Not Vegas

So it’s Thursday everyone and I realized at 5:49 this morning I hadn’t written my column this week. Wow. Time flies. It’s Friday, 7:11 a.m., and I’ve still not finished my column. Slacker. Actually, I’ve got stuff happening and probably could have skipped this week, but what sort of columnist would I be if I did that?

Yesterday I started thinking about Las Vegas. In the light of day, the city is ugly. At night, it’s like a hooker in electric blue eyeliner and scarlet rouge. I know. Vegas is a city for sin, a city of illusions, like any good hooker should be, but I’m not comfortable with obscene opulence. Also, I’m not a gambler. 

I’ve been to Las Vegas twice. First time, I saw a drag show and went pee in a men’s restroom because the line for the ladies was too long.  That was 1994. Second time was Fall 2008. I was there twenty-two hours.  My last boyfriend flew me in for the night. He’d already been in Vegas two days and stayed another after I left. My former boyfriend was a gambler. I’d told him before I wasn’t. That night, he offered me one hundred dollars to play; he said he didn’t care if I lost it. I said I couldn’t possibly lose that much. Guilt. Or it seemed frivolous. I could pay my electric and phone bills with a hundred bucks. He gave me a twenty-dollar bill, which I agreed I could bear to lose.  I played at the 21 table thirty-five minutes and broke even. I returned my boyfriend’s twenty to him and said I didn’t want to gamble anymore. Later, we went to a strip club called the Rhino. Weird name for a strip club. Maybe it was the Opulent Rhino. I can’t remember. I remember Jonniki though, who was wasn’t opulent. She was a journalism major. I said, “Whatever you do, stay in school and finish your degree.” I also said to blow off every guy who offered to be her Sugar Daddy. Jonniki said I was right. But we’d drank lots of wine. And I was an older woman with a child. She was twenty-two. Jonniki kissed me. You just never know, do you?

Lately, I’ve been sleeping better than usual. Tuesday, I hit a writing dead line. Last Friday, I bought a house. Next time I transmit from Republican country, I’ll do so from a trailer park palace not a cottage. Four weeks ago, my stepmom asked my son, “Why would you want to live in a trailer?”  Three weeks ago, my parents provided a down payment so I could finance said trailer, which was a generous thing to do–incredible, actually. How lucky I am, grateful. But I’ll never pretend to understand my parents.

My son’s first home was a “trailer.” I bought it in 1994: I was in love with it. (Insert trail of  hearts here.) The trailer was mine; it was beautiful, and to tell the truth, it wasn’t a trailer; it was a manufactured home in a manufactured home community, and so is the new one, but some people find the term “trailer” and the suggestion of a “trailer park” so offensive and low income I use it. Look everyone, here’s your trailer park trash.

In graduate school, I called my thesis, With Love, From the Trailer Park Where I Live.  You’d find exactly what you’d expect to find in my new neighborhood: elderly folks on fixed incomes, rednecks on fixed incomes, minorities on fixed incomes, solo mothers on fixed incomes. They’re my people. (Insert hearts here.)

Three weeks ago my father asked, “You sure you want to buy this trailer?”  I said yes. I want to own something again. I want a mortgage I can manage long term. After all, my financial situation won’t change, unless it dives. I’m a writer.  I’m a solo mother. What I earn at my job is what I earn and I won’t earn much else. I’m a single woman.  My parents used to assume I’d get married and double my income, except I won’t, and my parents finally gave up the idea, as has my grandmother. Now my father just worries I’m a lesbian. If Fox Mulder was a real person I’d marry him. I’d also marry Britney Murphy, but she’s dead. Anyway, I wasn’t her type, was I?

Not to mention gay marriage isn’t legal where I live.

Speaking of dead, my son asked three nights ago what would happen to him if I died before I’d managed to raise him. Like I’ve said before, my son will ask me anything. I’m glad. Twelve years ago I bought a life insurance policy; why this doesn’t occur to every parent, solo or otherwise, I don’t know, but it was one of the first things to occur to me after my son was born. What if I drop dead? Who will take care of my child, and where will the money to do so come from?

My son’s father is custodian for the money under the Gift to Minor’s Act. Yeah, he agreed to tend the money. He also agreed to look after our son if I died before I’d raised him. Now you may think this man won’t do the right thing by my son with that money, but truth is my son’s father lives in a mansion and owns two Ferraris (I hear through the grapevine) and more than one person has told me, “You need to go after that guy for more money.”  True, he doesn’t miss the child support he pays now. Last month on the phone he asked, “How much do I pay you?”  because his accountant takes care of it all and he doesn’t miss it. Still, I’m not asking him for more money. I don’t care how much he makes or the parties he throws on New Years or the young women he fucks anymore. I care about our son.

When you go after a non-custodial parent for more money sololy because he/she can apparently afford two Ferraris it’s no longer about the child. It’s about greed, pettiness, envy, something. My son doesn’t have everything he wants, but he has everything he needs. Twelve years ago, when I bought life insurance, I did so because if I die before I’ve raised my son to self sufficiency, I want to contribute financially to his future. I’d want to contribute anyway. Death is expensive and some debts don’t go away. The idea my death would become a financial burden on anyone, especially a person I love, kills me. At my day job, I witness families left not only in emotional but financial ruin as well when a breadwinner dies. Heck, when a stay-at-home parent dies. You’ve any idea what a homemaker is worth? Thousands of dollars a month.

Okay. About the other thing, my son’s father agreeing to raise him if I can’t. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit my son’s father is betting I don’t die before I’ve raised him. He’s not rubbing his hands together and hoping I drop dead so he gets his chance. He can have his chance anytime; all he has to do is ask his son.

The other night when I explained this arrangement to our son he said, “I don’t want to live with him. He doesn’t love me.” 

Okay. Look. I’ve had to change my mind about this a couple times. If you know me, or have read my column, you might understand why I’ve made the choice I have regarding who takes care of my child if I die prematurely. The decision has kept me awake at night. It’s not a choice I’ve taken lightly. I’ve struggled with it, and plenty of single and/or solo parents ignore the decision altogether and hope for the best because it’s hard.

After all, who wants to think about the person they love most in the world in someone else’s hands? Who wants to imagine themselves dead?

My son and I talked about it the other night, and he agreed my choice was best. I mean, we’d talked about it before. He knew about the life insurance. He knew who my prior choice was and why, and he wasn’t exactly happy about it, and now that he knows who my current choice is, he isn’t exactly happy about that either.

Nothing’s ideal. But I can’t not make a decision. That’s impossible. Irresponsible. Naive.

Ten minutes after we’d finished our conversation, my son came back and said we should conduct an experiment.

“What kind of experiment?”

“We should drive to Denver to where my dad works and you should pretend he has to take care of me now and then leave and see what he does.”

My sweet beautiful kiddo. He doesn’t trust the guy. Why should he? The first time I asked his father if he’d raise our son if I couldn’t he said, “I told you I didn’t want to be a father. I haven’t changed my mind about that. But I guess if you were dead I’d do it.” 

My son wants a trial run. Can you picture us in the car? We’re not on our way to Vegas.