Could it get any worse? This most definitely could be a Country Western song (i show my age by including the Western part. Back in the day the only acceptable Country was Willie. How times have changed. Country isn’t even real Country Western. But that is another story for another time).
My song would start with a drive home from Florida hoping to feel the comfort and ease of a familiar landscape. To anticipate the feel of love from an extended family. To breath air that was not fraught with humidity and the smell of burning human waste. Another story for another time. The fragrant air of the Bluegrass. I was so happy that even the dread that weighed heavily on my husbands shoulders could not wipe the smile off my face. Nor the confused stirring of our dog Sissy who once in the car always thought she was headed to the Dog Park. After several hours of scanning unfamiliar landscape and whimpering in anguish she settled down into a jumpy nap dream state.
Arrived to a house in total disarray. Yard unkempt, food on the walls, occupants under the influence of illicit drugs though denying in a slurry staggering half eyed way.
A letter from the IRS awaited among the six week pile up. I owe $9600.
The air conditioner is on the blink and upon inspection needs to be replaced. 8 to 10 grand.
The battery on the car dies.
My daughter is addicted to this scum bucket boyfriend and meth.
My hubs is ready to call it quits. I did not sign up for this, he laments.
And I? I wait until the last possible moment to contact the IRS, which I must within three days and beg for mercy.
Additionally I am locked out of my stock account, the culprit who got me in this mess, and the fact that I am the worst spendthrift ever born.
I shed a few tears yesterday morning watching a segment on a Sunday show that featured a family who had lost a child to brain cancer at a very young age.
So I know it could be worse. A lot worse.
And so I begin with a telephone call and prehaps reenter the job market at least for a little while.