Actually, my sanity is what depends on it. Not working sounds great, but in reality it etches away at those little intangible things we take for granted, like self-worth, sense of purpose, and self-esteem. It also doesn't hurt to earn a little money, even if your husband does a good job on his own. It's a pride thing. More importantly, it's a greed thing. Imagine all the things I can buy without asking permission.
When I get my first check, I am going to have a gooooooood time doing the following (not necessarily in this order):
1. Pedicure. I have only had one in my life, and that was before my wedding, but my feet have never felt so soft and pretty. Now I'm spoiled, and can't stand the feeling of crusty feet.
2. Lowe's. Our house is in dire need of some redecorating. More specifically, there is wallpaper all over the place and the general theme is "1991."
3. Shoes. Got to have some new shoes. While I was living in the middle of nowhere last year, my then-dog (now deceased) chewed most of my shoes. I now have 1 pair of dressy-ish brown shoes, 1 pair of dressy-ish black shoes, 1 pair of old, dirty sneakers, 1 pair of newer, but ill-fitting and very ugly sneakers. (Never buy shoes online.)
4. Clothes. As I've gotten bigger, my wardrobe has gotten smaller. Funny how that works.
5. Jenny Craig. Or something. I mean, damn, who can do it alone?
6. Entertainment system. Our t.v. is balancing precariously on some kind of Wal-Mart furniture contraption, circa 1989. When The Husband moved into this house, he couldn't figure out how and where to set up the t.v. He put it on said Wal Mart furniture contraption and said the following words: That will do for now. I'll have to do something about that soon. That was 2003.
I could go on, but I think that'll more than exhaust one check on a teacher's salary.
Now for the This is Not a Cat Blog cat blogging.
Pookie has discovered that there is another cat living in this house, and I don't mean the calico that hates him. (She slapped him today, btw. And hard.) I mean another cat. It's tiny and black and furry, just like him. It appears every time he walks past the full length mirror in the bedroom, but for the life of him he can't talk it into coming out to play. Earlier tonight he forgot about the other cat, and walked past the mirror. He must've caught a glimpse of his reflection, because he jumped about ten feet straight back, then ran under the bed and hid for a good five minutes.
He threw a fit last night when I put him in the laundry room for the night, so we let him out. TH slept in the guest bedroom, and I slept in our bedroom. (We're not fighting-- we just sometimes sleep in separate beds when TH is on a long work stretch, because we both sleep better.) Pookie started out with me, but got up and went to join TH. I think TH rolled over onto Pookie at some point, and he decided to come back to bed with me. This morning I woke up to the sound of a crying Pookie, but I couldn't find him anywhere. I finally found him, squatting in a pile of clothes in the bathroom. I picked him up, and there was a giant pile of Pookie dookie. I walked him to the litter box (which is on the other end of the house, so I kinda couldn't blame him, what with him still being little and new to the house) and started the washer for the pair of pants that had received the Pookie pile. I laid down on the bed to read for a while before starting my long day of picking up pine cones so the ever anal husband can mow without dulling the lawn mower's blade. A few minutes later, Pookie crawled back into my bed. A few minutes after that, I rolled over into a wet spot that was not of the human sort.
Let's review. The little shitter shit on my pants, and I forgave him because the litter box was far away and he's tiny. But he made the trip from the litter box back to my bed and promptly pissed on it.
So much for forgiveness and understanding. He can cry all he wants-- that bastard is sleeping in the laundry room tonight.