Cracking foundations and leaky basements


A dear friend of mine has a squatter and she’s finding out there’s some problems with the plumbing.  The foundation is cracking and the basement is leaking.

Imagine working everyday to keep your guests warm, fed, comfortable…. but your home just isn’t cooperating!  The wee one has been squatting just shy of 15 weeks now and though it appears to be content – guessing on the party going on in there I’d say he’s pretty darned content – her home is at risk of crumbling around her guest and forcing him out on the streets where he just can’t survive.

Our most important job in the world – the one thing we are meant to do – is to love, nourish and provide for this little spec.  A little spec who needs to grow into a full human.  Skin, bones, heart, kidneys, a brain… a little soul with a big personality, just waiting for their stage call.

I may be used up, old, tattered.  I may have battle wounds that would make a war hero cringe.  Maybe (just maybe) I’m up for retirement after a terrific (long, arduous, non-glamorous) career as a pro squatter-hoster-person.

But what if I wasn’t?  What if I couldn’t do my job?  What if I’d failed at the one thing I’m supposed to be great at?  What then?  How would I compute that?

I would be crushed.  My identity is wrapped around what I’m supposed to do and suddenly there would be nothing for me to do but constantly prepare for guests that never come.  Ad nauseam.

So to my dear friend I say – although clichéKeep calm and carry on sit your ass down on a chaise, eat bonbons and do nothing but keep that spec warm, fed, and happy.  Cracking foundations and leaky basements aside now is NOT the time for a major renovation.  Do just enough to keep the squatter safe and let the experts do the rest.

Whether you’re entitled to a gold-plated speculum or your standard-issue stainless steel ones, you and I are one and the same.  Godspeed dear friend, Godspeed.  Trust He has a plan (cause your Boss-Lady sure didn’t!) and do what you do best: Be You!

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The Boss-Lady had gonads

Yeah, I said it.  My Boss-Lady is weird.  And annoying.  And she has BALLS.

Weird enough that her uterus is streaming Youtube videos while tweeting and blogging.  Annoying enough that she sings early ’90 throwback songs at the top of her lungs.

Now she thinks she’s Julia freakin Roberts and pulled a classic Pretty Woman move.

Friday night, I was promised a night out with the girls, lots of alcohol, and yummy Mexican food.  The going gossip around us gals is that her friend TRIED to make a reservation but was told she couldn’t – and when we (and by WE I mean I) got to the bar she was told it would be a 3 hour wait for a table for 6, and we (and by WE I mean SHE) should have made reservations.

With the rest of the group about to show up, Boss-Lady and the friend were pretty bummed.  Until the missus got out of the car and said she’d  be back.

Now as much as she’s weird and annoying and somewhat embarrassing and such, I’m so proud of what happens next.

She marched in like she owned the place, mustered the biggest fake smile she could manage and asked for a manager.  She explained that she was refused a reservation then told she should have made one.  She understands it’s busy and that there might be a 45 min – 1 hour wait on a crazy-ass Friday night…. but not even taking their names down?  3 hours minimum before they’re even looked at because the group is larger than 4????

And – wait for it… – she adds:

We’re a bunch of moms who just wanted to go out for a nice meal and some dancing with friends and maybe get a little drunk.  I know our group is a bit bigger but we have money to spend and we want to spend it here, on your food and your booze.

15 minutes later we were eating nachos and drinking margaritas at OUR table.  That’s right!  If I wasn’t a uterus I’d be damn sure that woman had gonads.

Never under estimate the willpower of a stressed-out mom in search of alcohol on her first night out in months.

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Welcome to my world!

I’m old.  I’m tired.

I’ve had a few squatters come through and it seems they never want to leave.  The place wouldn’t pass a building inspection – the pelvic floor is all but ruined – and the neighbors are weird.  I’ve been kicked, poked, prodded and generally abused by Boss-Lady and aliens alike.

I build a nice home and each month some bitch comes along and destroys it unless a squatter shows up before she does.

Just when I start getting used to the intruder the goons cut me open and pull the thing out of my once-cozy abode.  Then they try to ‘fix’ me.  <snort> I now sport a perma-smile, ‘Joker’-style.  Cheese!

I hear them talking sometimes during their ‘private meetings’.  There may be more.

I’m sad, and droopy.  There’s nothing firm left on me.

There might be a labor dispute in the making; the working conditions are dismal and the pay is non-existent.  Either that or I’ll swallow my pride and kiss-ass to the Boss-Lady.  Whatever.

Look.  It’s not pretty in here right now.  Scars and vandalism will do that to you.  I’m bitter.  and cold.  Somehow those squatters manage to warm up the place a bit.

Drink up ladies, it’s downhill from here!



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