I am not-broke broke

I wonder if, when I have kids, I will make things look as effortless as my parents did.

Both of my parents worked and, while we weren't exactly rich, we certainly weren't poor, either. We got to eat out once a week or so. Sometimes at a sit-down restaurant, sometimes just fast food. I never worried about the mortgage being paid or having enough groceries or anything like that.

In fact, when I learned how much my parents made, I thought it must be heavenly to be an adult and have so much cash at your disposal. Needless to say, I was a moron.

The truth is, I think I am probably better off now than they were at my age. We're still paying for our house, obviously, but we own both of our cars free and clear. We have credit card debt, which is my fault, but we're not using the card and we're paying it off. No student loans to pay. We both have retirement savings accruing. I put a little money aside every month, too.

But somehow, it seems like I'm always scraping by. And that's because we are, in a way. And that way is in my head. Because once the credit card is paid off, hopefully in less than a year's time, we'll have taught ourselves to live on much less than we make. Maybe we can save more. Maybe we can put more into our house.

In the meantime, however, when all the bills are paid and the end of the month draws near, I look at my bank account and worry and wonder if I can fill up my car AND buy groceries AND not dip, however slightly, into savings.

It's times like this that I am thankful I'm not in a worse position, which too many people are, and that I wish I could just grow the hell up and figure out how to do better or how to live on less. Maybe it will happen. Maybe it won't.

Now I wait. Just another week and a day until my coffers are, momentarily replenished. Then I'll pay the bills and I'll be back in the same spot a week or two later, wondering and worrying about gas and groceries.

I am become Slowness, destroyer of commutes.

Hey, you, in my rearview -- back the fuck off.

Oh, are you in a hurry? Then I suggest you choose any of the other three lanes of traffic and go around me, because I'm not going any faster.

It's called a speed limit. Li-mit. As in, "Don't go faster than this." You know what it doesn't mean? "You can't go slower than this."

So, yeah, I'm driving 5 miles under the limit. Sue me. It turns out my miles-per-gallon goes up when I let the speed go down. And you know what's shocking? I'm not getting there any later than I did when I was speeding.

That's right, folks -- the speed of your car has almost nothing to do with what time you'll arrive to work. Why? Because there are red lights and stop signs EVERYWHERE.

So while you're darting in and out of traffic, jockeying for position, I'm just crawling along (safely), saving money and getting there at the same time.

It's either getting better or getting worse

My waning confidence in my writing skills has been a continuing point of discussion with Mrs. Dr. the Wife. Partly because of my previously held beliefs that I'd have written a book or something by now and partly because she gets really angry whenever I denigrate my abilities.

I was thinking about it again recently, because I'd like to win the next argument, and I figured that if I could clearly state my problems to myself, I might have a better chance against the logic-machine that is my spouse.

It occurred to me that a big part of my problem is the ease with which I used to write compared to the torture I endure now when I have to tackle even the simplest of assignments. Why was I so confident back then? Because it was easy. Why am I so hamstrung right now? Because it's so hard.

But I'm beginning to wonder if it was easy then because I wasn't very good. At the very least, I wasn't burdened with an over-abundance of self-awareness, which is why I look back on opinions I used to hold and cringe out loud. Seriously. Neighbors complain that my cringing keeps them up at night.

It's not that I'm so thoughtful or thorough now, it's just that I know better than I knew back then.

None of which helps me with my current assignment or the myriad other problems I seem determined to heap upon myself. Garp. It's gotten so even my fingers hurt in anticipation of writing something awful. Like this crap here.

The Son of the Ghost of the Return of Relationship Girl

Long-time readers, you poor bastards, might remember the story of Relationship Girl. She was the co-worker who managed to get proposed to by two guys in one week -- wonder how that happened?

She had a habit of telling her stories, the kind that involved venereal diseases and angry yelling, to everyone she knew via cell phone. That is how I came to know the stories by heart, like classic children's tales, as I heard them 80 times in a row.

Well, I don't see much of the original Relationship Girl anymore, because I don't work with her. But lo and behold, her spirit lives on in Relationship Girl 2: The Ruining.

And Relationship Girl 2 is out for vengeance...against herself. That's the only explanation I can come up with, after being subjected to several stories of self-fuck-uppery.

Seriously -- she does the kind of shit you only do if you're trying to screw up your life. Marrying a guy you fight with constantly, who proposed after you had broken up for a few months? Not smart. That didn't last long, so now she's "talking" with "a guy" who is perfectly normal...except for his psycho ex-wife who called the cops on him and got him arrested.

And so, yesterday, when I heard the words, "Confidentially...where is the Oklahoma County Jail?" I knew. Deep in my heart of hearts I knew, Relationship Girl 2 had come to stay...until she gets fired or killed or whatever happens to people bent on self-destruction.

-30-

What is it old-time journalists knews about turning 30?

It must have been the end of something, because that's how they ended all of their stories: -30-

And now, having retired from the field, I am turning 30. I've got about 10 hours of 29 left before old age sets in.

I had planned, previously, to follow in my father's footsteps and stay in bed all day. Recently, he made it clear that he wasn't moping when he did it: he was sick. And so, feeling tired, but not ill, I've decided to steer clear of that and just remain ambulatory, go to work and go home tomorrow. No need to simulate a deathbed.

Then again, when I was planning to stay in bed, I was also planning to feel much worse about the whole affair. I figured that, when the clock struck midnight, I would immediately go through a list of regrets -- things I haven't done, things I can't ever do, etc.

Truthfully, I've spent too much of my life that way. I'd sit around on my ass, doing nothing, and then some imaginary deadline would pass and I'd mourn how I wasn't a novelist by the age of 20 or an award-winner by the age of 25.

But one's 20s are the years in which things become open. Bars at 21. Cheaper auto insurance at 25. Career windows when it becomes clear you can hold down more than a part-time job.

And I'm sure things will happen in my 30s, too, but I can't think of anything I want to do right now that I can't, except be younger. The only club I cannot join, besides the YWCA, is that club of younger folks still moving up in the world.

So tomorrow, I look forward to a birthday card from my co-workers. Possibly dinner with my parents. A new episode of "Burn Notice" on USAHD. And then it will be Friday. Then it will be Saturday. Then it will be Sunday.

Maybe I'll have a mid-life crisis soon. Then again, I don't think I'm even close to mid-life, yet. Let's schedule an old-school freakout for when I'm 50. That seems as good a time as any. But 30? 30 is too boring for that.

-30-