Being a Grown Up Sucks

I realize that no one except me reads this. And really, I do this because I can type faster than I can write. So sometimes this turns into a bitch fest instead of the wittiness and brilliance I always imagined my writing would be if anyone could ever see it. But like I said, no one reads this because I'm just a twenty-eight year old woman from New England who nobody cares about except her immediate family. It's like Gerry Glynn asks in Darkness Take My Hand, "Are you a person of impact?" (I may be paraphrasing, there). And I find it disturbing that a line from a fictional serial killer made me question my own importance in the world. Anyway, the answer to that question is "probably not." I impact my parents and my sister and my husband, maybe some of my friends. But not anyone else. Probably won't.

And why is Handsome Rob making crap films? Didn't he see Italian Job? He was GOOD in that movie. Stop making Transporter movies and the movies that rip that crapola off. Make more movies where you can be funny and stop kicking things in.

I digress.

I have a messy apartment, wedding thank you notes that STILL have to be written, a job I hate, a mother who still treats me like I'm sixteen and stupid, friends who either don't call or won't stop calling, and a sister who only speaks to me when it's convenient for her (she says she doesn't screen her calls, but I don't believe her). I don't know if I can have a baby, I feel like I will never find a better job or finish my book, and we never have any fun money. This month, we bought most of the pots and pans we registered for (not all) and that was it for fun money. Omar says we will have fun money next month, but something always comes up. Car trouble, pay the tuition, etc. I am so sick of saving for someday when I feel like someday is never going to fucking get here.

Someone asked me the other day what I find so fascinating about celebrity life. And I thought about it. Celebrities have lives just like you and me. They have problems and families that love them or hate them, job issues, friends in whom they confide, etc. But they are beautiful and rich and they have such interesting jobs. They weren't always beautiful or rich and I'm sure they all at one point or another have hated their jobs. They probably know what it's like whether or not they choose rent or food this month (once, only once, and I caved and called my parents, one of the five times I ever asked my mom and dad for money). They probably at one point had a boyfriend who paid for their glasses and lent them a hundred bucks so they could buy food (again, only once, although I never did pay Omar back for the glasses or the $100, even though I meant to and was so utterly ashamed I had to ask him I hated him for about a week, although I hated myself more). But now, they get to dress up and wear beautiful clothes and/or jewelry, have beautiful homes, expensive cars, etc. I know money can't buy happiness, but it could possible solve some short term problems in this apartment.

I guess I just thought it wouldn't be this hard. No one says you have to love your job or even like it. But it would be nice if I didn't get headaches all day long and come home wishing I didn't hate every single person on the planet. It would be nice if real estate prices dropped. It would be even nicer if I could afford a cleaning service to come in once a week and clean my crappy little apartment.

I got home from work today at ten of six. I put the news on, threw the clothes I was wearing into the washing machine, along with the rest of a load of darks. I started dinner, made a pitcher of iced tea, checked my email and watched Campbell Brown fill in for Brian Williams, because we are an NBC news household here (although I don't know about the Today Show once Meredith Viera comes on board. I hate The View and she was a large reason for that). I did another four loads of laundry today, folded all of them, and put them away. And my husband got on my ass about thank you notes, even though I had cleaned the living room (my living room is the unfolded laundry depository), put all the folded laundry away, made the hard part of dinner, and even cleaned up after myself in the kitchen. So I snapped at him, was probably meaner than I had to be, and had a mini-temper tantrum/breakdown in the kitchen while I was trying to apologize to him.

The truth is, Omar comes home every night and 80% of the times does dinner and the dishes, irons his clothes, etc. He certainly has all this week. The only night I made dinner was on my day off. I felt bad about that, because I know he's been tired and work has sucked. So I took it on myself to do all this stuff and he gave me some shit and all the compliments, etc, he'd heaped on me for doing the work I had done got lost in my irritation at being asked to do one more thing. Hadn't I earned the rest of the night off?

He wasn't trying to be an asshole. At least I don't think he was. But it was like, "Jesus, didn't I do enough?" And then we started talking about my finding a new job and how I'm quitting the store on October 1st, no matter what. (And I have no idea how I'm going to do that. My boss is going to have a fit and be awful to me the last couple weeks I'm there. And I hate that, because I've been very good to her.) When I told him I couldn't do another holiday in retail, he said, "I understand" and I know I hurt his feelings when I said, "No, you really don't."

I hate the holidays. Hate them. I can't enjoy Thanksgiving any more, my favorite holiday, because I'm too freaked out about work the next day. Where am I going to park, how am I going to handle the crowds, do we have enough change for the registers, etc. I spend the whole day thinking about work the next day. Christmas is just as bad. All managers were required to work six days that week, without compensation (they could have an extra day off sometime the following week or week after; I spent that extra day fighting off the cold I had gotten from having to work six days on no sleep and all caffeine and being around germy kids). I have to negotiate my schedule, with my Jewish boss, because she hates to work past five, even though she does. Last Christmas Eve, I had to be at the store for five in the morning. I got up at three-thirty in the morning. I was asleep on my parents' couch by eight-thirty, slept till nine, made us late for dinner at Omar's parents' house because I overslept and we didn't finish opening presents until late and then got stuck in traffic. I spent all of Christmas day feeling nauseous and worrying about how crowded the mall was going to be the day after and what our sales plan was and if we were going to be equipped to handle the returns. I loathe the holidays. I hate Christmas shopping, I hate going to the mall on my day off, I hate it all. Retail ruined my enjoyment of the holidays. Is it so wrong that I want to enjoy my family and my day off without wondering what's going to go wrong at work the next day? Without worrying about plan or all those other things that a retail manager has to pretend to care about? I'm already grumpy in the winter because I hate the cold; holiday season (which starts in freaking October) makes it worse.

So no more. This year I quit. We'll figure something out. If I have to work in retail, I will. But not as a manager. I'll apply to work and tell them 10 to 6, M-F, no weekends. And someone will be just desperate enough to let me. I hope. But that's only if I don't find a job. And I'm really hoping I will.

In the spirit of being a good wife, I have turned over the remote to Omar. Which is why I'm listening to something called The Ultimate Fighter, which is apparently on SpikeTV and is the most disgusting show I have ever seen. I hate this show, but Omar loves it. So Thursday nights after Earl and The Office, we watch this crap. Or he does, and I find something else to do. He enjoys it, so fine. And last night he let me watch the Without a Trace marathon on TNT, even though he really wanted to watch the Sox game. Compromise, it's not much, but sometimes it's all we've got.

We need a new stereo. And a new couch. And a new bedspread. And the rest of our everyday place settings and silverware. And the carpet needs to be steam cleaned. And the kitchen/dining room table needs to be cleaned off. And if I keep making lists of things we need or things we need to do, I will make myself and Omar nuts.

Whenever we buy lottery tickets, I tell Omar, "I'm not greedy. I don't want $235 million" or whatever it is. "I'd settle for enough to pay off our bills, buy a house and a new couch, and some money to invest for retirement." I don't think that those are outrageous things to want. And yet I never thought those would be the only things I want.

I don't know. Maybe being a grown up doesn't suck. Maybe parts of it just suck. Being able to drink booze is certainly a plus, but I don't know so much about the rest of it.