When couples talk and fall down

Chuck and I had a conversation tonight.

Imagine that! You can be married forever and still converse.

We discussed the details of me possibly taking a part-time job. He's been at his new job for a whopping two weeks you know. (Can you tell I want to get off the pot?)

Elements of our conversation felt oddly familiar. Like when Chuck said, "It'll be okay. We'll figure it out" then slammed 10 shots of tequila. And again when he clutched his heart, croaked, "We'll find a way to make it work" and then slumped to the floor.

Yes. That's when it hit me that we'd had this conversation before. As I stood over his trembling body I recalled how last year, almost to the day, Chuck and I were agonizing over the details of my unpaid maternity leave. Could we make it on his freelance income? What if no one wanted to buy his body parts? What's the street value of a complete Thomas the Train set?

I suddenly felt awfully grateful. If I take a part-time job and we land in the poorhouse, at least it's a conscious choice. And if it's going to happen around the holidays, at least no one will bitch when we give them hand-drawn pictures of the kids (hey, photo paper is expensive).

I jest. I don't know what the hell to do. In this economy. In this recession. In this maelstrom of foreclosures and lay offs and budget cuts.

Fuck.

I think I need to consult a fortune teller or call one of those psychic hotlines.

Maybe I'll ask her why one of us always seems to be lying on the kitchen floor. Start off simple.

Yes, simple would be good.

Pssst, can you spare me a newton?

Right now, the unemployment rate in the piss ass state of Connecticut is hovering at 9 percent. A loaf of whole wheat bread at the Mulletville Lite Stop & Shop is close to $4. Fig Newmans cost more than $4. And those lovely MorningStar Farms Chik Patties I used to rely upon as a last minute dinner are now $5 for four patties.

Connecticut’s gas prices are among the highest in the nation, topping the charts at about $4 a gallon. Our illustrious Governor Dannel P. Malloy, sworn into office in January, has increased the general sales tax from 6 percent to 6.35 percent. The sales tax exemptions that used to exist for clothing and shoes priced under $50 have vanished. Malloy has also increased the state income tax, effective August 1.

The best part of the tax is that it’s retroactive.

Our house in Mulletville is still on the market. It’s valued at close to $100,000 less than what we purchased it for in 2006.

Chuck’s been laid off since 2009. Since then he’s put himself through school, started a business, taken every freelance job that’s been offered to him and applied to countless jobs, but he still hasn’t been able to find a full-time career in his field.

Chuck and I have brought two children into this world. Beyond needing our love and guidance they need to eat. They need clothing. They need to see a doctor if they become ill. They need a roof over their heads.

I told a fib in one of my last posts. I wrote that I was going back to work in a few weeks, but the truth is that I started back yesterday. I wasn’t sure how I’d feel about being back after being home with Junior and Diddlydoo for seven months; more importantly I wasn’t sure I would be ready to write about how I felt.

I knew from previous return-to-work experience that I would be assailed with nosy and insensitive questions (How does it feel to be back? Who is watching your children? How can you stand being separated from your kids?) but I wasn’t so sure I wanted to blog about it again.

If I felt sad about leaving Junior when I went back to work three years ago, wouldn’t I be twice as sad now?

The answer right now is yes and no. Yes I miss my boys but knowing that my children are safe, fed, clothed and have a bed to sleep in greatly outweighs any sadness I feel about not seeing them during the day. Knowing that they are at home with Chuck also greatly outweighs any sadness I feel about not seeing them during the day.

Chuck’s a damn good father who is going to be incredibly close to his sons. How could I possibly regret that?

I can't.

So there it is: Until something changes—until we move out of this state, until I discover I have a rich, dead uncle after all, or until Malloy decides to institute a tax for sitting and I actually have to pay my employer so I can work—I’m back at my desk. I’m not going to belabor my points about the wretched state of the economy but for good measure I’ll say it again: At this time, I’m lucky to have a fucking job.

Even if it is working alongside a bunch of wackadoos.