Mortgage Stress

After George leaves for work I reach up to the medicine cupboard and feel around for the familiar box containing my contraceptive pills. I lift it down. Empty. There must be a repeat script left up there somewhere. I feel along the back wall and find nothing. I get a chair from the kitchen table, stand on it and lift every thing down, one by one. I look at the oven clock. It’s 5:00pm on a Saturday. There is no chance of getting a doctor’s appointment until Monday. However on Monday there is a team planning day and it would look rude not to be there.

I wander past the note in the hall, on my way to the study that reminds me that Mama-Grey our cat is due for her flu shot, fortunately just the far side of next pay day. While the computer is warming up I realize that the washing machine has stopped. I walk to the bathroom and press the button with its electronic beeps to set the rinse cycle. The computer it is still ‘thinking’. I look at the pile of ironing which has been accumulating since Monday, sigh and walk to the hall cupboard and take out the ironing board. While I’m setting it up the password screen comes up so the ironing is abandoned momentarily. My e-mail advises me that Jacqui Tang has sent me a message. I log into my social networking site and discover an invitation to a party. I’m excited until I realize that it’s a sexy lingerie party and guests will be expected to buy some. I wander into my bedroom, almost tripping over George’s runners on the way and sort ruefully through the worn contents of my top drawer. It’s a party I can’t afford this week so it’s easier not to reply.

The balance of my main bank account is worse than expected. It contains twenty one dollars and thirty cents. That’s enough to cover my script if I can survive until Thursday on what is in my purse and my other bank account which has about $100 in it, hopefully. My mobile phone beeps twice. There is a text from George.

Not on new roster. Last shift tonight. Going for drinks after work.

Luckily that’s only one of George’s three jobs. At least now we’ll have alternate Saturday nights together.

I’m intent on having a quiet weekend. Staying in and saving money is my new motto. There won’t be any more café brunches with eggs and coffee. Home-made is best. I pull the vacuum cleaner out of the cupboard and push it around making no impact on the lumps of dirt, fluff and cat hair on the floor. The head must be stuck again. I sit in the hallway and attack the mass of dust and hair that is clogged up inside. It finally has a clear airway. I turn it on, nothing. I flick the switch off and on. Nothing. This time it is broken for good. Retrieving the carpet sweeper is a definite possibility.

On Sunday morning George is very excited about my plans to stay in. He has one thing on his mind as he brings me coffee and croissants in bed. I don’t have the heart to tell him about the script. He is feeling miserable about losing his job at the café, and needs cheering up.

It’s a busy week. Deadlines are looming and my calendar is full. I don’t get to the doctor until Wednesday night after work. I sit patiently as dozens of people troop in get their flu injections and leave. After forty minutes my doctor has not made an appearance. I ask at the desk.

“She’s just with a patient. You’re next.’” The receptionist says kindly.

It doesn’t hurt to ask. The nurse calls another family. An hour and a blood pressure test later I’m out. Script in hand at last I race into the chemist.

“The system’s down” the assistant tells me when I offer my card. “You will have to get cash.”

My pills are sitting in a little basket just out of my reach. I cross the road and go to the automated teller machine and attempt a withdrawal. The machine tells me that it is not currently dispensing $20 notes and asks me to please request another amount. There is only $20 in the account. I walk down the street, see a bottle shop and go in knowing that in addition to the $20 there is enough left in the other account to buy a clean skin bottle of red wine and some organic orange, dark chocolate. I buy them both and asked for twenty dollars cash out as well. Cash in hand I head back to the chemist and complete my purchase.

At home George and I celebrate having more time together by drinking all the wine and eating the chocolate. We have a great night. At lunch time on Thursday when my head has cleared I realize that my packet of pills is sitting still wrapped in paper on the kitchen bench. It wouldn’t be so bad if I hadn’t agreed to go with Ruth to her poetry reading on the other side of town after work. Later at home the kitchen light bulb has blown, and George agrees to get new light bulbs in the morning. Mama-Grey wakes me at 5:00am. In the dark we forgot to feed her. Turning to cut her packet of food open on the bench I see the taped, white package. By then it’s too late. I don’t know it yet but I’m already eating for three.

from blog post to hard copy

Generally I'm a quiet writer. This blog was set up to share my writing with others, to learn about how it is received and to consider ways of developing it  further. Sometimes blog comments can be too nice but at other times they are uncompromisingly honest. It can be a risk to put your work out there. The worst times are when you've written something from the heart but no-one reads your post. But then you realize it doesn't mean that it's bad. It's just the ebb and flow of social media.

There are all types of blogs and all types of bloggers. Social media sites have great potential for writers and it's a really exciting time to be writing as your words can at times have fairly immediate reach and influence, and its so much easier to connect with others who have similar interests.

This Wednesday evening will be a very special evening, the launch of Miscellaneous Voices: Australian Blog Writing #1. I'll be attending and reading my Now poem along with seven other contributors. That will be my first public reading. Meeting Karen Andrews and the other writers will be a highlight. I read Miscellaneous Voices on the tram, on the train and at my dining room table. The challenge won't be to put the name to the face but to put the post to the face. I'll also be thinking about those other contributors like my friend Lorraine who won't be able to make it but whose writing has touched me.