June 29: Large Breakfast, Eggs, Revised Poem Tomorrow, New Cartoon

After I put my bags in one of those strong boxes at the station, I went into this little sandwich bar and had breakfast.  I had quite a large breakfast, for me--orange juice, bacon and eggs, toast and coffee.  Usually I just drink some orange juice.  I'm a very light eater.  I really am.  That's why I'm so damn skinny.  I was supposed to be on this diet where you eat a lot of starches and crap, to gain weight and all, but I didn't ever do it.  When I'm out somewhere, I generally just eat a Swiss cheese sandwich and a malted milk.  It isn't much, but you get quite a lot of vitamins in the malted milk.  H. V. Caulfield.  Holden Vitamin Caulfield.

Unlike Holden, I like to eat.  Holden's large breakfast sounds pretty good to me.  For more than a few years, I've been meeting my sisters at McDonald's every Saturday morning for breakfast.  It's a time for my kids to visit with their aunts, and it's a time for me to catch up on family gossip.  Food has always been a big part of family time for me.  Having eight siblings, I remember family dinners as being big and loud.  Several people talking at one time.  There would be arguments and teasing.  Sometimes big news.  Pregnancies.  Moves.  Jobs.  So my Saturday mornings at McDonald's are a natural extension of a family tradition.

Since my hours were cut at work a couple of weeks ago, my wife and I have been very careful with money.  We don't buy "extras" like pop and chips when we go grocery shopping.  I can't remember the last time I've been on Amazon.com.  I've told my daughter she needs to start doing chores for her aunts to earn some money to pay for her dance lessons.  Saturday morning at McDonald's is about the only time during the week I eat out, and my purchases are limited to a large pop and and sausage Mcmuffin.  $2.12.

I don't mind the belt tightening.  It happens every summer when the checks from the university stop coming.  This year, however, the belt is going to get really tight.  This paycheck-to-paycheck lifestyle is exhausting and discouraging.  No matter how hard I work (or want to work), I never seem to get ahead.  I know my case is not unusual.  In fact, my case is probably the norm for most people in this country.  Yet, I'm surrounded by coworkers at my two jobs (the hospital and the university) who are very lucky.  They aren't struggling to pay bills.  They can afford to take extended vacations.  And these people don't seem to think they're privileged or lucky in any way.  That's what really astounds me.  Doctors who complain how expensive plane tickets are.  Professors who think tenure is their right because they've lived in the bubble of academia their whole lives; they haven't worked a job for minimum wage since they were teenagers.

I have no idea where I'm going with this little rant this morning.  My thoughts are all over the place.  I guess what I'm trying to say is that I like being able to go to McDonald's on Saturday mornings.  It's a couple of hours of respite from a week of money and job worries.  That's not a bad buy for a little over two bucks.

Saint Marty will have an "Apology" revision for you tomorrow.  It may be a final draft.  Or not.

Confessions of Saint Marty

June 19: Phone Frustration, Doctors, Nurses, Poetry

I'm a man on the edge

First, let me begin by saying I am not one of those people who complain.  Much.  I don't like getting on the phone and being nasty to the person on the other end.  In my job at the medical office, I am often on the receiving end of phone calls like that, and I don't like passing along that kind of karma.

That being said, I have had a day of phone frustration.  I have been on the horn with doctors' offices, nurses, medical records clerks, and medical equipment suppliers.  I'm sick of people shifting blame and not doing anything to help me solve my dilemma.  The last person I spoke to on the phone yet again told me it was somebody else's fault that I'm having trouble getting supplies for my insulin pump.  (Yes, I am an insulin pump diabetic.)  I wanted to tell "Kim" that I really didn't give a shit whose fault it was.  I simply wanted the problem resolved.  I did, however, stop short of profanity.

Now, I'm waiting for yet another phone call, and I have a sinking feeling it's not going to come before I have to leave for my dinner with Donald Hall and company.  I'm looking forward to my night of poetry, sitting in a room with one of my favorite writers.  This game of phone dodge ball has begun to sour my mood.

If the phone call I'm expecting doesn't come, I'm going to try to put the whole thing out of my head until tomorrow morning, when I will take up my quest for the Holy Grail yet again.  I want to enjoy my evening.  I do not want to spend dinner with Don brooding about the inadequacy of the medical establishment in this country.  Believe me, I could go on for a while on that subject.

Saint Marty is seeking his happy place, where chicken cordon bleu and poetry roams.