Me type. Me no write.

The only reason I wear my pajamas to work is because my
ruffly dress is at the cleaners!

About a year ago, I took a promotion.  I'm a medical transcriptionist, and technically I'm an independent subcontractor, so there's this relationship thing where the woman who assigns me my work is not actually my employer, but we interact in some ways as if she is, and it's all good.  I've been typing for a living for almost eight years now, and it's been a perfect type of work for me for several reasons:

1.  I types real fast, y'all.  *shakes her money makers*
2.  I get to work at home.  Mixed blessing, but a blessing, no question, especially with kids.
3.  I have a great memory, and memorization is a huge part of my job - I don't have to stop to look shit up.  Well, of course I do, but less and less often.  

So each day I'm assigned 1500 lines of work, which is a full-time load and probably eight solid hours of work for me.  My other job is running my household.  My husband helps out, but the bulk of all things domestic still falls on me.  About a year ago I got a raise because I started proofing my own work. I worked for this raise and it felt good, because I have a certain higher level of responsibility now, which didn't scare me as much as I thought it would.  I also started making more money, but it came with longer hours.  I started getting up earlier. 

When we got back to Montana four months ago, my husband got a job right away and began working long hours.  I kept up my long hours, usually 12 hours in my office, taking necessary breaks to take children places, prepare meals, and sometimes just goof off with my kids.  Then I had the opportunity to begin proofing other transcriptionists' work, which meant another small raise on top of a per line rate for the documents I proofread.  It adds at least an hour to my work day and adds about $300 to my check each month, $150 every paycheck.  Oh, and did I mention I took a big chunk of non-medical transcription as well, with no definite deadline but which is totally looming over me?

Meanwhile, my husband is working hella long hours at the restaurant.  All this is to say that we're now making enough money to get by.  We're able to pay our bills and buy some healthier groceries.  We've been able to take the kids to the local water park and for the first time in years (maybe ever) I bought my husband a father's day gift.  I'm still working on a budget, but I think we're doing all right now.  I hope to be able to get insurance for myself soon (my kids and husband are able to get health care on the Crow reservation nearby, though I do plan to sign my kids up for Healthy Montana Kids)

Working these long hours at home is different than working long hours on my feet like my husband does.  Today we had a mild disagreement about how much time he was allowed to relax on a day off.  I was a little bitchy.  I do love working at home, and I am lucky.  Every day I get up around 6, make coffee, and either shower or get right to work.  One by one as my kids wake up they come upstairs and push open the door, eyes squinty and chins crusted with drool.  They'll come close for hugs, and sometimes curl up on my lap or on the floor while they wake up for the day.  I pretty much treasure those moments.  But it breaks my heart when my four year-old says "Why do you always have to work a long day!" or when my eight year-old brings up the fact that we need to have some time alone together.  And so sometimes I take a break from work and have a picnic under the tree in our front yard, or watch a program with my kids.  Once in a while if I feel I can't make it through the day without, I'll ask one of my younger kids if they want to nap with me. They always say yes, and my favorite way to fall asleep is with my hand across their narrow bodies. 

So I make time for my kids, and I make time for my husband.  Even though I'm exhausted by 10 p.m., some weeknights and most weekends I'll stay up until he gets home at 11, 12, or 1, just so I can sit with him and hear about his day, and so I can tell him all the stories of what happened around the house.  We've still managed to have sex a couple of times a week through all this, and I'm so glad we still have the passion we've always had for each other.  Even being exhausted I can be quickly convinced by my extremely amorous hubby to participate in some bowchickawowow.


I work hard to make sure my relationships don't suffer, and of course I have tremendous guilt.  But something has to give, and so lately what gives is my writing time, and my reading time.  I'm trying to turn a thesis into a book, and I have no time and not much motivation to work on it.  When I finally get the kids to bed at night, I gotta do some cleaning.  I can't relax in the living room unless I pick up and sweep, and the dishes are my personal chore, so I have to keep up with that.  So around 10 p.m. I collapse on the couch (which we just got FREE from our neighbors at a garage sale) and ponder if I should read one of three books I'm in the middle of, or maybe do some writing, or if instead I should maybe watch one episode of Reno 911 and then take my sleeping pill and hit the sack or doze on the couch till High Hawk the hubby gets home.  Sadly, the latter's been winning almost all the time. 




Over a year's worth of notes! And
why yes, that IS Anchorman there
in the corner!

I'm so grateful to be able to move up in my work, to have this particular kind of work, and to be making enough money to get by.  But. 

 I started to borrow Anne Lamott's idea about writing words, ideas, sentences, etc., down on index cards.  I started with white, but then I got a stack of different colored ones, and when I'm typing away at medical records, if I have an idea for a blog post, I write it on a green index card.  Pink is for ideas for my manuscript, and orange is for a different book idea I have.  So I've got a stack of neon reminders that alternately inspire and taunt me, tease me and tempt me. 


Mostly, they just get scattered all over the floor.

Every Child a Wanted Child

Today is the 39^th anniversary of Roe v. Wade, and it’s Blog for Choice day.  I thought this was the appropriate time to share my second abortion story, because my second abortion didn’t involve complications or drawn-out denial or an abusive partner—it was a more typical experience, I think, and I think it’s just as important to share this story.   

After my first abortion, I didn’t go on birth control because I wasn’t seeing anyone and I didn’t see the point.  A couple of years later I started seeing someone, and became pregnant again (no condom.  Yes, stupid.)  I told the father and he told me he was supportive of whatever decision I made.  I didn’t hesitate.  It is still amazing to me that through the years, though I’ve been willing to sacrifice a lot of things for a man, and though I’ve avoided confrontation with others by being passive-aggressive, I’ve always, always been able to stand firm when it came to my reproductive choices.  It’s not even difficult for me. 

The father accompanied me and I went and got my abortion, by the same wonderful woman, Dr. Susan Wicklund.  And this time when the nurse asked me at my follow-up visit if I was interested in a birth control pill, I said yes. 

I don’t regret either of my abortions.  I couldn’t imagine being tied to either of those men in any way.  I grew up positive I didn’t want to have kids, which probably fueled my pro-choice slant from early on, and I only changed my mind when I met someone who somehow made me believe I could be a mother, who just took it for granted I could be a good mother, when I’d always seen myself as someone who’d be terrible at and who would also hate it.   

My welfare is different

 The other day I was working at my medical transcription, typing typing typing away, when I got distracted by the Facebook.  Specifically, by a conversation started by a family member—a cousin by marriage.  In my tiny hometown in Montana, I’m related either directly or by marriage to juuuust about everyone.  But anyway, that’s neither here nor there.  The conversation, or what can be better described as a confusing and frightening narrative, started off thusly:

No food for you!

 "I was n store other day an a ma n pa n kid in buyn carton of cigs 2gal coke n rentn movies! Odd thng is they wur talkn 2 man bout needn food frm food bank an cuz they had already ben there ths mnth. The man askd if they had any cash? Nope pay day is nx week was there anser! Now they had money 4 pop movies n cigs tho! Heres the kicker... Payday as they cald it is actualy wen they get their welfare an disablity n food stamps.  Now it was all i cud do 2 get out the door wthout getn throd in jail!!"

Wow.  He was so upset, he almost got throd in jail, y’all.  Let’s ignore the terrible spelling, if we can, because I really don’t want to say that my cousin is stupid. Because I have no idea if he is.  But smart people are bad spellers too, so I’m not gonna jump on his ass too much about that.  Plus, he was probably updating from his phone, right there at the store.  Or perhaps he was so upset that he had to wait until he got to his pickup truck to clumsily and angrily tap his message. I mean, how upset do you have to be to almost get throd in jail?  I’d bet pretty upset. 

From there, my own brother decided to jump in.  My brother is super smart and quick-witted.  He’s also kind of a dick.  Here’s the rest of the conversation, salted heavily with my own pissed off outbursts.  Oh, and I’m giving them all fun pseudonyms.  So the starting comment was Cousin Elmer. 

Brother Buck:  Good thing YOU were going to work.  Somebody has to pay for these losers’ cigs and movies and food stamps.  By the way, I think jail time would’ve been totally worth it.

For the past seven years my family and I have utilized WIC, food stamps, and Medicaid. Now, I’m no Geometry genius, but I think that his equation is insulting to me.  Wait....yep, yep it is. 

People who use food stamps = losers. 

I have used food stamps. 

I = loser. 

Got it.  My brother thinks I’m a loser.  I’m feeling like ranting, but first, let’s keep listening as this unfolds:

Cousin Bocephus:  I’m with (brother Buck).  Should have asked him if he’d ever tryed suckin on a cig with a split lip.

Cousin Marcia May:  and they VOTE, too.  (angry face)

Brother Buck:  of COURSE they vote.  Can you say Obama?

Cousin Elmer:  u wnd bleve these peopl.  Peopl took food an clothes 4 kids 4 chrsmas...The man tels people he needs shoes n pants also. Wthout so much as a thnkyou!  Oh an house smokd up with leftys an one of kids has asthma! Berta may jus have a runaway! Wups

Hey, he knows what a lefty is?!   Huh.  Other than that, I'm confused.  Who is Berta?  Is she a ewe?  a cow?  A person? Where was Elmer that he heard this awful man expressing his need for shoes and pants, without properly prostrating himself before Elmer?  How does Elmer know the kid has asthma?  But let’s move on, because it gets sooooo much better.  And by better, I mean worse.  Way worse. 

Elmer:  Harry Schmerg postd 2day that iges 4 states drug tst b4 welfare! Shud b all 50 butgood that 4 do now

Buck:  I’ve heard the argument that drug testing welfare recipients is unconstitutional (mostly from people on welfare) If that is the case, then drug testing people who actually want to work for a living is obviously unconstitutional as well.

Elmer:  I thnk that habitual welfare tards shud hav to wear similar outfits like convicts and actualy go bak 2 real foodstamps nstead of debit cards and gther n the mornin so real wrkn folk cn come pk em up and make them wrk 4 their wlfare!  Does that make me an ass?

See, he’s not stupid, he can spell and use “habitual” correctly!  Um, but yeah, Elmer, it certainly DOES make you an ass.  Well, I was thinking assHOLE, but yeah.  Pretty much.   I’m feeling super ranty...must hold off...a bit longer...

Bocephus:  here’s an idea, you always hear of people saying “I’m on welfare ‘cause there ain’t no jobs,” but there seems to be a never ending supply of community service projects.  If you sign up for welfare, welcome to the wonderful world of community service.  Since community is taking care of you, why not pitch in and take care of community.  Mow a lawn, trim a tree, serve lunch at senior center, at least then I won’t feel like my money is being wasted. 

Bocephus, again:  My JOB is right across the street from the food bank.  Once a month I witness droves of brand new vehicles with $5000 wheel and tire packages and $3000 stereos picking up boxes of donated food.  When I go to the grocery store, I end up in line behind the same people and witness them buying five carts full and paying with there foodstamps. 

Hmmm. Cousin Bocephus certainly spends a lot of time watching the people across the street—I mean, he knows them so well he recognizes them in the grocery store.  Does his boss know about this? 

Marcia May:  don’t know if I’d go so far as a “welfare uniform” Grud LOL but I DO think the baloney move to “save the self esteem” of those using food stamps is totally counter-productive.  You shouldn’t be usin’ em unless you NEED em and if you NEED em then there’s no shame in using em.  I would be ALL for the expectation of completing community service appropriate to the needs/abilities of the individual (wait...that sounds kind of like a JOB, right)...think that would thin the herd QUITE a bit...if people are going to be compelled work, they might just get the hang of it and figure it adventageous to pursue a job where they get paid in more than government cheese...also not opposed to the idea of compelling birth control...if you’re having trouble feeding the ones you got, you probably shouldn’t have any MORE right now



from ejmassa.com



Wait.  Wait.  My partner had some input here.  “What?!  She’s dissin on my government cheese?!  What the fuck’s she know about government cheese?”  My partner spent a lot of years on the Crow and Northern Cheyenne reservations, and he knows from government cheese.  I’m pretty sure my cousin does not know from government cheese.  When my partner (I’m gonna call him High Hawk since we’re all about pseudonyms here—but that’s actually his Native name) and I moved in together, his parents gave us some food, and among that was a box of government mac and cheese.  I cooked it up while High Hawk was at work.  I couldn’t eat it.  The cheese’s texture was something between milk and snot, it stuck to your mouth and filmed up your teeth.  High Hawk came home and ate a huge bowl of it.  Marcia May is, of course, using the term’s derogatory sense, an idea more than an actual block of hard cheese. A metaphor, even.  Marcia goes on to declare that if she was in a desperate situation, she’d be happy to comply with all of this.  Not only would she comply, she’d be “dadgum grateful to do it.”  Ooooookaay. Not buyin that shit for a second.  Walk a mile, lady, you know the saying.

Finally, Elmer declares that he has never gone more than six days without a job, ever.  So:

Elmer has never had trouble finding a job =

You and Elmer are both humans =

You have never had trouble finding a job

I’m getting super good at this math thing, I think. 

Now, I get to rant.  

Oops!  Wrong finger.



It is NONE OF YOUR FUCKING BUSINESS what I buy with my food stamps.  Fuck you for thinking you get to dictate what someone buys with their food stamps.  THEIR food stamps.  Not yours.  I don’t give a shit if you pay taxes for my food stamps.  I pay taxes for your firefighters and your police officers.  I pay for your kids’ schooling.  I pay for your farm subsidies, you know, welfare for farmers.  Yep, looked it up, and Elmer is on the welfare too.  In fact, a lot of my relatives are farmers who received subsidies, and a lot of them rail against welfare and the lazy bums who accept it. 

My brother, Buck?  Declared bankruptcy a few years back.  I’ve been there too, after I got divorced about a decade ago.  But isn’t bankruptcy a bailout by the government?  Isn’t bankruptcy another form of welfare? 

So my family’s probably not really against welfare.  They’re just against my welfare and your welfare.  Theirs is different.  They are different. 

Not long ago I had a pretty decent Facebook convo with Bocephus about guns.  I asked him what he thought about being able to carry a concealed weapon into a bar.  Bocephus has a concealed carry permit or whatever, and he’s taken training, and he’s a responsible gun owner.  I’m not against guns.  If I thought I could have one in the house without it being a danger to my kids and also being able to get to it in time, I would.  My cousin Bocephus said he personally would never consider bringing his concealed weapon anywhere if he even thought he was going to drink, and he thought most gun owners were the same way.  I had to admit to myself that I’d never really thought that most gun owners might be responsible like he is.  Instead I thought of the worst case scenario.  So I told my cousin that maybe I was wrong about that, and that if most gun owners thought and acted like he did, we were in good shape.

And yet my cousins and my brother all fail to recognize that a LOT of people on welfare DO have jobs.  I actually am not on the welfare right now.  I graduated!  But like I said, for almost seven years I’ve needed help.  For all of those seven years, I worked full-time.  High Hawk worked, too.  I still needed help.  That’s what they don’t get—a lot of us are working as hard as we can, as much as we can, when we can.  And “there ain’t no jobs” is the fucking truth—more for some populations than others, obviously.  There are always some who will abuse the system, like the farmers who got paid to grow things they actually didn’t grow, and so the government had to start flying over to make sure welfare fraud was not being committed.  Like those who knowingly and foolishly take on too much debt and have to declare bankruptcy. 

And finally.  Even if you weren’t getting handouts too, pals, and even if I wasn’t working, you still don’t get to be supreme commander of purchases.  If I want to buy a bag of chips and ice cream for dinner, FUCK YOU.  I’m having Doritos and mint chocolate chip.  The reality is, you aren’t paying for welfare anymore than anyone’s paying for your handouts and everything else that taxes go to.

So fuck your segregation and forced birth control (I’m pretty sure sterilization of the poor would have made its way into the conversation if it would have gone on).  I hope someone follows you around and catalogues your purchases and activities and looks down their nose at you and judges you and then rants about subsidies and bankruptcy…and hypocrisy.