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.

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.

The moving process did not disappoint. It was filled with all the stress, frustration, swearing and unpredictability you warned me about.Through it all, I managed to keep my cool, except for one that one time when I chewed the Mister’s ass and served it to him on a plate. Only once. I refuse to apologize because It would be insincere.

The Mister hovers. I don’t need a supervisor. I packed 80% of the boxes without incident. I don’t appreciate him looking over my shoulder offering constructive criticism when he can’t keep track of a tape gun, much less be bothered to reserve enough underwear to survive the move. We sacrificed one ugly Christmas mug to my inferior packing techniques. Not bad for 350+ miles towed behind a semi.

Knowing stress was inevitable made it easier to prepare emotionally. I wish I were better about being zen under ordinary circumstances. I knew we hadn’t completed enough preparatory packing before the trailer arrived. I knew the Mister would take more time to load the truck than he anticipated. His estimates are only reliable if things go perfectly. This was far from perfect. A former work acquaintance of mine once remarked, you can’t derail a disaster from its natural course. So I practiced breathing while the mini-dramas unfolded.

What the Mister lacks in planning and preparation, he makes up for during the scramble. He struggles with deadlines, but he can pack a truck better than the Joad family can load wagon. I am still in awe at how much he loaded in the final three feet of the trailer. Did I mention he did it with a broken toe? My hero.

Our hired loaders were moonlighting from their day jobs. Instead of sixteen hours of manual labor, we netted four. It wasn’t wasn’t part of the agreement. There isn’t much you can do when you find out on the day you need them, they will be seven hours late. Well, there is one one thing….you start drinking apple schnapps at 9AM. It took an extra day to load the truck. One of these eager beavers might have strong-armed the shut-off valve for the washing machine resulting in a mini-flood and an emergency call to the plumber. Good times.

We doped up the kitties for what turned into a six and half hour tandem car trip. (Gotta luv traffic in the ATL). I drew the short straw I chauffeured the cats in a stick shift and the Mister packed his vehicle to its cargo limit. It was like unloading a clown car. I still can’t believe he hauled the flammables, the vacuum cleaner, the air mattress, the liquor stash, clothes, walking sticks, bed linens, cat litter, art, ironing board, coffee maker, corkscrew, pillows, computer bags and a bunch of shit I can’t be bothered to recall.

We spent three days waiting for our furniture. It was refreshing. After being surrounded by things, I felt free in the wide open space not yet influenced by our lives. I remember when my youth held that much potential. Maybe it will again.

The last major snag occurred when the driver delivered our trailer. Seems there was a problem with parking. The property has two drives, both of which slope downhill and require setting your emergency brake. We had permission to park the trailer on the street, but the driver didn’t want to be responsible. After we determined the driveway slope allowed minimal room for the trailer, we discovered the phone and cable lines were too low to accommodate the trailer height. We called the city, but it wasn’t their responcibility. The driver suggested we wedge a board under the lines to raise them, rather than waiting for professionals. I found a fallen hickory tree in the back yard with a “y” at the top. Propped on a pair of bricks it raised the cables just high enough to allow the trailer to pass. So the lines remained propped for two days.

Sometimes it pays to be self-reliant.

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?

There is a park nearby. It has hiking trails, river access, and picnic amenities. It has potential to be a great space for nature lovers, but it is secluded, and not a patrol priority for law enforcement. Rumor is, the park is a favorite location for drug deals, and prostitution. When I asked a police officer about it, he recommended staying away.

The thing I detest about being a woman, is society’s implication, of being the liability sex. I’m not sure which bothers me most, assumptions made about my individual character, or that it contains elements of truth. Everybody knows when you have a son, you only have to concern yourself about one swinging dick, but when you have a daughter you have to worry about all the swinging dicks.

I’m infuriated my tax dollars are being used to maintain a public space as safe zone for illegal activities. For officials to concede a park to lawless activities and suggest citizens enjoy recreation elsewhere, because they don’t properly patrol, uggh! I refuse to be intimidated in my own fucking cow town. I will not live afraid, simply because it is impractical for me to urinate while standing erect.

My ego is not so great that I forfeit safety in favor of pride. I’ve read the statistics for assault and the results are staggering. It makes me nauseous when I consider the number of women I know who are statistics too. Dark college campuses, mall parking lots, and unfamiliar streets foster my cognizance of spacial awareness, and stranger proximity.

The Mister and I have returned to the park. We go in the morning or afternoon (fewer suspicious types around). Trails are more interesting than circling the neighborhood. Each time, I long to return more frequently, whether or not I have a companion. Safety is a priority for me and the Mister, but I don’t want the Mister’s work schedule to control my walking schedule.

The Mister and I agree, I won’t visit the park without bringing some form of intimidation. We’ve concluded the safest times to visit the park are early morning (people are sleeping it off) or mid-afternoon (day jobs, and after lunch). I’ve reviewed self-defense tactics from the Mister’s employee training manual. If the Mister is available, we will go together.

The safest recourse is to find another space and forget the park, but I’m not willing to concede, yet… I understand the risks… and I don’t take them lightly. Being cavalier has consequences I don’t need. I’m not making an executive decision, the Mister knows my intentions and we are discussing self-protection measures. I agreed not to go alone until we reached a consensus. I’ve arranged to borrow a dog for some outings (I’m not ready to be a dog owner).

What measures do you suggest? Mace? Pepper Spray? Cattle Prod?