School’s out…

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…and I have absolutely no idea what my children are going to do which is a total recipe for disaster.

I am trying to think about what I did when I was their age and summer vacation rolled around, hoping to come up with some brilliant ideas…

Tennis Camp.

Golf Lessons.

Job.

Get in trouble.

Which, is exactly what I am worried about. My kids are certainly not going to tennis camp or taking golf lessons. Almost laughable.

I had steady work, but it did help that my mother owned a store.

One can get a job, but it has to be around here and he is only at my house every other week and can’t drive. I work double time in the summer so I can’t help at all.

And, he’s only 15.

Which is exactly how old I was when I figured out how much fun being free and unattended can really be.

Yikes.

The other one is more determined to go door to door and scrounge up yard work with his buddies – he wants money to spend on candy and shit at the convenience store.

Which, by the way, is a whole other problem that I can’t deal with at this particular moment in time.

If they, in their vast amount of spare time, fuck up, I am not only going to have to deal with whatever it is that they do, but I will be blamed, completely, by their father for being a negligent parent.

Which will be spot on.

Which leads to being a single, working parent whose job gets crazy just when the kids get out of school and who can barely get the dishes done let alone supervise two teenagers and all of their friends.

And to think that at one time, I may have judged others for their kids running amuck.

So, here are my pleadings:

If you have any work, small jobs, big jobs, anything at all, please call me.

OR

If you see my children smoking pot behind the Marshall’s office (or anywhere else for that matter) or doing anything else that is really stupid, please tell them to stop because their mommy apparently needs  a little back up.

The A,B,C’s of Divorce

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Three priorities in life:

A – Family

B – Self

C – Work

I know in what order I believe A, B, and C should lie. You may or may not agree.

But I do know that trying to maintain a relationship with someone who says “B, C, A,” when I’m thinking “A, B, C,” or “C, A, B,” just isn’t going to work.

I presented this once, supremely confident that the receiver of said presentation would slap his own forehead and say “What was I thinking? Of course it’s …”

Didn’t get that. Instead I received, “You’re right, if A includes you then A doesn’t come first.”

And there it was.

Black and white.

Divorce.

And the good news is….

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…there is a God(dess). I’ve met her. Her name is SC.

She is a CPA.

She has parted the red sea of my despair.

All of this garnishment stuff definitely got to me (as you could maybe guess.) In some ways, too, that was just the tip of the iceberg.

Since I had never done the taxes while we were married and before that I had been able to complete the 10W-EZ for my paltry $5,000/year Outward Bound income, filing as a single mother with a foreclosure and cashed out retirement fund was extremely intimidating.

And when I get overwhelmed, I stall out.

I had everything together, ready to go; had every intention of filing – it’s not that I was trying to pull anything off that was illegal – I just kept freaking out and putting the folder back under the folder of bills to pay.

But this recent “incident” with the State motivated me. I was so outraged that he hadn’t filed – you pay your taxes, dammit – yet here I was a few years behind.

Hypocrite.

So I decided to sit down and do it. Took a nap instead.

Went to H&R Block. Apparently I have to sit there with them while they do it – and write a check on the spot. Wasn’t going to work for me.

So then I decided to do what regular people often do…I found myself a CPA. I took everything to her, cried my little overwhelmed and extremely guilt-ridden heart out, then said, “call me when it’s done.”

Call me she did. When she first called, she let me know that I might owe some money – not too much, much less than I had feared given the IRA and the fact that I hardly have anything taken out of my paychecks because I need every penny possible. I was so relieved that it wasn’t worse that the amount that I did owe seemed worth celebrating.

Then she worked a little more magic – dependents, earned income credit, and a few other things that apparently a single mom with almost no income can use, and…

Voila! 

A refund.

Halle-fuckin’-lujah.

Enough, even, to cover the (very large) amount of money that I owe her.

Which is totally and unquestionably worth it because of the guilt relieved and the peace of mind restored. I am no longer a hypocrite and can return to looking down my nose at him for not fulfilling his civic duty (and legal responsibility) that comes with living in a free country.

After this garnishment deal is over with, I will be completely in the clear and I won’t have to worry about getting pulled over for a broken tail light and ending up in federal prison for tax evasion.

Yes, my mind does have a tendency to head towards worst case scenario.

Lesson learned: pay taxes.

Garnishment: follow-up

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I have been trying to remain calm about this whole thing. Okay, a little angry at him, but also resigned.

I applied for Innocent Spouse Status and was really counting on that – since he told me that he had paid the taxes and I had no clue that he was lying until the State contacted me to let me know that actually, he hadn’t.

I thought that I would be immune to any embarrassment because this wasn’t my doing. I also believed that somehow, financially, it wouldn’t be that bad.

I was wrong on all of it.

When I received my paycheck yesterday I just stared at it in disbelief. I made a joke and acted as if this wasn’t the end of the world, while inside my heart was racing and sweat started pouring down my sides. I had thought about how much 25% was, but I hadn’t done the math to fully comprehend how much 75% is.

Not very much.

And you know what, it actually is embarrassing, humiliating and shameful. I may not be the one who lied, but I am certainly the one who didn’t bother to check. No matter how you look at it, since we were still married at the time, it is a “we” thing.

The State of Colorado certainly sees it that way.

Then I received that call that informed me that states don’t grant Innocent Spouse Status, the IRS does, and since we didn’t owe anything to the IRS, I was denied.

You’d almost think he planned it that way, but even he’s not that smart.

And not even an acknowledgement, let alone an apology from him. And I can’t even begin to hope that he will take responsibility and help out for the kids’ sakes.

I will manage, I know that I will – I have been through some seriously desperate financial times before.  There is even a sense of pride in surviving it, even though it may take months to recover. I am not going to let this (and therefore him) get the best of me.

But this better not happen again.

Garnishment

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Tomorrow my wages get garnished – 25%.

25% of each paycheck until “our” debt to the State of Colorado is paid off.

Like I can afford to have that taken out of my paycheck.

Apparently, when we were still married, “we” blew off paying the State one year; totally unbeknownst to me because once I handed over my W2, I relieved myself of anything to do with taxes.

Obviously a mistake, in hindsight, but that was one of those division of labor pieces that happen in a marriage.

When I heard of it (by receiving a letter from the State) I tried to deal. I needed information that I didn’t have (i.e. the Federal return from that year) and I was shut down. Was told it wasn’t a priority and then ignored.

So here I am, my ass is chapped and there is nothing that I can do except try to squeak by on 75% of my paltry income and try to not get eaten up by resentment.

Divorce – the gift that keeps on giving.

 

I am truly the biggest weenie, ever.

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I just got home from a party and maybe just figured out why I don’t ever go to parties.

The party went as parties tend to go; lots of chatter, great enthusiasm for meeting new people and an ability to be vivacious and even a little bit funny.

And as the night went on, things, as they naturally tend to do, began to wind down.  Lots of the less familiar faces went on to other gatherings or just went home. I surveyed the scene and breathed a sigh of relief that we were down to a few well-known folks, those with whom you don’t need to make chit-chat, with whom you don’t need to be “on.”

So I sat with the gals and we dove right into parenting teenagers, grandparenting, and matters of children’s hearts.

“Well, Camille, you know…”

Who the fuck is Camille?

I must have mis-heard that.

So Camille, the program that you work for…”

Camille?

Is she actually calling me Camille?

No.

I’ve known her for years – not well, but I’ve been to her house more than once and we went to a Christmas concert together. Our work paths cross. She’s given me parenting advice.

In other words, we’ve shared time and space.

So I listened, still not quite believing that she meant me when she used that C word.

“Camille…”

Dang, she said it again – I really think that she thinks my name is Camille.

“Now wait, I’m confused, Camille…?” says the other gal in the conversation.

“Yes, Camille works at _________.”

This is accompanied with a general hand wave in my direction.

But see, the problem is NOT that she kept calling me Camille – I forget people’s names all of the time and Camille is a pretty great name.

The problem is that I am too big of a weenie to say something.

I went with Camille.

Apparently I would rather be called the wrong name, over and over again, by someone with whom I have broken bread rather than simply say, “My name is actually, Suzanne.”

How lame is that?

Really lame. Absurdly so.

Now, when she figures out that she had my name wrong – I really will be the big fat looser who didn’t say anything. So if I was worried about embarrassing her, I don’t have to any more, now I can just worry about what an idiot I appeared to be.

Later, I pulled the other gal aside because it was clear that she had yet to figure out who this Camille gal is. I said, “’tis I.”

And she asked the obvious, “Well, Suzanne, why didn’t you correct her?”

Duh.

So, you can call me Camille from here on out (or anything else you choose) and I obviously won’t say anything

48

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River

Amazing children

Love

Sunshine

Catfishing

Milkshakes

Raven, Ibis, Herons

Big horn sheep

Contentment

Siestas in the shade

Wonderful company

Laughter

Who says getting older isn’t any fun?

Tweetsie

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tweetsie-railroad

Right?

Oh yeah, for those of you in the know, I don’t have to say another word.

For those of you who aren’t, it’s a train. But not just any train – it is the best train ever and was a huge, no HUGE, part of my childhood.

Tweetsie was an entire world unto itself.

Mountains of North Carolina; you drove up into the hills and suddenly you were in an old western town, with cowboys, stagecoaches and a “saloon.”

No different, really from where I live now.

And there was Tweetsie – standing proudly, shiny and green, steam billowing out, waiting for me. My brother and I would actually shake in anticipation – and a little bit of fear because we knew the hazards of riding a train through the hinterlands of the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Bears, indians (white ones of course – this was the South), train robbers. Guns, arrows and the cavalry, thank the Lord.

Kent and I would sport our very best hats and boots, holsters with pop guns around our waists. One year, my brother got so scared trying to protect our family from the thieves that he held the gun backwards, sweat pouring down his face, and shot himself.

Good thing it was only a toy.

But it scared him so badly I think he still has nightmares.

After the train ride, you could either have lunch at the saloon, get a sepia photo taken of you and your family or go up the mountain to The Giant’s Castle and see the big guy asleep and snoring in his bed.

Terrifying – everyone whispered for fear of waking him up.

There were a few kid-sized rides and lots of bright colors.  But it paled in comparison to the old-tyme world down below.

My grandparents lived on a mountainside across the valley from Tweetsie’s. There was a deck on the back of the house from which I could see the smoke from her stack as she circled the lush, green peak around which her route lay.

Hours. I would watch for hours from that deck. I could see when Tweetsie was stopped at the station. I knew how long it would take for her to get moving again. I saw the smoke stand still, indicating that the train had stopped and was in the process of being attacked by “redskins.”  Then, the plume would disappear behind the hill.

I counted the minutes in anticipation, knowing exactly how long it would take for the train to round the bend and make her way back towards the station.

And every damn time I worried that she wouldn’t round the bend because they’d all been killed during the robbery.

It never got old.

Periodically, I talk to someone who knows about Tweetsie, whose childhood also included that magical world and it creates and instant, ever-lasting bond.