I have minor hissy fits frequently. I think it's good for the psyche to just rant for a moment or two. A few days ago, however, I had a major melt down fit. Yelling and cussing and kick-a-kitten mad.

I'm over it now. And no, I did not kick a kitten.

See, most people don't understand what it means to be poor. The working poor. That undercurrent of worry and fear that threads through every waking moment and often even appears in your dreams.

I don't mean the kind of poor that most people think they are when they can't afford to eat dinner at Charleston Place.

I'm talking the kind of poor where you find yourself selling your blood plasma a couple times of year so you can buy vitamins for your child because you can't afford the good food you know he/she needs to grow up healthy.

The kind of poor where a flat tire means you have to turn off the air conditioning or the heat for a month or so to save money to pay for it.

The kind of poor where going to the phone company or the electric company to beg for a little more time or to set up a payment schedule is something you have to do regardless of the shamed, less-than feeling it gives you.

The kind of poor where you live in substandard housing and if you are lucky, you drive a piece of shit car held together with hope and desparation.

I've been there. I've done that.

So when I got an unexpected bill for a huge gob of money that was either going to wipe out my savings account or send my mortgage payment soaring, I had a little post traumatic flash back.

Luckily, I now have resources. I have savings. I paid the bill. I'll start saving again. I'm not going without because of one unexpected event.

This makes me, in contrast to many in American and most in the world, rich.

I try to be grateful.