Grace and poise

Some women have it. Some women don't.

Grace and poise, that is.

I do not.

The closest I get to poise, is this. Not that I'm there. Yet. I mean, I have had 3 children in as many years. My system's got a used by date, and I'm sure I'll approach it faster than some of you.

But grace and poise, in the midst of a storm... some women just exude an aura of elegance.

Me? I cry. Ok, I'm not really one of those fall-apart-at-the-drop-of-hat type of people. Quite the contrary. I'm usually the one in the corner, biting her lip and not making eye contact with people so that I don't cry.

But when the storm's bad? Then I cry.

So yesterday, out the front of police station, I cried. Because I'd asked this police station to do something for me 3 or 4 times in the previous days. And I kept getting put off. And told to wait. And wasted gas to drive there (30 minutes each way), and then to top it all off, I got told no.

And so I cried. I guess I should have used one of these for my face. It would have been helpful. Because instead I used a baby wipe. Or three. That's not exactly poised and elegant either, I guess. But neither is this, when in use on the face, anyways.

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See, we're applying for residency. And I have to prove all sorts of crazy stuff. Like that we make a certain amount of money a week. Which we don't. Since we're on faith-based-support, instead of a salary or hourly wage - we never can say exactly what we "make". And anyways, we don't make the amount this government says it takes to raise 2 children. Well, I beg to differ, because our children are healthy and happy, so poopoo on your so-called necessary funds.

Or that I don't have a raft of diseases and disabilities. Which I so diligently subjected myself to tests for. Bloods drawn, chest x-ray, and even allowing my waist to be measured. (*Sob* But can I just say that my kinda-sorta-cheaper-than-these-spanx stayed on? I didn't want to know the truth. My waist was 25 inches in college).

Or that my husband can speak English. Because people who were born in the USA generally don't speak acceptable English. Apparently.

Or that my children actually belong to me. Can I send them pictures of my stretch marks? That's sure to impress them. "See? I traded my tender little tummy for a barrel of weed-wacker-nonsense." Turns out they only wanted the birth certificate. Ya woos. "You can't handle the truth!"

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Do I sound unhinged?

Probably 'coz I am.

Ahem.

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I talked myself into not buying ice cream last night because I knew I'd eat the whole blinkin' box on my own if I did. Ahem. About that waist measurement.

*wave*

Off to drink more coffee and decide how on earth I'm going to sort out this latest mess. The lab won't take Matt's blood because the doctor's signature is on the wrong part of the two pieces of paper. No, I'm not kidding. And he's living an hour away still, so it's not like I can just pop down to the doctor's office and fix that. It would include 4 hours of driving for me to fix that. So we'll see if we can fix it another way instead.