Me and My Three Boys

Or:

How I Learned to Live with Dirt.

I come from a clean house. When I say clean house, I mean white-glove clean. My dad, we'll call him the Cleananator, didn't believe dirt belonged in a house. Don't get me wrong, we went out in the great outdoors, played in mud-fest soccer tournaments, slid into home plate and got down underneath the Jeeps to fix a broken this or that. But we cleaned up before we stepped in the house. The Cleananator was a "take your shoes off and wipe your feet on the mat outside the tent" kinda guy. He followed us around as we cleaned to tell us the "right" way to vacuum and the "correct" way to clean a window. Our house was spotless. So I learned how lovely it is to have an impeccably clean house and how to do my part to keep it that way.

I'm pretty sure the Cleananator is rolling over in his Folgers can right now. You should SEE my kitchen floor. Dirt. Everywhere. Brown dirt on white tiles, white dirt on black tiles (where the hell does WHITE DIRT COME FROM, outer space?!) There are smudges on my brand new (custom made!) cabinets. DUST on my brand new (custom made!) counter tops.

Now, don't get me wrong... I clean EVERY DAY! Down on the floor, hands-and-knees-style. Dirt is my enemy and I know how to win the battle. But the war, my friends, is being lost.

This house cannot stay clean for more than five minutes. On a good day. Thirty seconds on the bad days.

We have no grass to speak of in our back yard and a pathetic example for grass in the front yard. This means, a step outside (unless you confine yourself to the steps) is a step in dirt. And this isn't the friendly dirt that likes the brisk fall air and prefers to stay outside. This is infiltrating dirt that will do whatever it can to get a ride into the house, desecrating my beautiful floors, counters, tables, bathtub even! This dirt knows no bounds.

It doesn't help having two 80 pound-plus mutts who, by necessity, must go in the yard to use the restroom. Not to mention, one of these mutts has a fondness for what I like to call the "TAKE THIS, MOM! on the dirt back flop." This is a full fledged sprint around the yard, ending in a double (or sometimes triple) summersault into the dirt.

Not to mention, bless his heart, a Shupasaurus who doesn't realize that he walks around on two full-time dirt factories, known as work boots. No, Shupie, it doesn't matter if you "worked in the office today," I see your dirt tracks on my newly refinished hardwood floors. I didn't simply guess the exact path you took to the couch, I see it like a bread crumb trail to the princess's castle. There are only so many ways you can ask, "Hey, do you mind taking your shoes off before you come in? Even when I'm not here to see you do it?" (The dirt tells the tale, Shupie. I know all when it comes to walking on my floors with dirt boots, I mean work boots, on.)

As I type, I feel a fever coming on, just thinking about this dirt on my floor. I can't stand it. I could quit my job and spend my days cleaning. I could sequester the mutts to their outside shelter and make Shupasaurus live there with them. But that wouldn't earn me many points, from Shupasaurus or his mother. (Hi Mama Shupe!)

So, I guess, it's time to surrender the war. Suck it up and live with the dirt. Put away my white glove and come to terms that this house may not be spotless every second of every day.

At least until we have sod. Then, IT'S ON!

Hey Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?

It's official. I'm broke. Between the downpayment, paying every closing cost known to man, paying schmucko's SMUD lien and fixin up the place, I am left with a bank account that sends me statements only showing a couple bucks and a sad face. Literally. I go online and look up my account and it says, "Hi Chelsea. Sorry about the troubling number below."

Times are tough in California and all over the country. I know I am totally not alone in my low cashflow pain. But it's tough. For someone who's always worked, and oftentimes two jobs, it's unusual for me to really have to decide what I should and should not spend money on. I realize that this is ok because at least I spent all my money on a home and not, say, a fabulous wardrobe or a car with flashy rims and shiny paint. But still. I don't like the feeling of living paycheck to paycheck.

To add to this stress, I owe my mother approximately one thousand dollars for nearly every year I have been alive (give or take the years I want to forget), and Shupasaurus has a mortgage that he has had to pay on his own home, which (thank goodness) will finally have renters next week. So funds are thin at the Disco Ball Speakeasy. And it's the holidays, of course. It's hard to plan parties and think about presents when I'm wondering if I have enough dough to get through to my next check.

But I'm finally living downtown, where I want to be, in a great job, with a wonderful family, a fabulous boyfriend and more friends than I can make time for. Here's where a little perspective comes in.

One of the most profound reality checks of living downtown is being in the midst of how prolific Sacramento's homeless crisis is. I cannot ride to work, go to the market or walk to my neighborhood pub without seeing someone out on the streets, without a roof over their head, wondering where they are going to get their next meal. Sometimes they are in the process of finding that meal, looking in places you or I would never think of looking. Sometimes they're on the corner or walking past you, asking if you can spare a dime, a dollar, anything to help them buy a hamburger.

I have always been one of those who felt it was my job to help them out, especially since I have always been fortunate to have a good job, food, shelter and a family who loves me. But right now I find myself joining the ranks of those who always say, "Sorry, i have no cash." Or "No thank you."

Now, imagine if that were you. If you found yourself out of work (which so many of my friends and colleagues have). What would you do? Who would you turn to? Odds are, you have a list of people who would take you in, lend you some dough to get through a rough patch or offer you the shirt off their back. But what if you didn't? Where would you go?

This is one of the hugest tragedies in our society: The fact that people don't have anywhere to go when they are down on their luck. That the homeless population is all but tossed away. How about we all walk a mile in those shoes, for a change?

And how about those out on the streets due to mental illness and lack of availability of care? The thought of someone, lost in their own mind with nowhere to go and no place to find help, makes me struggle to keep from breaking down. It is so sad, it's hard to bear.

After all this sadness and talk of the woes of the world, what next? Talking about a problem is about as useful as "tits on a hog" (as my pops would say). So here's my challenge to you, eight faithful blog readers:

This holiday season, this month, this week, do something for those in need. Donate an old coat that you haven't worn since Nixon was in office. Collect canned food at your office and donate it to your local food bank. Adopt a family this Christmas whose children otherwise wouldn't have presents under the tree. Volunteer. It's free. I've picked two days this month to go help out at Loaves and Fishes. Will you? Go read stories to kids at the Receiving Home. Bring them toys. Ladies, grab your old work clothes that you simply can't be seen in because they are "so last season" and take them to a woman's shelter so a woman without those concerns can look stunning at her next job interview.

It doesn't have to cost money. An hour of your time dedicated to a woman, a child, a man, who spends their days and nights alone, is priceless. So I challenge you. Not only will you likely make their day (or year, or lifetime), but you can feel good that you did it and you will likely want to do it again. And I will be proud of you. And our world will be a little bit better place to live because of it.