"Budgets and Balance Sheets"

  

            I begin every month with taking a legal sized envelope and folding it into fourths. Each quarter gets a week’s designation, and each week receives a spending limit. I record all expenditures on the virgin exterior of the envelope—whether it be a major outflow like $142.15 for groceries or something as minor as $3.14 for a Sonic Slush. At the end of every week, I total the damage, feeling smugly triumphant if I’ve kept our spending in the green, or vowing to do better if we dip into the red. My obsession with number crunching allows us to indulge at the end of the month if anything extra remains. Most of the time, though, we simply break even. By the end of each month, the overstuffed envelope’s surface is covered with numbers and notes on spending habits. It remains in my upper desk drawer until the credit card statement arrives as a means of double checking the balance for our month’s expenses. 

            My obsession continues into my record keeping. I have ledgers dating back to those first months of our marriage where we stretched $850 a month income across apartment rent, utilities, insurance, school loans and food. The numbers may have changed over the years, but my strategy remains the same. I know exactly where every penny goes, can use one year’s budget to project into the next year, and based on one year’s spending will plan financial goals.

            I rarely set the goal of saving money just to save it. We don’t have some huge balance accruing that hasn’t been assigned an end purpose. The chunk of money accumulating in our Money Market goes to taxes on our home this month and anything left over will stay in place for April’s income taxes and work on the car. All of the budgeting and balance sheets pays off in the long run. We work together as a family to reach very specific spending goals. By watching the outflow carefully, we’ve plugged up leaks and pooled funds into building a secure future.

            Sometimes I wonder if I’d hold onto the monthly envelope and colorful ledgers if our income ever rose. Would I stop tracking that dollar spent here? Or that five spent over there? Then I admit with chagrin that number crunching flows through my veins. It’s part of who I am, how I think. Whether I have only a teacher’s retirement income or a million dollars doesn’t matter. I’d track my spending, set my goals, and record all expenditures.

            Maybe I’d just have a larger envelope! 

 

Copyright 20214 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Even in the Beginning"

 

even in the beginning

your smiles never reached your eyes

your innocuous words disguised your intent

as your fear festered into resentment 

even in the beginning

you ignored overtures of friendship

your instinctive defenses kicked into place

as your panic mired you into an abyss of hatred 

even in the beginning

your radar sounded alarms

your battle instincts honed your cruelty

as your protection of family obsessed you

even in the beginning

your projections became reality

your denials and lies believable

as you rewrote history to fit your views

even in the beginning

your rationalizations rang with sincerity

your bitterness overtaking your soul

as you attacked to annihilate a phantom 

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Apology"

Sorrow fills me   
I disappointed you     
            let you down   
I didn’t see your struggle   
            hear your plea   
            pay attention   
I let my obsessions bleed into your heart   
I took my desires and poured them into your life   
Now you overflow   
            with my pettiness   
Shame fills me   
            weighs my movements and halts my thoughts   
I hurt you   
            caused you distress   
I didn’t listen to your words    
            watch your face   
            walk in your shoes   
I am sorry    
            chokes my breath and spills from my eyes   

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

"Her Fall"

 

I held your tiny hand, tugged you away from danger    

            carried you safely to the other side    

I protected you from water’s edge and ocean’s undertow—      

            the drowning tears of your uncertainties   

I watched from the sidelines as you changed—  

dwindling into someone I no longer recognized  

Now, dismay burdens me,    

cements me in place as you scale the precipice  

I call out, “Don’t! Turn back! Wait for me!”  

            as your compulsion drives you higher, higher  

I perceive the cracks in your mask  

            even as you disillusion those who still believe in you     

I reach futilely skyward, my feet anchored in place,  

            unable to halt your ascent over crumbling rock  

I try, and try again, to guide you to sure footing      

            but you ignore my words, indulging in illusions of independence  

I weep, a witness to your self-destruction,      

as your frailties and obsessions force your fall 

 

Copyright 2011 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

  

“A Layer of Dust”

 

            I clean.

            When stress edges into my day, I wipe down the countertops. I follow the dog and pluck his fluffs of fur from the carpet. Manned with a bottle of Windex, I polish and shine every glass surface of our home.

            I clean.

            My childhood chores so entrenched into my lifestyle that discomfort sits in my belly if I don’t fold the throws and line up the pillows on the couch every morning before heading out for work.

            I clean.

            Armed with vinegar and bleach, sponges, toothbrushes and rags, I lay siege to floor grout and countertops, shower stalls and toilet bowls.

            I clean.

            And I grumble and mumble. I nag about the endless tasks that I must tackle day-after-day, week-after-week. You know the drill. Martyrdom as I bemoan my endless list of duties and try to guilt others into helping me achieve the unattainable. Perfection.

            And so my quest for personal growth veers into a new direction.

            A layer of dust.

            A layer of dust settles throughout the house.

            I bite my lip and ignore the urge to run the cuff of my sleeve around the speakers of my laptop. I force my eyes to front and center in great effort to walk past the étagère where a dancing figurine floats in dust motes.

            A layer of dust.

            And although my willpower currently controls my urge to wipe every surface clean, I hope to eventually live with less perfection.

            A layer of dust.

            And the world hasn’t come to an end.  

 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Chameleons”

A willow woman     
With spiked heels and sassy stride   
And contagious laugh that lured me into her life with playful words
Commonalities wove us into an easy friendship   
Same wine, same music, same world view   

Until . . .    

            He entered     

            And her eyes followed him, hypnotized   

            And her loneliness compelled her to   

            Cling to his words  

            Cloak herself in self-deception     

            As she became his shadow and lost all substance   

A tenacious terrier   

With body honed to steel   
And wit weapon sharp and deadly   
She voraciously fed upon change   
An adrenaline junkie   
Smart enough to carve her place   
Determined to succeed     
A warrior mother fighting through heartbreak and disappointment
Our friendship a braid of Time, Triumph, Travails   
Everlasting   

Until . . .   

            He entered   

            And she drew into his orbit   

            And her loneliness compelled her to   

            Dream his dreams   

            Attach herself tightly to him   

            As she severed all other ties   

Years from now  

Confusion and Disbelief  
Will mingle with their tears as they lament,   
“He’s gone. He’s gone.
I became what he wanted, who he wanted.  
But it wasn’t enough.”   

And they’ll be shadows without substance tethered to no one.     

 

Copyright 2014 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

 

 

"My Obsession"

 

 

 

I awoke to silky rain.

No thunderous clouds boiling the morning skies,
nor fists of lightning pounding the heavens.

Just cool, smooth drops that gather on leaves,

pool together with a common goal,
and stream down to heal.
To nurture.
Scarce and valuable,
this liqueur makes me giddy.
Sheltering my lens,
I dodge under the trees.
My determined heart longing,
longing to capture
to record
to preserve this memory.

 

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

 

“Raindrops on Roses . . . Sort of”

            Any precipitation finds me grabbing my camera to document cloud formation and rain. My obsession stems, of course, from the tremendously long and dry summers we’ve endured in San Antonio. Yesterday, clouds rolled into our neighborhood. In the evening thunder snapped our attention away from the television set while bolts of lightning struck within a couple miles of our house.

            I couldn’t wait to grab my camera this morning to document the relief sighing through my plants out back. The live oak’s sheen has returned with a single rinse. My yard feels happy! I don’t have any roses blooming at the moment, but there are still plenty of raindrops!

Copyright 2013 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman

“Pretty Girls”

         Some mornings pace out like a stretching cat, slow and sinewy. I find time to write, jot off a few emails, or even read an article or two before my daily routine kicks into overdrive. This morning, Mom woke up complaining that she felt sick. We’ve begun to suspect that really means she’s hungry. After two huge pancakes soaked in syrup and a mug of heated Boost, Mom retreated back to bed, mumbling that she felt cold and instructing me to tuck an extra blanket around her.

         My unexpected free morning led me to peruse Facebook, where I stumbled upon a magnificently powerful essay written by Ashley Judd. In this piece, she articulated her frustration with our society’s obsession over physical appearance. She blasted the media for its derogatory attitudes and agenda when dealing with women.

         I wish every Hollywood actress and runway model would throw away her scales. I wish they would fire their trainers and their private chefs. I wish they would eat sensibly and eat well. I wish they would exercise for health and not for wealth. I wish they would never visit a plastic surgeon. I wish they would embrace crow’s feet and cellulite.  I wish they would unite and declare, “No more size 0 for me!”

         Wouldn’t it be lovely to see our women gently embracing life’s events instead of battling against nature? I’m tired of pregnant women dieting because they want to be within five pounds of their “pre-baby weight” once they deliver. I’m worn out by women who guzzle wine and puff cigarettes to control their appetites. I’m exhausted by the queries of my fifty-something friends on whether a facelift or Botox treatment would make them look younger and sexier. I’m tired of seeing friends starve themselves into bikinis that really should be worn only by younger women.

         I challenge my fellow females to look into their mirrors, see the “flaws” and to declare, “I love the crinkles around my eyes when I smile!” For you see, everyone’s beautiful when she smiles.  

http://www.thedailybeast.com/articles/2012/04/09/ashley-judd-slaps-media-in-the-face-for-speculation-over-her-puffy-appearance.html?fb_ref=article&fb_source=home_multiline

Copyright 2012 Elizabeth Abrams Chapman