Sundays

It's Sunday and I'm happy. I'm happy because it's Sunday, it's a weekend, and I get to stay home and watch TV until my eyes start growing legs and a medulla oblongata of their own. But I feel queasy, too. Sunday is the day I spend worrying about Monday. Monday is the day when shit starts rolling down the hill in tumbleweed proportions, and so I spend my Sundays worrying over the kind of shit that will be served to me in generous helpings come Monday lunch. Forget food. Monday's menu always consists of last week's unfinished, or erroneously done, business.

It's no wonder, then, that I spend most of the week fantasizing about Friday. Friday is the last day of the work week, because even though I' have to go to the office for four hours on Saturdays, my mind is safely ensconced among blankets, pillows, and an HGTV special. 

You know you've hit an all-time low when you start fantasizing about being Martha Stewart and your three-year-old calls you ma'am, not mom.

Poker Head

Work's the best antidote to heartache because when you're drowning in a foot-long list of tasks, it's easy to numb pain and overlook hurtful changes. And so, aside from flogging myself with impromptu overtime, I took on a second job, too. I don't need to physically report for work for this second source of income, but it's very much like my first job in that I need to keep my fingers a'tappin. I get paid to blog. But hold your horses, don't ask me for the site's link, because in that blog, the only thing I write about is poker.

Yes, poker, for $3 per 500-word article and the same rate halved for a 250-word write-up. I had to turn into a tip-gushing fount of poker wisdom almost overnight, and from where I sit a'tappin every night, I dispense tips to countless poker players around the world. Poker bobby. Double bonus video poker. What beats what in poker. Why one should play texas hold-em.

There is a god and sometime between now and the next life, I suspect he will turn me into a no-good, beer-chugging, tobacco-chewing gambler. That, or a slot machine. 

To All My Lovely Friends

I know you love me, but honestly, the  number and frequency of "i hope you're okay" texts, calls, and emails took me by surprise. Thank you for the outpouring of love and support.

I'm okay; we're okay, really. I just need time to sit back and lick my wounds. Please don't take it amiss that I'm keeping mum about this. Others deal with pain by talking to friends. I deal with pain and sadness by retreating into a corner, keeping myself busy with work, and eating all the chips and chocolates I could lay my hands on. Aileen Siroy, I challenge you to a chocolate-eating contest. I suspect you hoard plenty in your fridge (where you could easily talk to them and gobble them up), but in my present state, I've no doubt I could easily out-eat you by a good barful and then some.

My New Life Goal

Aileen says that you help make your dreams come true by writing them down.  This is a tad difficult for me because I change dreams as frequently as I change nail polish. So, what to do? What to do? Why, I'll write a weekly life goal! My life goal changes on a weekly basis, anyway, so what I post here ought to be representational of my dream for the week.

My new life goal is simple. I want to be able to pay off debts and meet house and car payments so that by the time I'm 50, I'll have all the time in the world to sit before my bedroom window and throw bananas at passersby. Yes, I am very ambitious.

A Cat-ty Lesson

The little one's been hanging out with two little boys. She's their ringleader, and yes, they've formed the most annoying gang in the neighborhood. Their usual activities include streaking inside other people's homes once the front door is left slightly ajar, throwing stones at each other, and tormenting the neighborhood pets. Yes, one no longer needs to be a teenager in order to be part of a much-feared triad. I didn't know this, however, and so I was appalled when, one afternoon, I came home to find my daughter behaving like a savage. She was dragging a pregnant cat by its tail, to the cheering of her playmates and the tolerant smile of her yaya. The poor cat was screeching and trying to dig its claws into the earth.

"Put that cat down this instant!"

A froze; so did the cat. The playmates, aged two and three respectively, looked frightened. I took my daughter aside and spanked her hands. I told her meanness like that makes me angry, and if she continues to behave that way, I will tell the yaya not to let her out of the house. Ever.

"It's just a cat, ma," she sobbed. "It doesn't get hurt."

"Oh yes, it does. And what's more, its pregnant. It has a baby cat inside its tummy. You keep praying to Jesus to give you a baby sister and I've told you He will only give you a baby sister after he sees what a good little girl you are. He wants to know you can take care of your baby sister. But you've been unkind to the cat. Do you want another child to do that to me while I have your baby sister inside my tummy?"

With tears streaming down her eyes, she shook her head.

I didn't know how thoroughly chastened the little girl had been if not for the hub. He went up to me a few minutes later and with a grin, said, "A is funny. She went to the cat and said, 'I'm sorry, cat.' Then, she told the cat it can borrow her little Ms. Piggy for a while."