the mind, it has to land somewhere, right?

I am all over the place, both in fear and paranoia about becoming unemployed again.

There is this thing called current economic conditions that is not helping calm me in any way. Yes, there are jobs out there and, guess what—there are people applying for them at a much higher rate than there are openings. Meanwhile, my finances wait for no one, least of all for my lightning-strike plan of hitting the lotto.

I’m not sure whose idea this was back in the ’70s, but the master bedroom in our newly leased home has an open floor plan where the bathroom sink and counters are part of the sleeping area. Over to the side, yes, but fully visible at all times. Why is this? Combined with my triggered depression being terrible for the unpacking process (it’s been a month), I’m on a Battle of the Network Stars obstacle course whenever it’s time to brush my teeth. I want one of those beaded curtain thingies to hang from the arc, but first, the rent, you know.

What is Jordan doing to her earbuds that she needs to replace them monthly? I am definitely open to ideas on that in comments. Yes, she uses them everyday, all day. She takes them on walks, they are with her in the car. I buy/procure her a new pair, and three weeks later, they look like survivors of a Viet Cong prison break. One side doesn’t work, the tangles are outrageous, the buds themselves are hanging on by frayed wires. She’s gone through about 10 in-ear pairs and three over-ear in fewer than two years. I’ve bought cheap ones, expensive ones, ones for gym workouts, ones for lounging, I just can’t get it right. Her third iPhone in 18 months is on its way from Q’s magic closet to replace the one Jon Alex supposedly broke, and after that, I’m tapped out. You think I should start treating her like a normal teenager, and the stuff she can’t care for, she can’t have? I may be too busy trying to give her a cool-stuff leg up on her peers to make up for other things. Dunno. I am Q’s money pit, and Jordan is mine.

My favorite part of the weekend was explaining to JA the difference between a biological parent and a dad. He’s nine, so he uses the term dad very loosely when talking about the other half of his DNA. I am, of course, using the words “favorite part of the weekend” very loosely, but this is never a conversation I shy away from having. It’s important for Jordan and JA to understand that men who have made a conscious decision not to participate in their lives deserve no affection nicknames. Clinical and scientific, okay. “Dad” never okay. Then I remind them—well, remind JA anyway, Jordan moved away from this conversation years ago—of the people who are in their lives who love them very much and who want to see them as often as humanly possible. Those are the ones we count when taking inventory of our lives. Lesson understood, he and I then separated as he led the hunt for Frosted Flakes down the grocery aisle, excited he was allowed two boxes of Toaster Strudel.

Rambles, non sequiturs and moral ambiguity in comments…