A Christmas Story

The Goddess is in a musical right now. A Christmas Story, based on the movie.

Now, I have loved this movie for a long time, back when there weren't many people who had seen it. My college roommate had a copy of it on VHS that his parents had taped from television, and we watched it 27 times our sophomore year, commercials and all.

It's extremely quotable and I do so frequently, even among people who have never seen the movie. They just look at me like I have lobsters crawling out of my ears.

One of the best written lines in the story comes from the narrator: "Sometimes, at the height of our revelries, when our joy is at its zenith, when all is most right with the world, the most unthinkable disasters descend upon us!"

So it is.

It's been a pretty good few weeks. The Goddess has been busy with rehearsals and the opening of her show. A few weeks back we were really stretched on money, but even that has picked up. I've been getting overtime, the Goddess has been substitute teaching, we've both gotten paid to do some writing, and I've been gigging a lot. This past weekend I even had a show at the Greenbrier resort and got a room to myself.

Neither one of us is great with money. That's probably the understatement of the year. We always seem to be a few bills behind, dodging cut-offs and making urgent payments. It's not just being broke. It's also that we can never seem to breathe long enough to get everything organized.

"Hey, I just got a call from the gas company." "The Internet isn't working. Did you pay the bill?" "We're behind on the car payment. When do you get paid next?"

"First world problems." I know. But I don't have any experience in any other world. 

My brother has helped us out a lot over the years. He saw me bitching about bills on Facebook and transferred money into our bank account. I am grateful for him.

So, we were doing alright. For the moment.

Yesterday was our one month wedding anniversary. Incidentally, it was also the 20th anniversary of my first marriage. I got home late. I had a rehearsal with a new guitarist and we had a beer afterward.

After I came home, the Goddess and I got into an argument. It was about the seven-year-old and her punishment for using the iPad when she was told not to. It really wasn't that big of an argument, but you know how things feel when you are tired. She thinks I was too tough on her. Maybe I was. I thought she was making me look like the bad guy. Maybe I am. 

The Goddess fell asleep while we were talking and I left her on the couch. (In my defense, I had asked her repeatedly to go to bed.)

I dozed for about an hour and then I heard her screaming for me to come downstairs.

There are not many things that can send your heart racing than being woken from a dead sleep by screaming.

I threw on some pants and ran downstairs. She wasn't there. I opened the front door.

She was sitting on the porch steps, crying. There were two men standing in the yard, looking up at me.

"They are here to repossess the van."

My stomach dropped.

We aren't the type of people things like this happen to, or so we thought. We don't live extravagantly. We work hard. We pay the bills we can, usually at the last possible minute. Sometimes after that.

The van is in the Goddess' name. She had bought it before we were together. She takes care of the bills. She knew the van payment was overdue, but we hadn't had the money to pay all of our bills.

Then we had to have a stupid wedding.

But we had money now. She had just forgotten to pay the bill since we had money come in last week. We could pay it now, right?

No, we couldn't. It doesn't work like that, they said. They were here to do a job -- collect the van. They don't work for the finance company. You'll have to call them, they said.

But I can pay it right now, she said. I'll call the company and pay it and you can talk to them and leave the van.

We can't do that, ma'am, they said. We have a contract and if we don't do what we're supposed to do, we'll lose it. We have families to take care of, too. 

Besides, they said, we didn't have to let you know we were taking it. We just saw that there were children's things inside and wanted to let you take them out.

I could just give you some cash and you could say you didn't get to it tonight, she said. That way, I'll have time to pay it.

No, ma'am.

This went on for about twenty minutes, then things intensified.

The Goddess refused to empty the car or hand over her keys. She stood in front of the van, blocking the tow truck. They threatened to call the police.

She cried. A lot. There were threats exchanged. She pleaded with them. She was a good person. We have kids. We need the van to take the baby to the doctor tomorrow. She had never been in trouble before. She hadn't even had detention when she was in school.

They understood. They didn't think she was a bad person. One of them had a sick kid, too, in the hospital. The other said he had his truck repossessed when he was at work one day.

I eventually turned over the van key, so that we could get our things out. The Goddess was angry with me.

We cleaned out the van. We took out the baby seats and the double stroller. We got the kids' blankets and books and small toys. We cleaned out some of the trash, too. 

Somewhere during the process, the Goddess came completely unglued.

She ran to the backyard with some items and I followed her back there. She began throwing things. Then she started banging her head against a glass patio table. I tried to restrain her. She screamed bloody murder at the top of her lungs for several minutes. She bit me.

"I hate everyone and everything! I can't do this anymore!" She screamed more, her eyes bloodshot and swollen from crying.

I held her by the wrists for about ten minutes while she screamed at the repo men who had already left with the van and at me and at her anger at herself. She was worthless, she said. 

Once I thought she was calmed down somewhat, I let go of her and we went inside. I poured us each a glass of wine. She didn't drink hers. I finished the whole bottle while we talked.

I won't recount the whole conversation. A lot of it was personal. There was some anger and shame and blame and guilt. But mostly, I think, there was fear.

It is hard to watch someone you love so much at such a low point, even if you are there with them. 

We slept just two or three hours. She got up and called the finance company. They were not helpful. 

Can we just pay for everything now and get the van?, she asked.

No. They may just sell it at auction. They will send a letter in about a week. You can call then. Maybe you can get your van back then. No promises.

"I can't believe I've become this person." The Goddess said this several times last night. I know what she means.

We got into this because we didn't have the money. It's not that we are big spenders. We really aren't. Four kids are expensive. $1600-a-month for daycare alone is enough to break us.

And we also suck with money. I don't know if it's because we're both just artsy-fartsy, or if there is something we really are missing. I know the Goddess missed the payment because she's thinking about kids and musicals and dance. 

The absurd part is that we have the cash now, but can't solve the problem.

So we're down to one car, a four-seater for our family of six. "First world problems." Yeah, but it's our world.

This morning is just somber. I'm home from work because of a sick baby who now can't make it to the doctor. The kids don't know, of course, and haven't even noticed the missing van.

We can't even make a plan until after the holidays. Maybe we can get it back. Or maybe we'll have to get a new one. Or maybe that's not possible and we'll just have to learn to do without.

Deep down I know we don't need "things" -- even cars -- to make us happy as a family. I also know that this is just the way the world works and I guess we're just not the types of people who navigate these things well.

We'll huddle and regroup, try to organize and see what we did wrong. We'll work harder and try to get more cash flowing through this place. We'll love each other more and try not to think too much about the van and all our problems for the next week and try not to let the other four who live here know the fear that we feel this Christmas.

God Bless Us, Everyone.

I've been working a lot of overtime recently. I've been getting about 45-50 hours a week, and I make a pretty reasonable wage. I've also had a lot of gigs this month and have even more coming up. In addition, I've started writing for a local magazine and making some extra money that way.

The Goddess has started working again. She's looking for something permanent, but right now she's substitute teaching. She's also had some photography gigs, which pay pretty decently.

You would think with all that work, a family could live pretty comfortably. You would be wrong.

Payday was last Monday. On Friday I stopped by the drug store. I needed soap and I was going to pick up a bottle of bourbon for the weekend. Crystal was working the register. She was a student of mine about 15 years ago, when she was in middle school. I handed her my card.

"It says it was declined."

"Really?" I try to sound more incredulous and surprised than I actually am.

"Do you want to try to run it as a credit?"

I'm not sure what effect this will have, so I say yes. You never know.

Declined again.

"Huh. I'll have to figure out what's going on with my bank." I try to make eye contact so I don't look too ashamed.

"Yeah. Our system has been acting funny all day."

I am grateful for this young woman's willingness to go along with the charade.

What's going on with my bank is that they won't allow me to spend more money than I have in my account. Even at Christmas. They are total dicks that way.

So it's Friday night and I'm out of money. I've got a weekend and another whole week before another payday.

Only I think the Goddess has a gig Saturday night, which is good, because most of them pay cash.

"How much is your gig tomorrow?"

"I think it's canceled. The girl hasn't gotten back to me," she says.

Dammit.

Luckily, I'm meeting my editor (I'll call him Tony) Sunday morning to go over some things for the magazine. I'll get paid then, because I've done a couple of articles. And he usually pays cash, too.

Sunday morning I wake up (late, because I stayed up all night watching Christopher Hitchens debates on YouTube) and my phone is dead. I get it in the charger and then a text comes through. It's from Tony at 6:20 that morning.

"I can't make it today. Just going to bed now."

Fuck.

Okay. But I'm just finishing up four nights of gigs and the band contractor, my friend (I'll call him Joe), will pay me for the rehearsal and three shows. And he still owes me $50 for a paid rehearsal a couple weeks back.

He pays me. So I'm pretty sure I've got enough to get through the week.

Only this guy Chris messages the lead singer of my band (I'll call him X) who is also my cousin and wants to know where the money is for our rehearsal space for November and December. So X gives him my number and he calls me. I tell him I'll get it to him, but it sucks because the bassist and one of the guitar players still have to get their share to me. They both sent it Monday, but that means I have to eat that cost for most of the week until their checks get here.

Then I remember that my auto insurance is going to be taken out on the 15th, which is Tuesday.

Also, I've been ducking calls from the gas company, who I'm pretty sure is telling me they're going to shut off service at some point. I don't listen to the messages because I can't pay it right now anyway and I don't really need another automated reminder of my failure to take care of my responsibilities.

We don't live extravagant lives. We really don't. But we also are trying to live without any consumer debt right now, and we're doing pretty well there.

Childcare kills us. Since we got married, the rules have changed. The Goddess used to get subsidy for childcare. Now we don't qualify. The uptake of this is that she is essentially working to pay for childcare so that she can go to work.

She could stay home with the kids, but we're hoping her income hits a point in the future where she earns more than childcare costs.

And I gotta be honest: Christmas seems designed to remind you how broke you are. Other times of the year you can get by. But no coins at Christmas means no parties and no gifts for the people you love. If you have kids, this is really hard.

Our kids don't need a thing. And they've got lots of people looking out for them. Granny S is helping us out a lot, because the eleven-year-old wants a laptop for video editing. That's okay. I'm not an overly proud person.

But the Monkey is two this Christmas. This is really the first one where he's really aware of what's going on. I'd like to get him something -- I don't even know what yet -- just from me, or from me and the Goddess. Maybe a classic toy, nothing large. Something I bought myself that says, "You are a special little boy and I hope your life is wonderful."

I want this to be special for them, because Christmas was special for me when I was a kid. Sunday night we put up the tree and had cocoa while watching "A Very Murray Christmas." I was dancing with the Goddess and thinking just about how lucky I am. I really get that. We have beautiful kids and a nice house and none of us are starving. We could be floating on a raft in the Mediterranean right now, fleeing oppression, like some of our fellow creatures are doing. Or I could be married to an ugly woman instead.

So I guess I'll suck it up and Bob Cratchit the fuck out of Christmas this year. We say we want to teach the kids to not be materialistic. This seems like a good chance.

But at least I've got another gig tonight. I hope it pays cash.

"Jingle Bells" and Hard Lessons

About a year and a half ago, the seven-year-old (then six) asked if she could take violin lessons. She's a pretty musical kid naturally and she had seen the violin at the music store where I work. We talked about it and I guess I fantasized a bit about having a child prodigy. It could happen, right? We made her promise that she wouldn't argue with us about practicing and she said she wouldn't.

So I rented a violin for her at $30 a month and we started lessons with a young violin teacher we know from the store -- another $20 a week.

Like most kids, there was a lot of initial enthusiasm. And like a lot of kids, there was a lot of push back once the practice became a little more work.

There was a recital last year. She had been playing only a few months at that point and she didn't do too well. She forgot where she was in the piece and just kept repeating.

This year, she's playing "Jingle Bells." Still pizzicato, but I think that's because her teacher thinks she'll fuck up the bowing too much.

We've asked her to practice every day -- just ten minutes. When I was her age, I had to practice piano thirty minutes a day. Ten minutes is nothing.

Except apparently it is. Because when those ten minutes come around, she would rather scream, cry, beg, scowl, and lay in the floor for an hour rather than run through "Go Tell Aunt Rhody" for ten minutes.

I've been there. I know what it's like. I remember sitting at the piano with an egg timer set to thirty minutes and just crying. But my mom never let me off the hook.

I guess we're just pussies. I'm especially embarrassed about this because I'm a musician and I've taught music. I know you're supposed to tow the line on practicing. And I can't just blame her mom either, because I totally get it. You've got a crying baby, a toddler eating pennies, and a middle schooler acting like an asshole because you won't let him watch another four hours of Ben 10 because you just might lose your fucking mind if you hear that theme song again. Then you've got this first grader laying in the floor, wailing at the top of her lungs after you told her to get her bow and you are just sure the neighbors are calling CPS because it sounds like you're pulling out her fingernails.

Some days, you just say, "Fuck it. It's not worth it."

Other people do this better. That's hard to admit. My sister has four boys and she got all of them taking music lessons and they all practiced. The two older ones are quite accomplished musicians now.

This is a failure. I know that.

Her recital is this afternoon. All week she's been talking about it like she's marching to the death camps. Her teacher is moving after Christmas, so driving home from her lesson Thursday she informed me that after the recital, she was never playing violin again. Last night when I asked her to help put away dishes, she started crying. "What's up?" "I'm too sad to put away dishes. I get sad thinking about having to play my recital." Yeah. I know. Manipulative, right?

This morning I suggested she get out her violin and run through "Jingle Bells." "I don't want to!" Whining. Tears. Fine. Fuck it.

Thirty minutes ago, her mom told her to start getting ready. "But I want to run through my song!!" Grrrrr. She cried. She didn't want to go. We reminded her of all the times she refused to practice. I reminded her that I told her to practice this morning. More tears. "Why are you guys so mean?!" I finally told her to get ready or she is grounded till Christmas day.

So, in about an hour, I imagine this seven-year-old (who I do love, I want to emphasize at this point) is going to be standing on the stage at a church in front of about fifty people, completely shitting in her hat. Crashing and burning. She's going to freeze up and she's going to be embarrassed.

And we are going to let it happen.

I know a lot of you are going to disagree with that decision. You may even think it's a little cruel. It's not. It would be really easy just to let her skip out. It would save her embarrassment. It would save us embarrassment.

Full disclosure here: I'm not going to the recital.

I promise it's not because I would be embarrassed. We just decided it would be easier. Her biological dad is coming. We have a toddler and a baby, and it makes more sense to leave them here than to pack up six people to hear a thirty-second rendition of "Jingle Bells."

On some level, I would spare her the pain. But some pain is worth it -- including the pain of failure. The thing is, you can't always opt out of your responsibilities. And you need to learn the lesson that if you don't prepare, you will fail.

She has lots of other activities -- children's chorus, gymnastics, etc. She has had mostly success. But this is a lesson she needs to learn.

And frankly, it is a lesson we need to learn, too. We need to learn to tow the line better maybe. Or make things clearer about our expectations. Or that we need to not over-extend the kids. I'm not sure, but it seems like we need to learn something.

I guess I haven't learned it yet.