That’s Okay, I Didn’t Like Money All That Much Anyway

I say this while staring at an empty bank account.

Let me tell you about Home Re-piping Hell.

I’m on my bed. The rest of my bed is covered with picture frames that hang in my hallway. My floors are covered in tarps and plastic wrap. I have six men (only one speaks English which would be cool if I didn’t have stuff I needed to communicate) chopping up my cabinets, walls, outside stucco, ceilings, and bathroom tile. The blaring sounds are constant and vary from high-pitched squeals to thunderous roars.

There is a heat wave advisory for Southern California, but my air conditioner isn’t on because my doors are open. There is a fire in a neighboring city (typical this time of year), and the ashes fill the air, which, in turn, fill my house.

This extreme heat wave caused a bizarre pressure system. In addition to the heat wave, there’s a hurricane expected this weekend. A hurricane. Even if it’s nonexistent, it will still rain like a motherfucker. The holes outside of my house won’t get patched until Monday. I pray the tape holding the plastic covering the large gaps will withstand Hurricane Kay’s wrath.

Hurricanes take down entire roofs, but I’m sure this is some heavy-duty tape. Right? Right?!

Most importantly, this is costing me almost ten grand. After a pipe in my ceiling leaked two weeks ago, I decided to get ahead of my corroding pipes and replace them. I lucked out that only the ceiling was damaged last time; next time, it could be my cabinets or furniture. Knowing my luck, I’ll still get a slab leak next time.

I was saving to fix my backyard, which consists mostly of mud covered with weeds, a large tree that takes up most of the tiny yard, and wood chips. Without going anywhere with the kids due to lack of cash, I hoped to have a nice backyard where we could at least have dinner and hang out. That’s $22,000 to fix up.

I’ve never had to dip into emergency funds. Ever. But with the lack of another income, I lose almost half as soon as I save it. Despite being completely unusable, the backyard is a luxury item compared to these pipes.

Adulting isn’t just hard. Adulting fucking blows goats.

My 401k deductions went from 15% to 1%. I don’t like doing that, especially when there’s more bang for your buck with the market right now, but I need every penny I can get. Unfortunately, after taxes, my first paycheck after this changed barely made a difference.

The ex-husband is still unemployed. I’m not collecting child support from him, so I’m covering the kids’ healthcare and random activities. I’m standing firm on him still paying me the seventy bucks per month he owes for half of our kids’ braces. Joseph once threatened divorce when I begged him to switch careers for something more stable. There’s only so long I can keep worrying about him.

Growth mindset. Growth mindset. Growth mindset. (I repeat this mantra while Mexican polka music plays on the construction dudes’ phones.) It could be worse. I could have zero money to put towards this. I could have damage that makes this situation laughable. I could be unemployed during this house melodrama. I could be sitting on a bed, starving, listening to the roar of power tools and polka music.

Oh, wait…that last one is happening.

When it rains, it pours. Bad things come in threes. I don’t know what other expressions exist, but I have to hope (knock on wood) that this is it for a while. My anxiety can’t handle this. My wallet can’t handle this. The hair on my head can’t handle this.

I’ve started dying my hair every month. I’m not a baller who gets it properly done. My hair color is a whopping eight bucks from a box. It doesn’t look great, but then again, I work from home. I’m not impressing anyone. I color because seeing the grays, nonexistent before my divorce, reminds me of how hard life has been since asking for the end of my marriage.

Divorce isn’t for the weak of heart, mind, or bank account. I don’t know how stay-at-home parents manage to divorce and survive unless they’re married to an NBA player with no prenup. I had a solid down payment for my house, and I’ve got a decent job. I suppose most homes don’t need as much repair or overhauling as this one, and that’s why my bank account is a sad panda.

This past weekend, I took my kids to a tiny museum opening in a strip mall. With the heat wave, the outdoor activities were brutal. My daughter went on two free pony rides, and that poor horse probably wanted to murder all humans. Before that, I took my kids on a little ghetto free train ride in a park that a train club offers once a month. Next weekend, I’m taking them to a free Disney trivia night at the library.

The best things in life aren’t free. My children sure as hell cost me money (not the toys, I’m talking about my son’s therapies and even the copays for giving birth). Living somewhere safe isn’t free. Having a reliable vehicle to get you to your job, get groceries, or transport your children isn’t free. Money is security; for someone with high anxiety, security keeps the mental boat afloat.

Leading up to today’s construction mayhem, my anxiety was the highest it’s been in years. I’m not sure why, since gutting this house for lots of money is the new norm. I was up until 3 am, hands shaking and heart pounding. The adrenaline surge through my body made me sick by morning as I rushed to shower before my water would be cut off while hustling the kids out the door to school. I was sweating, and I thought I was going to pass out.

Two weekends ago was supposed to be my ultimate Not-Going-On-Dates-Full-Self-Care weekend. And then my water pipe broke, along with the water shutoff to the house. This weekend is my next childless weekend (fuck, I hate writing that), and it also won’t be leisurely given the half-completed state my house repiping will be in.

It’s not like my days are stressful normally. Working from home at a very, very chill job means I should be able to engage in self-care activities daily. But my work time is filled with malaise and depression naps.

Why am I writing yet another article about my money woes? I can’t watch TV because of the noise, and I’m confined to a small area on my bed. Writing is my only outlet for anxiety (outside of exercise, which isn’t an option right now). I do this when my heart is pounding, and my hands are numb.

I don’t feel like I’ll ever catch up. To what? I don’t know. But whatever it is, I’m far behind.