True Confessions of a Welfare Queen

I don't know how the conversation even started, but it ended with me deciding that it was time to come clean. There was a period of time, when the Girls were very little, our family needed help with the basics. Anyone pulling in less than $900 a month with four people in the house would need it. So Dave and I sought help from the government and applied for federal assistance. I've mentioned it in passing my students a few different times, and they usually approach it with skepticism. Their basic sentiment: Why would you need welfare?

Before the Girls were born, we received W.I.C., which is an awesome and probably underappreciated program. The women who ran our local program were generous and took the time to get to know us. They never failed to check in to see how things were going and made suggestions that worked with the program. After the Girls were born, Dave worked full-time at a hotel overnight balancing the accounts so that we wouldn't need to pay for day care. Even with that, it still wasn't enough. I don't which one of our parents suggested welfare, but we talked it over and decided that we didn't have many other options.

There was an interview process involved; we thought we needed to take the Girls, which was a mistake. They went with us once (hell, I only went once to tell you the truth . . . Dave graciously went every time it needed to be done) and once was enough. Even that first interview was brief: here's your paperwork, fill it out, bring it back, we'll see if you qualify. So we did . . . and we did. In 1991, we qualified for $239 a month in food stamps and free medical care for the Girls. To us, $239 was like hitting the lottery. I budgeted for our first shopping trip with the stamps, had a list of healthy dinner items, and even splurged for jarred plums for the Girls since pre-made baby food was a luxury for us. We started checking out, and the cashier was making conversation with us and oohing and ahhing over the Girls. Until I pulled out the food stamps to pay for our groceries. The cashier turned icy, rude almost. I hadn't changed . . . but her perception of me had. No longer was I a mom chatting about the goofy things her kids were doing. Now I was some free-loader taking advantage of the system. A welfare queen.

It didn't get any easier as the time went on. We never went shopping in our town if we could avoid it. God forbid that people knew we were on public assistance. Going to the doctor wasn't much easier. Of the three pediatricians in the practice, one was blessing but the other two basically saw us for the medicaid card that paid for their services. Luckily, the Girls rarely had to see the other two. After they repeatedly came down with ear infections, their pediatrician suggested tubes in their ears. "You could go to Cincinnati and get them allergy tested first, but as soon as they see you're on public assistance, you'll be stuck in paperwork hell." We took her advice and avoided the Queen City and stuck close to home.

Every once and a while, after Dave's quarterly meeting with our social worker, Vikki, it would be determined that we either made too much money and the food stamps would take a three-month "vacation." Because of my careful budgeting, I had enough food stamps to get us through most of those months (minus the splurge for baby food). When it became clear that we had officially reached the threshold for food stamps, I decided to save the final one. There wasn't a real reason why I saved it, but I wanted to be reminded that while I was and still am extremely grateful for the safety net of public assistance, I never, ever wanted to go back to that. I remember what it is like to sell your CD's to pay for your electric bill. The terror goes through your body when you think you might have to live in your car.  How you're positive that everyone around you knows you need help.

The real reason I kept it? So that I could always say I remember what it felt like . . . that disdain from the cashier or the tolerance from the pediatrician.

- Jill

Hiding Matches

Fire . . . it's that element that I don't get. It's heat. It's dangerous. It's changeable. It's beautiful in a sorid way. My brother, when he was younger, had this obsession with fire. He would light matches and watch the flame dance on the tip of the match only to blow it out or drop it when it neared his fingers. Mom hid matchbooks for ages, and you could never find one when you need to light a candle. Birthdays? Most of the time was spent looking for anything to set the candles aflame.

For a while, Dave would purchase the instant fire logs for our old house because it burned in color. I'd wake up with a sore throat that would go on for days, and Dave's response would be, "But it burns in colors . . . it's blue!" Watch any person who's semi-drunk at a bonfire, and they are mesmerized for hours. It's like the most alluring babysitter ever. Watch the pretty flame. It changes shape. Color. Size.

Beyond the dangerous beauty is the real reason to fear fire. It destroys indiscriminnently. You always hear about the large brush fires in California and the people who stay to protect their homes when any rational person would get the hell out because they know that fire truly doesn't give a shit. It's the honey badger of the element world.

It brought a tear to my eye on Sunday

Fire destroyed a friend's livelihood this weekend. The family tavern caught fire when the cook came in to start the fryer. They lost the business and most of the apartments (two were spared). I got her text on Saturday morning, the one were she said she would rather deal with her dying father than the notice she got about the fire. By the time the fire departments got there, nothing could be saved. So now what?

I have a drink chip from the tavern, and I'm not giving it up. I refuse to give up the dream that eventually, I'll be able order a cheeseburger with grilled onions and sauteed mushrooms completed with an order Kelly fries and a few Yuenglings. I'll wait until I can choose the tunes on the digital jukebox. When I can chat with my friend and figure out what the skinny is about the people in tavern. When we can discuss what's going on in our families in details. When we can laugh our asses off at the next person to walk through the doors.

I'm counting on you to get the tavern up and running . . . I've got a drink chip after all.

Cheers,
Jill

Crap I Did Today

Sorry for the absence . . . tis grading season so that means my ass has been one with the couch as of late. But this past weekend, there was nothing to grade (mark it on your calendars), so I did what I like best: knitting, reading, knitting and reading, watching movies, watching football, and going to Spice India with my husband. I can't really cook Indian food that well - despite repeated attempts - and quite frankly, when you have really good Indian food about 25 minutes away, why the hell would you?

So, today . . . well, here's what I did:

• kvetched with some co-workers over the professor of our grad class getting fired
• previewed the on-line taping of the class that we are being merged with and panicking
• created a game design document for Knitting Ninja (yup . . . I'm designing a game based on knitting; you'll wish you thought of it first - or that I didn't have my head examined when multiple people suggested it)
• called a bajillion and one parents about failing grades; fine . . . I called ten parents
• laughed at my mother and my sister in our repeated attempts to get a video chat going. Note to self: it's your new laptop, idiot
• scheduled a Genius appointment at the Apple store to correct the whole video chat issues because it really is the new laptop
• made a hot cocoa and added a generous "Dave is traveling again" amount of Bailey's
• added songs to my unofficial funeral playlist on Spotify. Not that I'm planning on kicking it any time soon, but truly I have no desire to have "Amazing Grace" or some other shitty song played. Instead, you'll be treated to "Tobacco Road" by Lou Rawls or "Zombie" by The Cranberries. Note the irony in that last one
• argued with the cat for space on the rather large couch. She wants my spot, and right now, I'm kind of afraid that she might eat me if I don't move
• talked to my sister about her son's homework, which apparently is pretty challenging for her. I'm going to give her the benefit of the doubt because it does sound kind of hard . . . which would be fine if he weren't in first grade

I think that's it . . . wait. I taught 110 kids today and modeled how to create their book report. I explained the plot to To Kill a Mockingbird because one of my kids thought it didn't have a plot. I helped a kid find a book that he could read because he lost his over a month ago and never thought to tell either me or my reading partner. I laughed at some of their responses. I nearly cried at some of the other ones. I often forget about work . . . because it doesn't really seem like work. It's just something I enjoy doing.

Wish me luck with tomorrow . . . I'm Skyping with my parents in class five times so that my kids can see an interview being conducted. It's either going to be the best idea I ever had or the worst . . . jury's still out on that.

Cheers,
Jill

PS - I'm pretty sure that you could strip to "Tobacco Road," too. Might have to start another Spotify playlist . . . "Music to Shake Your Moneymaker By" . . . suggestions?

Words To Live By

For the past few days, we've been working on storyboards at school, making sure that the kiddos have something to work with before we begin a large project involving photos and diagrams and narration and movies. I'm trying to model the process by demonstrating how to fill out a storyboard and coming clean about my strengths and weaknesses. Strengths: organization, multitasking, words. Weaknesses: procrastination, too many things at once, words.

So tonight, while I should have been grading warm-ups, I was putting together a photo book because the Living Social deal that I bought was going to expire tonight. Initially, I thought I would do a book all about the Girls, but that would require thought and time and care and love. Instead, I figured I would make something that I could use in school . . . a book of my favorite quotes accompanied by my favorite photographs. Here are a few that I particularly liked with the photos that I used:

Be a first rate version of yourself, not a second rate version of someone else. Judy Garland

Never ruin an apology with an excuse. Benjamin Franklin

I have measured out my life in coffee spoons. T. S. Eliot

You are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. A. A. Milne

Nature gave you the face you have at 20, but it is up to you to merit the face you have at 50. Coco Chanel

Do or do not. There is no try. Yoda

Tonight I should have graded some warm-ups. Instead, I made a book. I answered a dozen or so emails from students who are slightly panicked about their storyboards. I had dinner with my husband. I realized that maybe Buckaroo Banzai had it right after all when he said, "No matter where you go, there you are."

It's almost Friday . . . thankfully, 

Jill

*Blerg . . . I couldn't find the photo for the Yoda quote on Flickr. But I love it based on how passionately one of my students lobbied for its inclusion in our class quotationary.

'Tis His Birthday Tomorrow

And I have no clue what to buy him. Seriously, I don't know what to buy my husband for his 42nd birthday. Thought about buying him the latest Pearl Jam album, but he bought it on the road. I could pick up the latest action figure he's looking for, but it's hit or miss so that could be either tomorrow or next week or next year. Then again, I could buy him a book or a DVD, but he pretty much does that himself. So I have no clue.

Instead, I thought I would tell some secrets about him:

• Every time there's a Prince song on, he does this little dance that makes me grin from ear to ear. He likes Prince more than any white man with no rhythm should. 
• He graciously spells words for me because he knows I am a poor speller. In fact, he just spelled "rhythm" for me. 
• For our first married birthday together, he bravely ate the grapefruit meringue pie I made even though I used whole wheat flour, and it looked like it had bugs in it. 
• He doesn't really say too much if I spend a day (or two) on the weekend in my pj's grading papers. If we do choose to go someplace, it's with an understanding that I will brush my teeth and hair, but there will be no makeup. 
• If I need to, he lets me cry on his shoulder and doesn't say anything. It's kind of nice because people really shouldn't say anything when you are crying on their shoulder. 
• He'll check on the dog just to make sure she's still breathing. 
• When I get overly invested in a football game, he doesn't shush me or tell me to stop like some people I know (hint: our daughters).
• If we are on a trip to Philly or New York City and we're walking, he walks with me no matter how far we choose to hoof. I just have to remember to get us to a food cart earlier. 
• He doesn't tease me about my grey hair and tells me that he likes it. 
• He's one of the most compassionate people that I know. And he's never forgotten where he comes from or how far we've come. 
• After 21 years, he still makes me laugh on a daily basis. Sometimes over something that he does like the whole "Cat in a box" idea. Sometimes over nothing at all.
• On weekend mornings, he lets me put my head on his shoulder and fall asleep there even though he knows I'll leave an ear print or press down on his chest. 
• He owns everything that Pearl Jam and the Wu Tang Clan have ever released. I'd be hard pressed to tell you what they sing . . . fine, I could tell you some Pearl Jam songs, but the Wu Tang Clan is a mystery. 
• He's cleaned the bathroom more than I ever have in my entire life. Add to that the laundry. 
• He reads voraciously and shares what he reads with me. It doesn't matter what he's reading; it all gets shared. 
• When we are together, he holds my hand in public. 
• He still calls me "Sweetie" when he leaves me voicemail messages . . . and I save at least one of them when he's on the road in case I don't hear his voice again. 
• He's provided an excellent example for our Girls for what a husband and a father should be like.
• He never ends a phone call without saying "I love you" . . . unless there are people in his office, but then he calls right back to tell me when they are gone. 

Dave . . . almost at 42

As of tomorrow, he will have celebrated at least one half of all his birthdays with me.  I still don't have a clue what to buy (other than the one small thing I have) for his birthday. In the past, I've given him silly toys or a tickets to a Steelers' game or DVDs or god knows what else. I guess I have 24 hours (ish) to figure it out for this year.

Cheers . . . and I love you, Dave
Jill

*Edited: Went with a Steelers sweatshirt that he said he liked a few weeks ago . . . but I cleared it with him first. 

"Would You Like Fries With That?" - Harder Than You Think

Conversation today at the end of 7th period:
RG: So, ummm, Mrs. G . . . do you work at Wendy's, too?
Me: (completely serious) Yes . . . it's my second job.
RG: Oh. I wasn't sure when I saw you there.
Me: No, sweetie. I was helping out a friend who had a fundraiser. I was kind of surprised to see you there, too.

On Wednesday night, the last thing I wanted to do was be in Wendy's for two hours, asking people what they wanted to drink with their  value meals. My fall allergies were hitting with the force of a Mack truck. My feet hurt from Zumba. I was dead tired from crap sleep for the past three days. But I promised my friend, Jen, that I would help her during a fundraiser she's holding for her annual multiple sclerosis walk . She's been participating in Walk MS for years now and raises the $2,000 over several fundraisers. In the past it's been easier for her to do, but since the economy has taken a nose-dive, charities have been hard hit.

The Wendy's fundraiser meant that a lot of teachers in our district (all of them from one of our high schools) come to Wendy's, put on an apron and name tag, and shadow someone who is working. I figured I would get to see some former students, help out a friend, and have a good time. Seriously, how hard could it be.

They're chili isn't as good as mine . . . but it's pretty darn good

Famous last words. I shadowed Nikki, a woman a year younger that the Girls, for the evening. She was gracious, kind, and patient with me. She didn't get upset when I repeatedly had to ask which was the medium cup and which was the value cup or where the lids for the chili was located. She laughed when I was flustered. She answered all my questions. She was patient with customers who couldn't make up their minds. She was kind when customers weren't. She smiled nonstop. She worked nonstop. She was awesome.

At the end of my two-hour shift, my feet were killing me. There was a Frosty with my name on it, and I was ready to head out. But Nikki still had another five hours to go for her shift. During one of our conversations, she said she thought about being a teacher, but she's pretty sure that she doesn't have the patience for it. So she was thinking that nursing might be for her . . . but most of her friends were doing that, and most people might be expecting her to as well. For now, Nikki is saving money to buy a car because it's a 25 minute walk for her to get to work. College will come after she has the car, and by then she thinks she'll know what she wants to study. Considering I didn't know what I wanted to be when I grew up until I was 30, I am pretty sure that Nikki will be fine.

Besides, if she can handle the rush at Wendy's with a smile on her face the way she did on Wednesday evening, college will not be a problem for her.

Enjoy the weekend,
Jill

PS - I'm loving Kellie Hatcher's color presets . . . check 'em out!

Note To Self . . .

• you're not 21 any more
• you never were that coordinated
• the term "step-ball-chain" still doesn't make sense
• Shakira has hips that don't lie . . . yours probably do
• but you can still shake it

First Zumba class after work this afternoon. If you want to see some fun, try Zumbaing with people you work with . . . I'll be sore tomorrow.

A little breathless,
Jill