Extraordinary and uncomfortable circumstances led to the Mister spending six extra days home before we close on the house (a call from work canceling his trip, and his back revolting after he made a wrong move lifting his suitcase). Under normal circumstances, I would be glad to have extra help in the packing, but little packing remains, other than last minute and awkward items. It’s just as well, the Mister lacks motivation in these matters. For him there is always plenty of time, or he becomes bored and starts another task, then another, finishing the first only after my nagging.

His skill lies in making phone calls, lining up utilities, grilling the house inspector, and scrutinizing the good faith estimate. These are important tasks, but I’m becoming more frustrated about having done the lion’s share of the manual labor, and preparations to sell. Mister Hombre believes his supervisory contribution offering packing critiques, is equal to the number boxes I have stacked, walls I have patched, and hours I have spent pressure washing. He has no idea I am within a single hair on a cat’s ass of suggesting he go fuck himself. I don’t care for criticism from someone who has contributed so little sweat, and isn’t paying me for services.

There is talk of logistics, paint colors, and remodel priorities, but little action. The Mister thinks lip service equals taking action. For me lip service is a tease to cloak laziness. The real problem is my eagerness to be settled. I don’t want to participate in a three hour conference to find out he can’t approve paint colors because he can’t visualize it in the space or thinks we should make a special trip with swatches to scrutinize lighting conditions. As usual, the man Martha Stewart has more free time than I have.

There is stress with moving (ya, think?). I remind myself, I’m tired and irritable, all potential arguments are not worth the effort. I recognize the Mister is stressed out by the move, as well as, his parents inability to adjust. He is more likely to argue like his mother when he is stressed, a confrontation in semantics I don’t need.

When Baby Girl and her Man visited, we made a group trip to the Assisted Living Facility to visit the One Eyes. The One Eyes have been very confused about when we are leaving. During the visit, Mrs. One Eye asked three different times if we had moved yet. Then she would scold us. She was disappointed my own mother wasn’t angry with me for leaving. We took turns changing the subject and distracting her from the hurt she continues to pick at like a festered boil, in hopes of making it more painful than it need be.

As we prepared to leave, one of the other residents asked about our move. She asked how I felt about it, and I replied, excited. She took it as a sign of betrayal, as only an eighty-year-old who doesn’t know you can. She scrunched up her face in disapproval, as if it would help her understand. I made no apologies, but said I look forward to every day. I walked away feeling guiltless. Why shouldn’t I pursue what I want? I’ve waited for the One Eyes, the Offspring, and the Mister. Why not me, and why not now?