Joy is fickle. Sometimes I feel it upon arrival, others departure. When I pulled out of the driveway of the old house with a weeks worth of clothes, a pair of stoned house cats, and a corkscrew, I didn’t feel much of anything. There was no fanfare, only the Mister and I pulling away in an anemic two car convoy. I was apprehensive about being trapped in a stick shift with two screaming cats for six hours, but I didn’t depart with any regret about the life I was leaving behind.

When we arrived at our new home, I don’t remember feeling joy or excitement. I was relieved to get the cats out of a moving car, looking forward to a righteous whiz, and thought about the Mexican restaurant for dinner. The moment was ordinary, with the exception of making a dozen trips to unload vehicles. It was the unremarkable nature of the moment that made it feel like home. An intangible feeling not so much of purpose but of expectation. It was a you are home so this what you do moment. I never questioned whether the occasion merited joy or a celebratory champagne toast before sleeping on the floor.

After unpacking, Maggie asked if it felt like home, yet. It always felt like home. It felt whole during the three days before our furniture arrived. It felt whole when there were several tons of boxes stacked in the center of the living room. It felt whole before I picked out paint colors and made met the plumber.

Even with warmth of satiation, there was one refugee aspect of our lives in place. Until last week. The window treatments. I don’t give much thought to dressing myself, so windows are completely out of my league. Most of the windows had a modicum of privacy in place, though some barriers were more tasteless than others. The studio was clad in mini-blinds, there were paper shades tacked up in the master sitting room, the bedroom and bath had naked windows.

We moved paper shades to the bathroom, stretched fitted sheets over the windows in the bedroom, and propped an inflated air mattress in front of the windows in the sitting room. As a woman of more practicality than decoration senses, these solutions seemed perfectly amiable to me. Except for maybe one.

The paper shades in the shower held in place by thumbtacks were not confidence builders. I’ve been suffering from low level shower anxiety. My fears are less serious than this. I have no reservations about nudity, but I don’t consider myself much of an exhibitionist. The Mister likes to watch, and I’m perfectly okay with it because it leads to multiple okays later. The cats however are making me feel a little self-conscious. They don’t just watch. They gawk. How do I really know they aren’t posting photos to flickr, or worse, rating my performance?

This interest in watching me shower happened before our move. First, it was one cat. I felt like a curiosity. Later, the Mister and I contemplated adopting a pair of brothers from the humane society and were discussing the practicality of squaring the cat population. One morning, I stepped out of the shower to two pairs of eyes trained on me, and I concluded I couldn’t handle four cats in the house, it would be too unnerving. WHat if watching me bath simply wasn’t enough? What if they expected me to sing too? Have you dealt with removing cat hair from wet legs? I tried closing the bathroom door, but the damage inflicted by two heavy cats hurling themselves over and over at the door, left one the impression of showering in the center of a demolition site.

Later, I made contact arrangements with our real estate agent regarding house showings. She asked if it was okay to show the house if no one answered the phone, and I replied as long they left a message on the answering machine. I told I didn’t want to be featured in the shower during a surprise house showing. She gave a knowing nod and said, yeah that’s happened a few times. No shit! having spent a week looking at property and observing my own agent’s lackadaisical approach to entering stranger’s homes, I knew there was an EXCELLENT chance. Frankly, I doubt prospective buyers could be coaxed into making an offer after observing three pussies huddled around a shower. I’m afraid the south is too conservative for that to be much of a selling point for anyone older than the frat house set…Sure they continue to fantasize, but denial is often accompanied by a well appointed Gucci handbag fashioned from a married man’s scrotum.

For two months I showered in the bathroom with the flimsy paper shades tacked to the molding knowing that at any moment, Patches could tire of watching me shower through the large picture window, and rip the paper shade down to watch the birds singing beyond the bathroom window. In his exuberance to commune with nature, he would gladly leave me bare-assed for the benefit of my neighbors and the postman.

Thanks to the Mister’s good taste in window treatments, half of my anxiety has been treated. No more worries about exposing myself to the neighbors. The cats have insisted that the shower show must go on, so look for tickets at a box office near you.

When my life gets busy, the same things fall by the waist side. I am dependable about handling obligations, but they usually upstage the activities that nurture my soul. During chaos, my life is seldom an example of balance, and mostly exemplifies the burden of everyday responsibilities. Hence the two unfinished drawings in the studio, the box of unread books, the un-utilized roll of roofing felt (don’t get too excited, it is my new drawing surface of choice), the printing press that needs T.L.C., the hiking paths I need to explore, all the nesting activities required to settle into a new house, the gallery I absolutely MUST visit, and the unfinished crossword puzzles.

When you factor in how much progress is disrupted simply by having the Mister at home, it leaves a tired Chica (who often refers to herself in third person when she gets irritable).

The first thing I neglect is any physical exercise routine I’m attempting to commit to (and I use commit in the looses interpretation of the word). It doesn’t matter if it’s walking, abs, or stretching. One neglected day equals reneging on the whole program. One tiny little missed opportunity…and it all goes to Hell in a hand basket. It usually takes months to get started again. It’s definitely a routine that is good for me, if one I deplore, so it is easy to understand why I fall off the wagon with this one.

Reading takes one for the team. I read a few minutes before bed every almost every night, but finding extra time during the day can be a chore. It takes a long time to finish a book when you find yourself rationed to twenty minutes a day or less. In the past I have chosen to spend ten hours traveling by plane only to have twenty-four hours at the destination because I knew I could justify sending the time time to read or sketch.

Art tis the guiltiest of pleasures. It shouldn’t be. I should make it a priority along with clean laundry. Generally, I don’t give a shit about how society views things…but it seems to have found a weakness in my facade regarding this subject. There is a notion, probably left over from elementary school, that art is fun; therefor if you are making art you are having fun, and if you are having fun then it can’t possibly be work. During the days of FICA and fifty hour weeks it was work. There was nothing fun about it. Nothing beats creativity into will-less submission like a joyless project promoting shameless consumerism.

Unchained from the pressure of forced success, it is still work. Just not the soul suffocating kind. Now it seems to be more encompassing than ever. Art is no longer confined to the parameters of expensive paper, stretched canvass, or a yearly Christmas card. It seems to transcends the project and execution, and seeps into my everyday problem solving. I’m not thinking on the page or in the sketchbook; I’m evaluating wide open spaces, and mentally drafting solutions in hopes of making spaces more usable and accessible. I would rather be working on paper, or roofing felt, but spacial needs dictate other priorities for now. When free time presents itself, I will be ready and willing. Until then, I will try applying what I know on paper to what I need in real life.

The lovely expatriate Diane Mandy inquired about the pause in the last post to stop and smell the roses catch the goldfish. The goldfish were my consolation prize after arguing with the Mister. I didn’t win the fight, but the Mister thought I deserved a reward for my persistence so he opted to correct the wrong problem*. Enough about the why and onward to the how…

When I say goldfish, I mean these not these. Not that these aren’t worth coveting, but they don’t require six hours in a car, a pond in a box, and suicide prevention counseling.

The goldfish in question were residing six hours away, at our old house, in our old pond. In order for them to be transferred to our new abode provisions had to be made. Like most really big decisions the Mister has to make this one had a small window of opportunity to execute. Two days to be exact. After online estimates ruled out indoor aquariums, the Mister opted for an exterior pond kit. Pond in a cardboard container as it is unaffectionately referred to in this house. The kit included a liner, lighting, pump, three different nozzles, and uninspiring installation instructions.

We returned home with the kit and the Mister and I took turns digging a two-hundred and forty gallon hole on the front lawn. (Actually lawn is probably too generous a word, but at least it is green.). The kit was a low cost affair one quarter the size of our first pond. We stopped working at sundown with the intentions of finishing the following day, but like all the best laid plans…

The Mister awoke the next morning with one those 24 hour stomach things. He spent most of his day alternating between riding the porcelain bus and sleeping on the sofa next to the trash can. I spent most of the day making gatorade runs and cloaking myself in a ring of lysol. So, yeah, there was just an empty hole in the front yard.

I set the pump up on the deck in a large bucket to use as a temporary tank until the installation could be completed. We were behind schedule, but at least there was a back-up plan.

The Mister was feeling better the following morning and we were able to drive down for his son’s wedding. Since departure arrangements were made in haste, he left an item of great importance behind. His suit. The suit that was purchased for the sole purchase of watching his son be united in holy matrimony. So we backtracked an hour and a half from home and added three hours to our drive south. So much or achieving fuel economy by carpooling..

The following day we set about the business of catching fish to be transported to my sister’s, where I spent the weekend. These fish are friendly enough to eat from your hand, well my hand, but the moment you introduce a net to their sanctuary…The backyard fishpond might as well have contained enough water to fill the ocean. Those fish made me feel like an uncoordinated ass with a net. Two hours later with the pond half-drained, we captured eight and I moved them to a small holding pond at my sister’s until migration day.

One koi had issues. Yes, had being past tense since he is no longer present. The holding pond was too confining, and he couldn’t cope with the claustrophobia. He jumped out and spent his remaining life flopping in a fire ant bed. By the time he was discovered, it was too late. We regrouped resources and covered the holding pond screen until departure. When I told the Mister about the casualty, he replied if we had only left him in the pond he would still be alive. True, but I wasn’t the one who insisted on moving the damn fish.

Bagged and oxygenated the remaining fish were placed in a bin to ride north. After dropping the Mister at the airport, I took the fish home and settled them in their temporary digs on the deck.

The following day, I set about the business of finishing the pond installation. Apparently, I am a champ at digging figurative holes, but I totally suck at digging literal ones. I tried fitting the liner to the liner but the hole was too small. I made it bigger. Then it was too too wide. I tried back filling and made the hole too small again. Then too deep, then too shallow. By the end of the day I was prepared to let the fish spend eternity in a wading pool with yellow ducks silk screened on the bottom.

The next day was marginally better. I finally installed the liner, much to the amusement of the UPS guy who showed up when I was up to my thighs in water and potty talk. I stepped back to critique my handiwork and realized I would need to engage in more reverse engineering if the pond was to resemble anything other than an afterthought. Armed with a level and a shovel I created a berm along the edge to prevent runoff from flowing into the pond.

The last step was to remove random stepping stones from the path leading from the parking path to the front door. Charming as stepping stones are, if not installed level, they will make it easier for you or the Fed Ex guy to break an ankle while walking to the front door.

The Mister asked how construction was progressing. I replied it looked exactly like a pond that was sold in a cardboard box. It would look fine in someone else’s yard, but I had higher expectations of my own abilities. It doesn’t look natural and the landscaping is lacking. But honestly, how natural can one expect a koi pond to look in the fucking mountains of Tennessee?

The fish are settled in their new watering hole and it only took about a hundred and fifty dollars worth of provisions to transport and relocate the little bastards. Now, I hope the savvy urban raccoon population doesn’t turn our water feature into a sushi bar.

If this had actually been easy, it wouldn’t have seemed like my life.

*I’ve tried to finish this post for four fuckin’ days. I can’t go into details about the disagreement in fewer than twelve hundred words, and still be fair to the Mister. Ironic, because the argument took less than a minute.

Part One is here

After the Mister discussed it with his son, the decision was basically left in my hands. The son would like me to be present to celebrate their vows, but understood if I was not comfortable doing so in the presence of outlaws and formers. The Mister accepted this and dropped the matter.

I opted out in consideration of my feelings and the Ex’s. My presence would have placed her in an awkward position. I hear she is easily rattled and responds inappropriately. It has been implied she is not a very happy person, and holds others responsible for her happiness. I won’t accept the burden of her joy, but seeing as she is less likely to be happy in her life, than I am in mine, she should witness the nuptials and experience the joy of seeing her son remarry without the distraction of an ex-husband’s twinkie. Besides, I knew when the day passed I would be happy again. Many times. I don’t know how many shots she has left at happiness, if she can’t find it in her self. Ideally, a wedding is a day, for mothers and fathers to experience the joy of having taught their children enough to start families of their own. The ashes of failed relationships has no place amidst the euphoria.

********

Since the Mister had to drive past the old house, and the old town to reach the wedding destination, I decided to carpool with him and spend the weekend with my sister. If you have to burn that much gas, you might as well carpool.

We met my sister in a parking lot. When we arrived the Mister was talking on his cell, and I was talking on mine. The exchange was sort of abrupt. The process of de-phoning and transferring bags, interrupted the time usually reserved for formal good byes. My sister noted as we pulled out of the parking lot, “He didn’t want to leave you.” Yup, that’s my Mister.

We had a few errands before we went to Sister’s home. On our way to catch goldfish, (No, I’m not making this shit up) the Mister called to tell me something and decided to delay his next mission and help us catch fish. He doesn’t like saying good bye, even if it is temporary. He has a tendency to find me and stay with me a little longer. Departing twice seems easier than once.

********

The wedding was lovely, the Mister showed me pictures on the drive home. Yes, home. It has nice ring to it. Mister Hombre looked quite handsome in his suit. The bride and groom looked equally stunning, and totally into each other. The Mister made transportation arrangements for the One Eyes to attend, and they seemed to have a good time.There was dancing, an open bar and shots. According to the Mister, all parties behaved civilly. Hopefully this will be a good omen for a lasting marriage.

********

I suspect the Mister was disappointed I did not giving his feelings more consideration in this matter. Ultimately, I could have accused him of the same.

********

Eventually, Baby Girl will marry and we will be staring this in the face again. When the time comes, I will handle it the same. It will be Baby Girl’s decision, not mine. She knows her mother best, and I trust that she will not take the decision lightly. That isn’t to say I know what she will deccide. It will always be up to the kids to decide which roles I play in their lives. I have no desire to win them over, only to be me. I enjoy their company for who they are, not who they aren’t. Mostly, it’s enough. Just being real.

I hate returning home after four days away. I don’t dislike the absence, but the laundry, cleaning, litter pan scooping and catch-up of ordinary tasks are irritating. In all my annoyance, I know I lead a charmed life. I could be cleaning up the remains of my house after a hurricane, or sifting through the rubble of an earthquake in search of my single government allotted child, in other words, I’ve no valid right to complain. Yet, I have spent nineteen hours digging a hole in my front yard, and I am sore and irritable.

********

Mister Hombre and I have had an ongoing argument discussionsince last June. The Mister’s son was getting remarried, and the argument entailed whether or not I would attend the nuptials. I get along well with the Mister’s son, and I think his new beloved has been a positive influence on him. Since their involvement, I have watched the Mister’s son grow. He is becoming a man with many admirable qualities, like his father.

I have never met the Mister’s ex-wife. Sure, there have been half a dozen near misses in the course of living in the same city for nine years, but no direct contact. There was no reason for formal introductions. The Mister’s kids were grown when we met, so it isn’t like I would be a co-parent. I did not wreck her home, though I was involved with the Mister before his divorce was final.

My life was delightfully quiet before I met Mister Hombre. It changed quickly. Remarkably, people you’ve never met soil your reputation before you make eye contact with them. From in-laws to outlaws. I’ve been glared at, gawked at, trash-talked and cliched. Classy.

********

Having not met the Mister’s Ex, I don’t consider myself to be in a position to call her character into question. The only things I know of the woman, is she makes an ass-kicking buttermilk fried chicken, she has health issues, and they affect her capacity to cope and reason. Not exactly enough information to pass judgement.

When the Mister’s son married the first time, I received a mailed invitation. Later, I received a message from the son delivered by Mister Hombre requesting I not attend because it was after all his wedding day, and he wanted it to be a happy occasion. I complied and even helped the Mister prepare the rehearsal dinner, and fled rapidly before the guests arrived.

It was a different time and I don’t harbor any resentment. The Mister’s divorce had been final a few months, and I’m not one to insert myself into someone else’s drama. The ceremony was a happy occasion, but the first marriage….was unfortunate.

********

Shortly after Engagement 2.0 was announced, I told the Mister I wouldn’t be attending. It wasn’t about the previous un-invite. I still had not met the Mister’s Ex. Am I the only who thinks it is grossly inappropriate to meet an emotionally unstable Ex for the very first time at her son’s second wedding?

Weeks would pass without the subject being discussed, then it would come up again. The Mister would push for compromise, but fuck me, there was no compromise. There was either me conceding or him. And so the discussion went…..for months. I have compromised conceded many times where his complex family relations were concerned. I could recite a laundry list of occasions where I put everyone else’s comfort ahead of my own, but it would be pointless to recite it now, because I have put it behind me.

Finally, I threw the Mister a bone. I told him if it was important enough to his son and beloved I attend, and they contacted me directly, I would be there….

continued