No one gets what they deserve because nobody deserves anything.

Yeah, me! It was one of those weekends from way back when I wasn't home any night before 4am. I woke up at 2 this afternoon and enjoyed some pasta, proclaiming to myself: "I cried at work on Thursday! I deserve this!" We are the generation that bought more shoes and we get what we deserve, says some English guy (bloke?). It's a nice math but broken theology: grace is given and not earned.

Suze Orman is on PBS teaching me about how to be a Powerful Woman who has Money and is Not Crying All the Time. The irony is that I wouldn't be watching PBS if I could afford cable. Maybe that isn't irony--it's a lesson.

I called Mama Friend while I was sobbing, because I don't just need supportive listening--all my friends are social workers and bleeding hearts, they are all wicked validaters like they work in a parking garage--I wanted someone to tell me what to do. Mostly when I think about my life it is with a rousing soundtrack, a swelling sense of gratitude and wonder for scrappiness and good luck, a cinematic montage of the gal from Toledo making good. Sometimes though I get exhausted and tired of scrappy sass and struggle and I want someone else to drive so that I can take a nap or mess with the radio. It's a metaphor, sorta, except I actually woke up at 5am to the sound of thunder and the knowledge that my convertible was filling up with water. It's conventionally called "a two person job" but I made it a "resourceful lady and broom job" but not without some tears. So when I say I want someone else to drive, I mean: I want someone to put the top up in a thunderstorm. It could be worse: no car, no arms. It could be better: a car that works, someone to wake up and help me.

I haven't earned all the goodness I've got so I can't earn anymore. I should be prepared, however, for maximum awesome, just in case, which is why I should get in the shower. It's fucking five o'clock. Mmmmm Sundays.