The fruit cup that saved my butt (and my $1,000)

Tuesday morning was rough.

It began with a fairly innocent phone call. "Don't forget to pay Ricky the rent," hubby said. "The money's in your purse."

I was sitting at my desk around 8 when I called Ricky, our landlord, who is a trip. When we hung up, the plan was that he would swing by the job and get the cash. Yes, there was this envelope that had many, many hundred-dollar bills rolled up in it. And it had his name on it.

After I hung up the phone, I searched my purse for the envelope. It wasn't there. So I called hubby, who insisted that the money was in my purse; our pleasant conversation quickly turned into panic.

And then, we both recalled the previous night--ugh.

"You threw it away," he said, as if the revelation hit him like a bag of bricks, his voice trembling. "Whaaaaaa?" I said. I wasn't even standing, but my knees were weak. And in my mind, I could see the previous night.

It was a simple, stupid argument over the stranger with the rash. (I know, it's crazy.)

So, this guy leaves me this voice mail that goes like this: "Hey, I'm not coming into work until, you know, I get this, uh, rash checked out. I got to go see the doctor. So, uh, I'll let you know how it turns out."

I thought it was hilarious. But, I was offended when hubby didn't see the humor, feel the humor with me. And so I rolled my eyes and then he rolled his eyes. And then I snapped at him because he reacted to me and I reacted to him reacting to me. You get it, right?

I wanted to find my lip gloss in my purse at just that moment, but he had crammed all of this mail into my purse earlier in the day. So, I took out all of the clutter and threw it into his lap. "Get your crap out of my purse," I said.

"Oh really? I don't think so," he said. "You can pick it up, too. 'Cause I'm not going to."

"Oh really?" I replied. "Well, you can pick it up out of the trash can if you really want it!"

Yup, it was one of those really stupid fights. And I remembered the moment I put that wad of papers in the trash can. And I also remembered how, later that night, he had taken all of the trash to the dumpster.

Gulp. It was gone.

It was only 8:30 and I was on my way to that dumpster. When I got there, I opened the stinky, dirty top and it was completely empty. There was not one bag of trash in it.

I sat right by the curb and, in defeat, realized that my emotions had just cost me more than a $1,000. I got into my car, and the tears streamed down. I was so mad at myself. No, I was mad at hubby. No, I was mad at Rash Guy for leaving me that message.

I was just mad. And then I was mad that this could bring our family to our knees. You know, hubby is not on salary until next month. I am holding things together. Family of six on one income, and it made me mad. (I want so much more.)

I just couldn't go back to work. I needed to cry this one out and maybe wash my hands with really, really hot water. When I walked in the door, I prayed for a miracle, but I kind of knew it was too late. It was trash day all over Gainesville.

I looked in one last place, though. The garbage can in the kitchen. It was empty. Except for ... a sloppy fruit cup. (Oh, the dreaded fruit cup that Mr. E, the 3-year-old, begged me for that dreaded night.) The sticky juice had seeped out of the cup and it sort of stuck to the bottom.

And you know what else stuck? Beneath the sticky juice cup? A wad of papers. And beneath that wad of papers, a sticky envelope filled with crisp hundred-dollar bills, covered in fruit-cup juice.

Did the dreaded fruit cup just save me more than $1,000? "I love this fruit cup! I love it. Oh, thank you, God!"

I guess hubby dumped out the trash bag instead of just taking it out entirely. Oh, I love hubby! And I even love Rash Guy! On the way back to work, not even 9:30 am, my feelings of anger had transformed, and I had love for everyone. Love for hubby, love for the trash men, love for even Rash Guy. But, especially love for the fruit cup.

I will never look at another fruit cup quite the same. Ever.

Not giving up yet ... ever.

You know, a few weeks ago, I had to remove one of my posts because I stepped on a few toes. And that annoyed me and made me want to rebel against my own blog.

How silly.

But, the truth is, I'm not going anywhere. I don't care who reads; who doesn't. I told myself that this blog was for me. And one day, maybe for my kids. I feel the need to get my journey down on paper, somewhere, somehow.

So, here I am. I'm actually at the gym. Just finished letting the gym kick my butt and here I am, relaxing at one of those little round tables outside of the smoothie stand. Yes, my four kids are in the day care ... for two hours (down to the minute!)

Hubby (the firefighter) is on a 24-hour shift tonight and, since I'm paying for this expensive gym membership (and kind of need to keep my sanity), I decided I'd use the last hour to blog and get on facebook. This post is really all-over-the-place random, which is just a reflection of the thoughts in my head at the moment.

Nothing too specific. Just feels good to be here.

The Beautiful (Bandaged) People

So, lastnight, around 3 a.m., I felt someone watching me. I looked up and was startled and relieved at the same time. It was my 3-year-old.

"What ... do you want?" I was rather annoyed because, yeah, don't stand over me at 3 a.m while I am sleeping. I don't care who you are.

"I want mommy," he said and watched to see if he was getting the green light. At 3 years old, he knows how to manipulate the situation. "Awwww," I thought. And with that, he jumped in bed and curled up beside me beneath my huge down comforter.

With my 3-year-old., Mr. E, on one side and hubby on the other, I drifted back to sleep, feeling very safe and very loved. About an hour later, Mr. E is tossing and turning. There are toes in my face and at one point, he turned around and ... scraaaaaaaape.

Right across my face. He got me good. And I mean, he drew blood.

The next morning, I swore I'd never let Mr. E back in bed with me again as I stood before the mirror in horror. There was a bright red gash on my left cheek. It looked pretty bad but it felt worse. I could feel the pounding and pulsing of the small, dime-sized wound.

"Oh, perfect!" I yelled to hubby. "Look! Look at my face. What am I supposed to do? I can't put makeup over this. It will get all ... icky."

And so, I put my makeup on--around the small child-inflicted wound. And then I put some neosporin on it and thought "Ewww. I wouldn't want to look at me."

Feeling a little bad for my co-workers, I pulled out a pair of scissors and a regular-sized band-aid and I cut out an ever-so-out tiny band-aid that fit right over the spot. (Nursing school was good for something, afterall).

I got to work and emailed my fave co-worker, C. "OMG. I am not coming out for the entire day. I have a band-aid on my face!" She tried to make me feel better, via email, and when she saw me, she laughed hysterically.

"You are insaaaaaane," she blurted out. "I can barely see that!"

Whatever. I could feel people looking at me, just wondering: "Hmmmm ... why does she have a smurf-sized band-aid on her face?" And it was you know, a different color than my skin and all. It was just ... awful. I felt like I was that awkward girl in high school.

I kept my head (purposefully) buried in my work all day--only coming out for lunch. And when I did, C and I headed to the mall where we sat with our packed lunches at a little table for two. We always sit at the same spot. It is away from the crowd of people at the food court and just outside of Starbucks.

We don't spend money on mall food, and we get to get away from work for a good hour. It works.

So, about five minutes into lunch, we noticed this one chic. She was working at a certain shoe store in the mall. It is actually one of my favorite spots. She looked bored as the first woman wandered in and looked at a few pairs of shoes.

"That seems mean," I said to C. "She didn't even look at her."

Ms. Shoe Girl She was staring at a computer, apparently. "She's probably on Facebook" I said, laughing.

But, then we sat and watched and noticed ... a trend.

A cute college girl walks in and she is all about her. "Hi, how are you?" The next shopper is an older woman, not very fashionable ... and she gets the snub. The girl says nothing and doesn't even acknowledge her.

Again and again and again ... it happened. And it was so blatant. We could look at the person walking in the store and if they seemed fashionable (or beautiful), she'd make small talk. And if they didn't quite fit the "beautiful people" profile, they'd be totally ignored. Totally snubbed.

It was so ... bizarre. I mean, I guess I expect it in South Beach or something. But, in Gainesville? Where did this "mean girl" come from and why is she in my mall? That's how I was feeling.

"Well, we've been talking about my ugly band-aid all.day.long. And now, here's the test," I said to C.

"What? What are you going to do?"

"I am going to find out if I make her list or not. Will the hideous band-aid keep me off the list? Will she say hello? Or will she snub ... us?"

"No, no, no," she said. "You are crazy. She's going to ... I don't know what she's going to do."

"Are you scared of her?" I replied. "Are you scared that she is going to make or break our confidence?" At this point, I was being over-the-top silly.

And so, as I finished the last bite of my homely little sandwich--definitely not a glamourous lunch, I picked up my purse and strutted right into the store ... with C reluctantly right by my side.

And you know what Ms. Shoe Girl did?

Well, I can't give it away. I'll let you choose the ending.

(Okay, maybe I'll tell you how the story ends ...next post.)