Living in the Long Nineteenth Century

'Tis the season for balancing the scales of karma, making sure the ol' slate is wiped clean for the New Year. As such, rest assured that I have been banking my balance in spades, making up for some looooong dry spells. Yes, I am the woman mouthing "bad words, mommy," in your rearview mirror when you cut me off on the interchange. And, yes, I have contemplated tax fraud as the year winds down. And finally - yes, I know I am a self-interested, egocentric blowhard who treats her body like a garbage dump and has been know to utter statements that sound a little to the right of Mussolini after a couple of bottles of $3.99 vino from our local Super-Cheery-Mart

That said, I have been struck by an odd phenomena, call us, the tiniest "Big House" in the West. In other words, for a small family that manages to get by on 1.5 full-time wages, we sure do seem to support a lot of people! The message I am offering is one of hope, and not of self-congratulation. I am trying to offer a peek into how much we all have, and can share, rather than a story about the 'widow's mite' 'cause believe me (review above paragraph), I have never 'given till it hurts.' This is not a sentimental piece of glurge.

My husband and I, and our three year old son, live in a formerly-abandoned-now-rehabilitated 1920s bungalow that my mother bought and poured money into once, oh hosanna, the long awaited grandchild was due. In fact, as many of you know, he came a tad early, and I was forced to scream at contractors about linoleum whilst narcotized and on blood pressure medication following an emergency C-section. Did I mention the dissertation awaiting? One of the first people my mom (an inveterate 'meeter') met was our neighbor, Jim . He had appointed himself the local community guardian, and had been picking up trash in our environs and shooing people out of the half-reconstructed house from his second floor apartment overlooking out backyard. Jim is cool. Jim is a gem. Jim has had many, many, lives, that have included stints in Vietnam, and probably, but not certainly, rehab.