I should be crawling into the Mister’s man cave to apologize for hurting his feelings…The thing is, I am not sorry in the least. I should be, but I’m not.

Why?

I’m not sorry for speaking up this time, because there have been dozens, maybe a hundred, other times I ate shit politely with a knife and fork, while he spoke rudely, loudly or inappropriately. Or because he found himself in a disagreeable situation because, he did not read the signs or heed warnings, and faced consequences for his actions. All those times I stood quietly singing the lyrics of Liz Phair’s What Makes You Happy in my head while he ranted and had his moment. I have allowed him many moments.

For all the times he interrupted me mid sentence to correct some seriously significant, or seemingly inconsequential detail about his profession or the specificity of detail, and completely obliterate any contribution or point I attempted to make. And for all the times I allowed him to slaughter the details of my profession and explain concepts to others he didn’t fully grasp.

So this time I called him on it. One time out of dozens. Eight hours have passed and I’m not sorry. I don’t believe in saying words that lack meaning.

Maybe tomorrow I will say it with feeling…

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?”

Learning the area constitutes more than locating fresh vegetables, finding suitable mexican food, and adopting a new watering hole. Following hiking paths, finding river access, and exploring the less than obvious experiences that go unadvertised on towering billboards.

This week brought seven inches of rain in two days. Nature reminds me how inconsequential I am. It’s hard to believe the following photos were snapped at the same creek. From swimming hole to white water rapids. It’s a radical change of momentum for a single canvas. Who knew Mother Nature was a manic depressive?

A friend once told me, “You can’t prevent a disaster from running it’s natural course.” She had four years of sobriety, a bankruptcy, an ex-husband, and a failed greyhound farm behind her. What she didn’t discuss, was how frustrating it is to calmly watch things go hell in a hand basket. That takes a special a special kind of zen or complete disregard for humanity.

I haven’t mentioned my in-laws since we screwed over the Mister’s younger brother moved. Aging has been a popular topic. I prefer not to dwell on the drama with the Mister’s parents, but others’ experiences can be useful when you attempt to map out your own.

In January I mentioned the possibility of the Mister’s parents, the One Eye, leaving the Assisted Living Facility and returning to their own home. In order for them to return, it is necessary for the house to be semi-gutted, painted, re-carpeted, cleaned, appliances, windows replaced, and sheet rock repaired. That doesn’t include the retrofitting required to make the house handicap accessible; handrails for bathrooms, ramp to enter the door.

The contractor hired was an abomination of ethics violations hand-delivered from Satan. The good news is eight months have passed, and the work is still incomplete. The bad news is the contractor started bypassing the Mister and his brother for advances and approval and went straight to Ole One Eye. I’m not sure what the final tab was on the remodeling, but I am certain the contractor abused the situation. Don’t rely upon the kindness of others when it comes looking after aging parents. You are their best advocate. Grace extended from others is a bonus not a given.

The return home has conditions. They will have constant supervision. One proposed plan is for the One Eyes to visit the home for 6-8 hours a day. They would leave the ALF in the morning, transported by caregivers spend the day at their home, and transported back the ALF in time for dinner to spend the night. This plan is favored by the sons. The back-up plan, is to return them to their home with twenty-four hour care. The back up plan is the back up plan only because there is a fear that once they return, they won’t be able to pry Mrs One Eye out of the place.

Being in excess of three hundred miles from the situation, affords me the luxury of not being affected by such a change, but it does not prevent me from giving a shit.

The cost of twenty-four hour care is obscene at best. At the most frugal cost, the services rendered are basic. Light housekeeping, light cooking, shopping, and transporting. Typically, the cheapest providers are not insured, and have minimal medical training, if any. The team of four which have been interviewed, have requested being paid in cash (Red flag, maybe?) There are agencies which offer the same service for a higher cost, but their staff have typically undergone background checks.

My SIL fears the One Eyes will go through caregivers like toilet paper, driving away any assistance that isn’t bound by an agency or a contract. Supposedly, the One Eyes will not have the power to hire and fire staff, that will be the sole domain of their sons. Even with a caregiver available to assist with cooking, cleaning, physical assistance. Mrs One Eye isn’t likely allow anyone to cook in her kitchen. Her kitchen and her paperwork are HER JOBS.

The son who still lives in the area and is responsible for their finances and the house remodel, has plans to build his home near the One Eyes’ homestead. I think his religious leanings have convinced him, this is the right thing to do, but emotionally, I don’t think he will be able to handle what it requires. True, he won’t be a twenty-four care giver, but should the hired staff fail to meet their obligations, I think he would expect his wife to. If you are unable to deal with your parents, I don’t think it is fair to expect your spouse.

I could offer a laundry list of friends, family, and physicians who believe it is a bad idea for the One Eyes to return home. I believe three out of four sons also think it is a bad idea. I don’t know why they persist in trying to actualize this disaster if they truly believe it is a bad idea. My inner uneducated freudian suspects their sons are seeking approval. It has been a lifelong quest of all yielding no acknowledgment, much less a reward. It saddens me on their behalf, yet my vicarious pity serves no useful purpose.

The silver lining is….
they remain heavily supervised in assisted living, and their house will not be ready for occupancy this month.

The not so silver lining…
Ole One Eye’s mental capacity is diminishing. He is hallucinating. He sees fleas fish eggs bees wasps. He isn’t nuts. This is symptomatic of a legitimate medical condition, for which there is medication available. No one seems to know why he isn’t on the medication, nor has anyone spoken to his primary physician about the psychosis or getting a referral to the appropriate physician. Ole One Eye is diminishing physically. He is no longer able to walk far, and he is very unsteady. He has abandoned most attempts at basic hygiene. The vision in his remaining eye has greatly diminished, and no longer reads or dials telephone numbers without assistance. Mrs. Ole One is probably shoving him into an early grave. She yells at him, she gets in his face, and she doesn’t let up about wanting to go home. Her strength is actually improving, but her basic understanding and comprehension are not.

These seniors can no longer be held responsible for their actions. All the hateful words, and manipulative statements are simply a means to an end. Like toddlers, their goal is to get what they want, nothing more and nothing less. Attempts to reason with them yield short-lived victories, because the One Eyes forget what they agreed to, or they discard it. Fear of being disrespectful, forever traps their sons in the process of negotiations. Respect is a two way relationship, not one of constant submission.

What if our lives are predefined by allocated quantities? Each person is granted a specified amount of love, hate, luck or passion. Not predestination, but energy appropriation. Frequently, I don’t I have enough passion to meet all my needs. It’s as if all the passion I’m granted is indivisible for separate endeavors. All or nothing.

There are weeks I flit around from one task to the nest, never finishing anything, just exchanging one preoccupation for the next. After all the absent mindedness settles, I concentrate for longer periods of time, until the concentration morphs into a palatable unwavering focus propelling me to work longer, harder and more efficiently. The casualties of this driving force are usually those who mean the most to me. Ironically those same people, or should I say the same person, doesn’t grasp I can’t dismiss this burning like one does a wrong number, or an ill-fitting pair of shoes. I’m just not hard wired, they same as he.

I proselytized the importance of balance in life to decease the complexity and danger of juggling too many issues, yet I rarely maintain steadiness for an extended period of time, when left to my own devices. I have a single measure of antisocial passion. It either leaves me with an an insatiable appetite to straddle my man, or the desire to draw, sketch and develop, but rarely the desire for both during the same cycle.

The house painting is complete, the walls adorned, the bathroom vanity is almost dry, and the Mister is properly laid. The projects which guilted me away from the studio, are driving me to return. The approaching ardor is completely selfish. I am returning to more structured studio time for my need only, not the encouragement of my friends and family. If I did it for them, I would feel somewhat beholden, as if their pleasure took priority over mine.

I need to divide this passion, allowing my relationship to burn with the same intensity as my desire to create. Yet, it’s never that easy. When I devote myself to a drawing, I relinquish all of myself to the imagery, the media, and the emotional process. Waking hours are wasted expended in complete service for whatever project is at hand, whether it be drawing, construction, dirty flip book, or landscape design. I neglect sharing myself (emotionally or otherwise) with my partner, when I am consumed.

I don’t want drive to be an all or nothing proposition. I don’t want to compromise my libido for a suite of erotic drawings, nor do I want to forfeit creativity in favor of an lunchtime lay. I (actually, we) need all these things to continue a strong relationship. We both need to feel independent, and simultaneously needed, lascivious and purposeful, whole yet symbiotic.

Beating a Dead Horse
This was a personal project I started on to cope with my lackluster career as a graphic designer. Beating a dead horse doesn’t translate in Spanish as an idiom, but I wanted a phrase that was significant to me. Media: Colored pencil.

After the eight grade, the private school I attended closed. My parents enrolled me in public high school rather than than bus me with my classmates. Transferring from a class of seventeen to a class of two hundred and fifty was sobering. I didn’t fear the diversity, the larger classes or the mysteries of the cafeteria but I resented the Hell out of being torn from my safety zone. At fourteen, the sun practically rises and sets drawn by the force of adolescent ego.

I knew a few kids at the new school, but with varying class schedules and hormonal crashes, I flopped around like a fish out of water trying desperately to find a place to belong. Throughout my tenure, I tried to blend in with various groups ranging from outcasts, to nerds, to cool kids, and foreign exchange students. I was never a good blend with any, but managed to be non-threatening enough to be tolerated by most groups.

As a quiet freshman who doodled constantly in the margins of notebooks, I was quickly recruited to decorate for various dances. I painted backdrops for at least five dances I didn’t attend. It was through one of those after school drawing, painting soda sucking afternoons I met Gwen.

I was drawn to her in one of those adolescent girl crush, you’re older and you have more insight into the high school pecking order, please guide me and rescue me from my own naivety, sort of ways. She was two years older, but she was in my homeroom, so I suspect academics weren’t a priority for her. She was friendly, and what I perceived to be cool, in an off the radar way.

We were painting murals or some such activity and she realized I noticed the horizontal scars intersecting her right and left wrist. She made some flip comment about it, and I was too polite to inquire further. Until that moment, I never considered the purpose which motivated an act of self-destruction. I supposed at the time, that she must have had a reason yet I was too squeamish to consider what it might be. I never thought any different of her because of it. I was intelligent enough to realize my life experience was too limited to grasp the why, but I was relieved she hadn’t been successful. Now, I regret my reasons were largely selfish. The truth is I couldn’t imagine navigating the hallowed halls of education without Gwen’s guidance that first year.

Gwen earned enough credit to move to a junior homeroom the following year, and I didn’t see her as often. By mid-term, she was suspended for bringing alcohol on the bus. A few days into her suspension, she withdrew from school. I never saw her again. I heard a rumor my senior year that she was pregnant, but I never heard confirmation.

Occasionally I wonder where her path led. I was acquainted with her, but I can’t claim to know her or her problems any better than she knew me or mine. At times when I close my eyes, I see her hands, beautiful, delicate, but no less troubled.

I regained purpose, or rather, busied myself with completing as much painting, and maintenance as I could tackle. Transient thoughts weaving through my mind, in synch with my music playlist, but nothing requiring the capacity to dwell. The Mister came home for a few days, and then departed again. We’re nearing the end of the interior work. It seems I’ve been nesting forever, but in truth it’s mostly a bunch of painting, and a small bathroom facelift, interrupted by trips downtown to eat awesome food, buy fresh produce, or get the Mister a chiropractic adjustment. I find comfort in the ordinary.

Later, when I tackled the bathroom, it struck again. There was a small inconvenience derailing progress, and I almost let it defeat me. It took more time than it should have for me to right my head and get back on track, but for hours, I found myself sliding downhill with the parking brake engaged.

It happens frequently. I engage myself with machine-like precision and endurance completing a series of tedious yet un-glorious task, and I maintain the pace longer than many could, yet ultimately I jump the track due to some inconsequential inconvenience. An inconvenience, that challenges me to get over myself. It’s that minor hiccup, the proverbial straw, that is remembered and dwelled upon, not the head of steam that produced the bulk of the progress. I long to turn off my head some days as I am often my own worst enemy.

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

A gift to the new bride and groom. I noticed the peacock was a recurring theme in their wedding announcement and invitation. I thought it might be significant. Colored pencil. Not a subject, I would choose for myself, but it was appropriate to honor the occasion, and well received. Part of the joy in making art, is capturing the spirit of the recipient.

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.