Given your status as a fellow Texan, Phil, I feel confident you'll understand when I call bullshit on your elitist, upper one-percent rant. Here's a recap, to make sure we're both on the same page:
"We have sort of become a nation of whiners. You just hear this constant whining, complaining about a loss of competitiveness, America in decline," said the former Texas senator. "You've heard of mental depression; this is a mental recession."
Gramm also said the media was responsible for fostering unnecessary anxiety over the state of the economy. "Misery sells newspapers," he said. "Thank God the economy is not as bad as you read in the newspaper every day."
See, Phil, while you were on the stump, not-so-quietly losing your mind, I was on about my fifth hour of work. I sat my alarm for 4 a.m. so I could get five hours of freelance writing and editing in before my eight-year-old crawled out of bed.
That block of work time is precious because, as a single parent, there are so many things my budget has to stretch to cover that summer daycare is cost-prohibitive -- and a week of day camp is a rare week of golden, golden sunshine. By getting up at 4, I'm able to get enough work done that I can snuggle the kid, make her breakfast, get her dressed and ready for the day, and find a book or a project or chore that will keep her occupied long enough for me to get a little more work done.
Sadie awake, I make her breakfast, brush her hair, dig out a matching shortset, and set her at her desk for some summer-school workbook exercises and a little summer reading.
Another three hours or so of work under my belt, I hand the kid a sandwich (by the way, Phil -- the price of a loaf of bread is now up about 50%, did you know that?). Then I bust out a cheap craft kit to keep her close and busy and begin my next chore of the day: making call after call begging the Texas Insurance Risk Pool to accept the pages of pages of documentation I've already submitted as proof that I really can't get a standard commercial insurance policy and I, therefore, really, really need them to sell me a $7,500-deductible, $469/month policy.
See, Phil, I'm uninsured now. I have a cadillac policy for my kid, but I can't insure my self-employed ass for love or money, apparently. Well, let me take that back, Phil. I probably could insure my self-employed ass for money -- and stacks of it -- but when my old insurer (who slapped me with a cardiac exclusion six years ago after I suffered from a viral infection in the lining of my heart) informed me that my premium was going up to the point where it was rivaling my mortgage, it was time for me to pack up my whiny ass and look for greener pastures.
Greener pastures that, when it comes to health insurance, apparently no longer exist in America. See, I made the mistake of thinking that, per the risk pool's instructions, when I submitted proof that the policy I cancelled had large exclusions, I was meeting the application criteria. I'm not sure what more they're going to need by way of proof that I can't get a comprehensive health insurance policy and haven't had one for years, but apparently they need more. And maybe some blood. My firstborn?
Errand time now, Phil. I fill up the car. That runs $58 this week, when it used to come in right at $30. Not that I'm whining, big guy. Then we head to the grocery store to pick up a few staples at the grocery store (milk, $5.79/gallon; grapes, $7.24 for 1 1/2 pounds; $4.99 for a pint of blueberries; $2.39 for a dozen eggs).
I tell Sadie to grab her swimsuit so we can make a run to our neighborhood pool -- and, when we arrive, we find that the city has cut back its operating hours due to a budget shortfall.
We've missed our window for the day. It's 101 degrees today here in Dallas, Phil. One hundred and fucking one. (Tell me again, Phil, how that half-degree increase in the earth's temp every couple of years has no cumulative impact on our state?)
That pool is blessed relief for helluva a lot of people less fortunate than I am. People who lack either the air conditioner or the money to run it, for example.
We head home so I can get started on another four-hour project for a client. Yep. Four hours. First, because the client needed the job done -- and, in this booming, booming economy, you'll never catch me turning down work. In fact, I carry a Blackberry with me at all times to make sure I never, ever miss an assignment.
Second, because the A/R spreadsheet I keep open on my screen at all times tells me that to maintain my struggling, middle-class existence, I need to log at least 10 hours a day of billable work. Not counting a couple of hours of admin, basic account and computer maintenance, and new-business development. The pipeline, Phil, don'tcha know? Gotta keep that pipeline flowing.
Why the need for an additional 20 hours of work per week? The small stuff, Phil. The stuff you and Wendy don't sweat. Gas prices. Food prices. Utility bills. The vast crops of legalese sounding, alphabet-soup fees and surcharges that are suddenly appearing on every single bill I get so every vendor in the marketplace can pass on increasing gas and commodity prices to us "whiners" in a way that's harder for us to figure out. But not, sadly, any easier to pay.
Speaking of paying, Phil, I pay my credit-card bills on time. Always. Didn't stop one of my two cards from lowering my credit limit with no warning, sending my credit score down about 20 points from what I can tell on TrueCredit. Why? The market. General lending conditions. The credit squeeze. Nothing to do with this whiner -- and EVERYTHING to with the whiners in your gentrified, moneyed Republican set who believe they should be allowed to sell their subprime cake and eat it, too (thanks, Bushco, for that federal bailout).
Oh, yeah, and not to whine, Phil, but thanks to the subprime mortgage crisis generated by "elites" like you, the property values on my little bungalow are down about $50K from a year or so ago. I don't have a home-equity loan, so my suffering is only on paper. But with a dozen homes for sale on my street, and four times as many on other streets in my small, historic neighborhood, upside potential feels like a far-off dream.
Gotta go, Phil. Have to back my car into my driveway in the hope that it prevents some of the less fortunate in my neighborhood from stealing my catalytic converter again. I used to think that the incredible, disappearing copper phenomenon was fueling somebody's large drug habit. Now, I'm not so sure they're not headed to the pump for a fill-up.
I have to jack up the thermostat still more and flip on our ceiling fans to save energy costs overnight.
I have to rough out a schedule for tomorrow and outline the documents I'll be writing tomorrow.
I have to plan lunch and dinner for my eight-year-old and figure out ways to keep her engaged and happy while I'm putting in tomorrow's 12 hours or so.
Oh, yeah...and I have to thank my parents and the solid work ethic they instilled in me. A work ethic that makes me proud that I can make things work by hook or crook, makes me proud that I'm self-reliant and I can take care of my beautiful child even when the going gets so tough I worry every night as my head hits the pillow that whatever the economy brings next might break me. And a work ethic that makes me proud that I'm not a rich, arrogant asshat like you.
Oh, yeah...and, now, I have to tell you to go fuck yourself. Your arrogant, Republican, entitled, peckerwood self.
Get 'er, done, Phil. I have to go back to work |
