Bills Bills Bills

I hate money.

I hate bills.

I hate budgets.

Long day at work, followed by a long walk home from the train while having a long coversation with my friend Wayne (who has a hard time following a conversation and cannot even finish one single thought) and coming home to a long discussion with my Mom about my bills. Now I am stressed about money. But when am I not stressed about money?

The next few months I am putting myself on a strict budget. This week I will not buy lunch. This weekend I am headed to the shore with family so I wont need much money there. Next week I will not spend anything I don't have to. And then next weekend is the bachelorette party, a trip I just had to basically cut in half because I cannot afford to stay 2 nights in a $600/night townhouse. So I put away a set amount and will save that until I go. Easier said than done....

Tonight is the first Eagles pre-season game. Jenna and I watched it briefly, almost in honor of my Dad. My Dad, the most devout Eagles fan I ever knew. That's a brave statement in this city. I used to love watching the Eagles with him. Except this one game, I think it was last year. He came down to watch it, he must have been clean then. Maybe it was the year before...well anyway, it had only been the first quarter, and we got in this huge fight. I cannot even remember what it was about, except that we exchanged some heated obscenities and he stormed out. I was furious and upset, and I shut the game off and cried. Then later, he called and said that when he left, he walked up my street (toward my Mom-Mom, his mom, who lives a few blocks up, he would need to watch the game there, due to our fight) and got to the top of the street and cried because he was so furious and upset also.

We were very much alike. My Mom hates when I wear a baseball hat because I look so much like him with my hair pulled back. I catch her looking at me sometimes in this funny way and I just know she is looking through me and seeing him, even when he was alive.

I was having lunch at Liberty Place a few weeks ago and I was reading my book, enjoying my salad, and I glanced up at man at another table. Dressed in a business suit, he was mildly overweight, but not huge. He had chubby, wrinkly fingers and he waved them wildly as he talked to his colleague. In a weird light, he resembled my Dad. I sat there, pretending to read, and wondered if my Dad had not let the drugs take over his body and mind, if he would have ever ended up in Libery Place enjoying lunch, or down the shore enjoying his family, or in this house, his home, enjoying me, his daughter.