their days of discomfort are behind them.
So I know it's cold comfort, but at least I got that goin' for me, which is nice. I know how to grow food, and compost, and sculpt a landscape so that you can save enough water to do both and not die. Conversely, I am not so great with the cooking from scratch or the canning and preserving, but armed with my grandmother's cookbook and a love for things that smell good, I think I can learn.
Also, as I've mentioned before, I've got fantastically skilled friends who can fill in the other gaps for each other, and quite the merry little community of social pranksters built up over the past 11 years.
Call me a cock-eyed optimist but I think we'll be okay.
