Currently, I’m lounging on a sofa sipping coffee, and yawning uncontrollably. Thursday afternoon, kissed the Mister goodbye, before he left for work. Earlier that morning, we hung the dart board in the basement after sharing breakfast.

Wednesday, at eight, we sped down the interstate and I narrowly avoided being sucked out the sunroof of the Mister’s SUV when the front of the queen-sized mattress tied to roof caught a gust of air. (Note to self, don’t be so fucking stupid). The good news is the guest bedroom is fully equipped. Wednesday morning, jet lagged, I swore uncontrollably at the neighbor’s dog who barked an early morning wake-up call because a jogger passed by.

Tuesday afternoon, I sat next to the Mister as he navigated the traffic on the downtown connector while simultaneously muttering obscenities about Atlanta drivers. One hour prior, I tracked my flight over the courtesy monitor, and noticed our flight path passed near this blogger’s home and this blogger’s home, but I thought better of requesting the flight crew make unscheduled stops. When I looked down at the Appalachian Mountains, bordering North Carolina and Tennessee, I was reminded of the short hike we took Saturday. The world is a small place. At 9AM that morning, I completed a pen and ink drawing in my travel sketchbook.

At 8AM I was engrossed in Catcher in the Rye. At 5:30AM I was drinking pinot noir and eating grilled salmon. At 3:30AM, I waited for name to be cleared from the standby list.

Monday evening, between the hours of 7 and 12PM, I tossed and turned, counted sheep,and sang the lyrics of all the Aimee Mann songs I could remember in my head. At approximately 8PM I took an ibuprofen tablet to combat the unfortunate side effects of the headache which resulted from the over-consumption of champagne gifted to me by a flight attendant on my arrival flight to Frankfurt. I turned off the lights in anticipation of the 2AM wake-up call. Between 1 and 4 PM I dined on authentic German cuisine with the Mister and some of his coworkers in Frankfurt. (Jagerschnitzel, potatoes even Dr Adkins couldn’t resist, and respectable beer) Between 9AM and 12PM, the Mister and I explored the plotz at Wiesbaden.

Sunday evening at 2AM I arrived at the Frankfurt. I lamented the briefness of the trip, and regretted my indecisiveness regarding travel. Had I known a few days in advance I would have contacted, this lovely expat. Between the hours of 10PM and 1AM, I read the Catcher in the Rye. Between the hours of 5PM and 9PM I finished The Devil Wears Prada. From 3 to 4 PM awaited being cleared from the standby list to board the flight. From 11AM to 1PM travel by car with the Mister to Hartsfield Jackson International Airport. Between the hours of 9AM to 11AM, I packed my suitcase as I tried to decide if I would actually follow through with joining the Mister on his business trip. Who decides to fly internationally with less than three hours to prepare? Apparently someone who doesn’t want to spend three days alone with two cats.

Saturday evening, we drove home from the Smokey Mountains after a post-6-mile-hike beer and hamburger. At 7PM, we poked fun at the ostentatiousness of Pigeon Forge (Think Las Vegas with Miniature Golf, Fudge kitchens, and Jesus, instead of gambling, drinking, and legalized prostitution. Although on some level, those are really the same things.)

At 3PM, we admired the view from The Jumpoff, an overlook on the Boulevard Trail, that branches off the Appalachian Trail. This brief segment of the Appalachian Trail was moderate and ran mostly along the ridge. At 9AM we finished breakfast before parking at the trailhead.

Friday evening, we fell asleep in the hotel before the respectable hour of 10PM. Sometimes your body feels so fucking old, while your inner ten year old simultaneously plots skinny dipping in the hotel pool. At 8:30PM, we enjoyed ribs at a favorite restaurant, post-hike post-strenuous-walk to Grotto Falls.

At 7PM, we spotted a black bear and two cubs when we were leaving the trailhead. At 6PM, the Mister and passed behind the falls for a closer look. At 5PM, we drove around the park looking for the trailhead. Between 1 and 3PM, we walked around Gatlinburg proper in search of hiking shoes for the Mister, completely fascinated by what is quite possibly the last wasp stronghold in the greater south. The lack of diversity left me feeling strangely uncomfortable. At 8AM, the Mister said, “Do want to hike the Smokies?”

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

Majority rule only works if you’re also considering individual rights. Because you can’t have five wolves and one sheep voting on what to have for supper.
~Larry Flynt

When I met Marsha*, she asked my political affiliation. It wasn’t one of those rude, “well certainly we all believe the same things, so let me hear you say it out loud” questions. It was an innocent inquiry from a member of a political minority seeking volunteers for the next fundraising/campaigning season. My answer, “Anarchist”.

************

Government is cumbersome. It doesn’t adequately protect individual rights or reflect the will of the masses. I don’t understand why officials waste tax revenue passing non-binding resolutions, or why we need so many laws. Is it so difficult to do the right thing that it requires legislation? And why are the citizens who pay the taxes deprived of social services while their dollars are exported?

The lawlessness that descended upon New Orleans following Hurricane Katrina is enough to make ALMOST anyone reconsider the notion that anarchy is anything more than a fight for survival. Obviously, society needs order, but do laws really deter bad behavior? I’m skeptical about the effectiveness of legislating morality.

***********

Three weeks ago, Marsha* called.

“Ms Chica, have you ever wondered what it would be like to work at the polls?”

Long pause.

“Marsha*, I can honestly say the thought has never crossed my mind.”

I agreed to clerk on Super Tuesday. Yes, I’m still an anarchist, but a passive and pragmatic one. I pay taxes, observe traffic laws, and return my shopping cart to the buggy corral. I may not believe in the effectiveness of government, but I have benefitted from some of its efforts.

When I told the Mister, he almost fell off the couch laughing. “Do they know about your, uh political leanings, or that you’re not registered to vote?”

So there you have it. I might be the first person to clerk at the polls who wasn’t a registered voter.

************

Our Board of Elections liaison told us to expect 100 - 120 voters, and we served 230. The goal was to try and vote everyone who showed up. The exception being, voters who arrive at the wrong precinct. Those individuals we were given directions and instructed to go to their assigned precincts. Voters without proper identification or whose registration was not able to be verified either via database or the Board of Elections are allowed to vote provisional ballots. Provisional ballots allow 48 hours for discrepancies to be rectified before they are counted.

We assisted one couple who had not voted in thirty years, and a woman who was voting for the first time at age forty-five. When I consider the reasons they chose to cast their ballots now, I wonder if too will change my mind one day.

I know why I should vote. You forfeit the right to complain when you don’t participate in the process (when has that ever deterred anyone?). As an eligible citizen, I have one voice and the right to one vote. One vote that counts the same as everyone else’s. With the electoral college still in place, and the politics behind super delegates and unpledged delegates, I feel like my voice has laryngitis.

It’s unlikely I will change my mind soon. The last twelve years have been littered with candidates I wanted to vote against, not for. An exceptional candidate or a constitutional amendment might rouse me from my stupor, but not today. For now, I am willing to work the polls. I might not have much hope for my voice, or finding a candidate I agree with more than 20%, but many people still believe and I think they should be heard.

It’s a paradox, but I don’t feel torn about it. I’m glad everyone doesn’t share my opinion. Diversity makes this country a better place. I don’t need government to dictate what is acceptable societal behavior and what is not. I understand it is up to the individual to accept responsibility for his or her actions and see that groups unable to stand up for themselves are not trampled on by society. Some need those parameters so we have government.

It has been said that democracy is the worst form of government except all others that have been tried.
~Winston Churchill