I Am So Popular: Raindrops on Roses

Even now, with the economy resembling a pit of hell that Dante himself might have a hard time describing, I remain one of the lucky ones. Oh, sure, I haven’t paid a dime toward principal, but my house did not—as so many have—drop in value less than the mortgage. In fact, my house has appreciated nicely. Technically, I could just sit over here, pay an assload of interest every month, and still come out ahead eventually.

However, encouraged by friends who actually understand money, I decided to try to refinance now, while the refinancing is good. Let me pause here for a minute and offer an aside to you who don’t give a rat’s ass about financing: If you will bear with me for a few more paragraphs (or cheat and race to the end), you will discover this column isn’t really about banking. It is about dressing dogs up in funny costumes. That’s gonna be the actual money shot here so… Wait for it.

Anyway, I’d talked to the refinance guy last month, many times, and he swore up and down that he would call me back in April and that, even though the refinance couldn’t happen in March, he felt really “good” that it would happen in April. I told him I didn’t believe he’d call back, that corporate guys never do. He stopped short of swearing on his mother’s mother’s grave, but absolutely insisted I would hear from him.

I didn’t. No surprise. So I called him and, between the lines—using tone more than actual words—I ripped him a new asshole. Whatever optimism he had was gone. I wasn’t getting a refinance and he kept reading repeatedly from his script, which made me increasingly frustrated, until I was yelling at him that I KNEW he wasn’t ever going to call back and that ALL I WANTED WAS SOME EDUCATION SO THAT I CAN UNDERSTAND THIS MONEY CRAP AND COULD HE GIVE THE SCRIPT A BREAK.

After the call, I was frustrated. Frustrated that I’m stuck with this goddamned whale of a shitty mortgage, yes. But more than that, frustrated with myself for having gotten into it with that guy. I’m sure the rest of his day was less pleasant for having had to deal with me. And my day was certainly less pleasant for having had to deal with him. The exchange reminded of how many hours—days, weeks, months, years—of my life I have wasted yelling at customer service people, feeling angry, freaking out. I have also spent over a decade learning how to identify the anger, divert it, quell it, not give into it. And I get better every year. But then, when I break down and let it in—well fuckety fuck fuck, I feel like I have to go down the chute and start all over again.

I looked at what made me so mad at him: Fear. Fear of being judged for my money skills (or lack of). Fear of being considered ignorant. Self-aggravation for seeming to not be able to grasp how loans and interest and credit scores and all that work.

On the other hand, as I noted, I have some friends who do get this sort of thing. Garreth, for instance, is a brilliant realtor and a patient man. Long ago he’d directed me to a local mortgage guy, whom I called yesterday after that unfortunate call to the Big Mortgage Company. Ed invited me to see him right away, and I sat across from him, and whatever defensiveness I brought with me melted away.

Ed—kind, human, and real. Ed—understanding without judging that I have a big blind spot about money. Ed—engaging me in a conversation about life that puts me at ease and let’s me demonstrate that I’m not a total ignoramus in all areas, I just have this one trouble spot.

As Ed was plugging in numbers I looked out the window of his office and saw the green trees and exhaled and revisited what I’d been thinking about earlier in the day, as I walked the dogs and took in the beauty of the day. And I thought about how Easter Sunday is coming right up.

Now, I ran screaming from the Catholic Church when I was a teenager. But I still suffer Post Catechism Stress Disorder, with serious flare-ups guaranteed every Christmas when I fall into a deep depression and nearly have a nervous breakdown, so miserable am I. That might have as much to do with the weather and Seasonal Affective Disorder as it does with the offensive crass commercialism and the I-feel-rejected-by-my-family-of-origin shit that drags me down.

Similarly, the elation I feel at Easter is also probably related more to nature than anything else. It’s lighter longer. The trees are just bursting with glorious green. The flowers are poking up. My tomato plants are already growing like mad. I mean, it is a Good Time of Year, people. Even if you don’t buy into the resurrection stuff in the bible, there is this annual resurrection of life everywhere and boy does it cheer me up.

So I decided to make a mental list of the things I do love, and am grateful for, and the little rituals I like to perform—preferably daily—to keep my spirits high. This might sound like a goofy, affirmation-heavy exercise of a middle-aged woman but really, it’s not. I just try to make an effort, when my spirits are high, to stay conscious of that the same way I like to list the bad stuff when things fall apart. Much trickier, I think, to tally up the good stuff as it occurs.

Toward that end, I realized, making my list, that so many of My Favorite Things aren’t rooted in much financial expenditure (I know, I know, an age-old lesson but nice being reminded of it). I think the thing I might like best of all is the walk in the morning with the four dogs. (This being Satch’s last month among the living, each walk with him is that much sweeter still.)

We make the same loop everyday, about a mile or so. And I happily freak out at the greenness and I run my hands through the rosemary bushes along the way and inhale the sharp buttery scent and sometimes I think I could live in a house made of that stuff. I like to make sure my bed is made and covered in quilts, not to be retentive, but because that’s a guaranteed one neat and pretty spot I can glance in on during the day when everything else is feeling chaotic. I like good yogurt. I like cooking, even if it’s just an onion in olive oil to fill the house with that onion-cooking-in-olive-oil scent. I love anything related to knitting and keep stacks of knitting mags, like porno, beside my bed. (My arm could be hanging off and, I swear, if you drove me to the Hill Country Weavers on the way to ER, that would make the job of the triage team that much easier, as my BP would go down considerably upon seeing all that colorful, soft fiber.) There’s music, of course, both live and recorded. And books. And riding my highly impractical baby blue beach cruiser at sunset along the paths at Mueller. And nice people-- like Ed-- I really, really, really like nice people.

My mom loves this time of year, too. I’ll call her up and say, “Happy Easter,” and she’ll say, “To new beginnings!” It’s our Spring ritual, new beginnings being a concept we’re both more than a little fond of.

Now, about the costumed dogs, as I promised. Easter to them? Well, to them it’s less about new beginnings than it is old traditions. They know—and begrudgingly tolerate—that they likely won’t escape the season without partaking in a bit of a pageant over here. Never mind whiskers on kittens, people, I say dressed like bunnies are much more some of my favorite things.

Spike is planning to listen to Jesus Christ Superstar—yes AGAIN—this Easter while eating a dark chocolate crucifix. She blogs at www.spikeg.com and www.knitbuzz.blogspot.com. She also is the Head Mistress for the Dick Monologues. Next show April 15th—don’t wait, email spike@spikeg.com NOW for tix.