I was talking to my sister Friday evening, and she started one of these, “You’re never going to believe what grandma said…” conversations. These are typically entertaining forays into the world of octogenarian logic. Wit and wisdom conveniently sprinkled with bitterness and paranoia. The statements are true, but the incidents that lead up to them are usually built on a crumbling foundation of science fiction and Dr Seuss.

Grandma disclosed to my sister the REAL reason I moved. Apparently, I relocated because I didn’t want to be part of the big decision making. She sort of neglected to mention which big decision making she was actually referring to. She could be referring to herself as she is absolutely paranoid that she will fall asleep one evening in her ginormous king sized bed with her beloved cat, Cry Baby only to wake up the following morning restrained on a single bed, in a sea foam green room, that smells like urine and baby powder. She IS eighty-eight, so it is a legitimate concern. What she doesn’t realize is that is completely out of my jurisdiction. I am her grandchild, not her child, so effectively my voting power is nil.

I have obvious affection for the woman. I gave her eiswein for Christmas, in spite of her protest of being a baptist. I don’t bat my eyes when she says, “shit”, and I still eat her home cooking, though its glory days expired prior to the Y2K scare.

She could have been referring to the situation regarding my in-laws, but let’s face it, I don’t, nor have I ever had, any influence of their care. Maybe that’s a good thing, maybe it’s a bad thing. We will never really know, will we?

Maybe she was referring to my responsibilities regarding my own mother’s care. Today, my mother is completely able to handle all her basic needs. It isn’t like she has two feet wedged on the gas pedal trying to outrun the staff at the nursing home. She does need help with larger task: trimming shrubbery, removing pine straw from the roof, taking animals to the vet.

Over the past two years, I have spent as much time preparing my mother’s house to be put on the market (her idea to sell) as I have my own. She changed her mind after the appraisal. Sentimental attachment has no influence over fair market value in the midst of a real estate slump. Frequently, I have shown up at her doorstop to take care of maintenance without being prompted. I have made arrangements, and enlisted help to relocate an ass load of furniture from one antique mall to another one three hours away. I don’t take it upon myself to pitch in because I’m looking for praise or credit (and I’m not looking for credit now). I do it because it is the right thing.

Few things Grandma says surprise me any more, but this one…. I thought she knew me better, or at least had an inkling of type of person I became. I don’t have difficulty accepting responsibility, nor do I have difficulty making decisions and accepting the consequences. I don’t even mind admitting fault when it is clearly mine (this took a lot of work). I can’t be expected to take responsibility of those who CHOOSE not take responsibility for themselves, and as for those confined to a small cell chewing thorazine and creating macaroni and glue sculptures, on some level, they become the responsibility of all. What I struggle with, is determining the best path from where I am to where I want to be. So there is a molecule of truth in what she said, but not enough to merit a sweeping statement. I wish she had listened to me more, so she might have gotten to know me better.

I waited for the inevitable phone call since I posted this . Every time I heard the suspicious ring I wondered if this call would announce the culmination of a hellish week for my Mom. Surprisingly the phone call never came.

Two days ago when I was preparing dinner, the Mister came in with the mail stopping at the kitchen island to sort it. Immediately, I zeroed in on a later addressed to me in familiar handwriting.

I paused chopping squash to examine the envelope. It was addressed to me in my mother’s distinct penmanship. Instinctively I knew this letter bore news of the “inevitable” I had anticipated for days. Quietly, I opened and began reading as the Mister proceeded to educate me on all the new and exciting developments in this month’s Pop Sci magazine.

It is done. And for the best.

I was overcome by peculiar feelings. Not sadness. Not loss. Mostly relief. I had said my goodbyes. To be accurate I said goodbye each time I saw her over the last three years. She looked like a skeleton strutting around in a shabby gray coat, and yet she insisted on living. Every week. Every day. Every hour. Until the last second. She wanted life and badly.

It’s difficult not to ponder mortality when faced with losses of companions, especially those embracing youthful vigor. I suppose I accept such things with all the grace I can muster under the circumstances. I’m not much of a crier or prone to pinning. I acquiesce the inescapable nature of loss, and for some inexplicable reason, I don’t contain much fuel to mourn death properly. I suppose my head is to blame. It presents arguments for not being publicly emotional. I feel the loss, but it’s difficult to surmise the construction of it when you stare into my vacant blue eyes.

Reluctantly, I asked my mother, if she would be capable of making preparations for Itchy to be buried on the family property when the time came. I didn’t want to ask, but I wasn’t in a position to return and handle the matter myself. By preparations, I mean dig a hole deep enough to prevent wild dogs from digging up the remains. She assured me, it was her desire that the matter be handled in that fashion. After living on that property for eighteen years, she could find no reason to move her now.

Ironic, I wanted a proper burial for my childhood cat, but ever since I can remember I’ve always wanted my own remains cremated. When I was about fifteen, I used to tell my dad, I want to be cremated and I wanted my ashes to fill the pepper shakers at Huddle House. I told him that because he spent almost every afternoon in that diner drinking coffee and gossiping with all the other retired old farts.

In truth, I don’t care where my ashes are spread. My only desires are that there be no service, no marker, and no statue (unless of course it is a tasteless one). When I am gone, just make way for the others who will need my place.

*our girl. It was time

**Casey, mentioned in the letter, is another of my mother’s cats. Apparently she plans to ascend the power ladder and become the new reigning queen.

*** I love that my mother still mails hand-written letters.

**** In spite of the macabre tone of this post, I am not sad, depressed, or suicidal. I am in mood suitably cranky for my personality, and a good deal lighter since I have unburdened here.

It started off as one of THOSE days. He slept late which was fine, but after waking he concluded we didn’t have enough time to review paint swatches and leave in time to get breakfast before his appointment. Reluctantly, I forfeited printing out my crossword puzzle, and snatched my mediocre novel from the night stand so we could grab breakfast at a diner before waiting at the chiropractor’s office.

We’ve been trying to consolidate trips across town. It isn’t that we can’t afford the gas. We can. The rising gas prices have had little relative impact on our budget when compared to other families. I’m also aware how lucky we are to live in the U.S. when you compare the fuel costs to European nations. Basically, its the principle of the whole thing. It pisses me off that fuel costs have increased so much. I guess I’m one of a few who is actually miffed enough to change the way I drive. The Mister and I carpool and consolidate trips when possible, but running late this morning put a kink in the best laid plans.

I put the frustration behind me, and the remaining morning was pleasant. After the appointment, we returned home for lunch and to deposit heat sensitive purchases. Lunch was a minor culinary disaster which has resulted in my refusal to eat broiled flounder until after Don Isthmus is nominated for a Nobel Peace prize (Yes, that bad.) When the phone rang I glanced at the caller ID and passed the phone to the Mister. It’s HER. I listened to his side of the conversation as they exchanged pleasantries and irrelevant information about HER upcoming vacation. Finally they got to the real dirt. After he finished the conversation, the Mister filled in the blanks for my benefit.

As per the usual way the conversations have gone with HER recently, I was disgusted, quiet and sullen. He said a few things, and I said a few things. After thinking about a little longer, I told him, “I don’t care for the way she conducts business.” As this type of thing can be easily misinterpreted and blown out of proportion, I made it a point to tell him I was disgusted with the situation and I wasn’t blaming him, I just wasn’t happy about the way things were progressing (or not progressing as the case were), and that was all I was going to say about it, though i intended to fume a little longer.

Empty complaints launched into thin air don’t make me feel better about conflicts. What does it prove with the exception of establishing beyond a shadow of a doubt that some soulless human anomaly has delighted in shitting in my corn flakes. I informed him that I would be quietly seething for the rest of the afternoon, but it wasn’t personal. Being quiet is easy, but being detached when scorned, not so much.

We left made three attempts to leave the house and tend to remaining errands, but seemed unable to pull out of the driveway without first: peeing, making one more phone call, picking up cat food off the floor, checking paint chips, finding the grocery list, getting a bottle of water, and running back in the house for car keys, while simultaneously having an energetic phone conversation with my mother about her dog’s valium prescription.

We stopped at the animal hospital to pick up prescription cat food they ordered for us. After limping to the car sans an arm and a leg with a twenty pound bag of kibble, the Mister was irked.

On the way down the mountain, the He started grumbling about tailgaters, potholes, whether his suv is large enough to accommodate a queen sized matures. Next it was the traffic, the location of the speed limit signs, and finally the inconvenient location of St*rbucks.

After noting the difficulty of entry he decided we should get coffee before continuing. As he pulled into a parking spot, a pedestrian stepped off the curb and stood in the center of the parking place for a moment before walking to his car. The Mister was still grumbling when we went in side.

I turned to the Mister, and said, “SHE did an excellent of wrecking our moods.”

This brought a smile to his face and we exchanged high-fives. It’s reassuring to know it’s possible to be angry and still be on the same team.

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.

It’s official. As of Friday, we own two houses. We flew up for a thirty hour stay to perform a final walk through and sign papers. We have returned to the old place to wrap up packing duties.

This week will be filled with last minute debates like when to pack the toilet paper, do we really want to transport our houseplants, and whether or not to buy bread or spend the rest of the week dining at the local watering hole.

We are either beloved by friends and family or deplored by them because we are receiving offers to help. The proposals are pure in selflessness, but there is the minor detail of wanting to locate possessions after they’ve been boxed and transported. I appreciate their generosity, but I’d prefer them take the time to share a meal or a pint, than pack the mystery items stashed under the bed.

People want to be needed. Everyone, from the youngest toddler to the oldest grandmother wants to feel useful. The importance of the task seldom matters, just the desire to participate. Sometimes you should to allow others to “help” so they know you still need them in your life.

It’s humbling to ask for help, but it asking isn’t an issue of humility for me. I recognize I possess a stubborn self-sufficiency. I don’t believe in asking others to help me with things I wouldn’t be willing to assist with if I were asked. I have moved people, helped paint houses, remodeled fish ponds, provided technical support, and other physical tasks. I am willing, but I’d rather pay laborers I can bark orders to.

For most tasks remaining, we’ll hire muscle. I know how heavy our sofa is, and how many sheets of birch plywood were required when I constructed flat files. I won’t ask my friends and family to jeopardize their spinal health to move our heavy life, but I don’t feel guilty paying a couple guys cash for their labor.