Holy Crap

You know I’m a mushy person, right? That Hallmark cards will send me into weeping fits of nostalgia, that seeing a wedding movie will make me cry until I hiccup… that photographs like the one above make me bawl like a baby (only one that’s been born, not that’s in the womb, kicking it’s mommy with sharp-heeled little feet, making it impossible for her to sleep but instead urinating during all of the minutes she would have previously spent sleeping.)…?

Well, I got a little mushy this morning and a few tears may or may not have escaped my crossed-eyes when I read my emails and discovered that some people… some awesome, insanely great, online people, have sent donations to me via paypal. The Kaat Unemployed Blogger Fund. I’ve spent a long few days recovering from the holidays and trying to sort out the mess that is what passes for my “mind”. Sadly, I neglected my blog and email. But when I opened my inbox, there were these emails… and me saying WTF?

At first I was thinking it was a mistake, wondering why someone was sending me money and figuring out how I was supposed to get it to where it belonged. But then there was the whole, “Heard you were going to be unemployed...here’s some money, happy Thanksgiving” note. And then there was another. And another. Once I had my first impulse- kind of a panicky, must-send-this-back immediately, I calmed down and cried.

To tell you the truth, it made my heart hurt. It may have been because it’s always been a grinch-sized heart and seeing those emails made it womp right out of its normal size. Contrary to popular belief, a heart growing rapidly is not a pleasant sensation, although Disney has tried it’d damndest to make it look that way. One of the side effects, at least for me, is the mush factor. People being generous for absolutely no reason other than because they want to kinda has that affect sometimes.

I remember being a poor kid. When I say we were “poor”, I mean, we ate government cheese and canned meats. I can imagine those of you who know what that is groaning in sympathy. My mom worked several jobs at a time. A lot of my memories of her during those days were her coming home and falling splat on her bed and going to sleep, still dressed in her uniform. We ate a lot of leftover KFC while she worked there. I can’t stand the shit to this day.

A result of this was the determination that my kids would never go through that. And with Christmas merrily jingling right around the corner and the Unemployment Genie blinking its eyes at me, I was a little scared that this year that my kids’ Christmas stockings would be full of the equivalent of government cheese.

You guys, thanks. I seriously love you. Thanks a lot.