If I were to invite my friends and family to a dinner party, most of them, would probably scratch their heads, and say, “Huh?”. The people in my life are a diverse bunch. All ages, all walks of life, different interests, different political parties, religious and non, legalize it, and don’t. Few of my friends know each other. I enjoy being exposed to different viewpoints and lifestyles, but for the sake of keeping peace, many of the people in my life are compartmentalized. My relationships with friends rarely intersect my relationships with family. Everyone is not tolerant of differences.

My brother also compartmentalizes. He keeps familial relationships separate from friendly ones. He behaves differently towards me when his friends are around. He has difficulty reconciling the personality he presents to his friends with the personality he presents to his family.

As time passes from youth to adulthood, friendships and extended families can exchange positions in the measure of priorities. Friends, by the nature of being chosen, have the upper hand. Loyalty is also influential. As long as support system is in place, it shouldn’t matter if it is familial or platonic. My brother’s circle of friends, who have humbled him in their generosity. I am happy, knowing his family in such good hands.

As siblings, we have little in common beyond the typical genetic mannerisms. He doesn’t relate to the life I’ve chosen, and though I can relate to his life, it’s isn’t one that would work for me. His contentedness in it, is good enough for me. As we’ve gotten older, I have made less effort with each year to pursuing an unnatural, forced relationship. His kids are older now, and steadily becoming absorbed into their own live, friends and futures. I was supportive when it was most important to be, and should the need reappear, I will be so again.

Last month, my brother’s wife was diagnosed with breast cancer. I’ve kept up with her progress via, my mother, my sister, and emailing my brother. I didn’t want to burden his family with constant phone calls. It’s not important that I speak with them directly to obtain information, only that they know I am concerned. His friends are present and assisting. I am absent and inquiring.

I respect his boundaries because I have my own. I have the capacity for empathy, love, hurt, and compassion, as do other people. I feel powerless, as do other people. I feel compelled to do something, but there is little I can do from here. My mother’s family is pushy, they would insert themselves into the situation whether they needed to or not. I’m not THAT sister.

I don’t mean for this to sound like it is about me. It is about the nature of relationships and their constant state flux. Rather than fight the currents of change, I would rather accept and adapt. My contribution is easy and unbelievably simplistic. My role is to just be.

There is a part of me that longs to be the ONE. Useful, needed, wanted. We can’t all be the ONE, and it shouldn’t matter who is the ONE as long as there is ONE, or maybe a village to leave you humbled.

It is more efficient to summarize the causes of my indigestion in bullet points, much the same way corporations silk screen empty reasons you should purchase their products on the exterior of the packaging. If I composed it according to conventional marketing strategy with ALL CAPS, and repeating points so as to stretch out three reasons so it appears to be five reasons…I would just look like an ass. My ass-self is only properly judged when placed in context. If you’re going to measure it, using seamstress tape, the long post ahead should be adequate, if you prefer measuring with an axe handle, I’ll include a cliff’s notes version at the end complete with bullets. Feel free to shoot in my direction using my own neurotic anecdotes for ammunition.

What started off as a trip that was simply supposed to be long and inconvenient evolved into a chore so large it should consider applying for it’s own postal code. The trip itself isn’t so terrible, but my lack of enthusiasm will only serve to earn me a merit badge in extemporaneous bitchiness. I questioned my sanity when the only planned moment of this trip I did not dread involved having my feet suspended over my head while an nauseatingly upbeat dental hygienist scraped the plaque off my teeth, grooving to incredibly empty modern pop songs.

This trip was primarily to accommodate a dental appointment scheduled six months ago. Secondarily, it was to be an opportunity to catch up with a good friend I left behind, and maybe a return trip to my favorite watering hole. Thirdly it was an opportunity to retrieve some studio supplies. Fourthly, it was an opportunity to get in a quick visit with family. Opportunistic trip of convenience? Yes.

Two months ago when we found out about the baby shower was scheduled for the same weekend, so it seemed prudent to drive further south and attend. I left a trail of chocolate chip cookies from Chattanooga to Tampa in hopes of finding my way back in a leisurely fashion. Instead, I feel like a constipated rottweiler enduring the forceful yell of an impatient master while I try to pinch a loaf under duress. It feels like a familial scavenger hunt, showing up in string of cities packed along the interstate and tugging on apron strings asking, “Are you my Mummy?”

By the climax of this adventure, we will have spent twenty hours on the interstate, seen the Mister’s parents, children, and SIL, my mother and all my siblings, and most importantly, my former cat sitter. All these people in five days. Today is day four, and I’m all full up. We haven’t attended the baby shower yet…

When the route was being planned, it became apparent my family was going to be shoved into a three hour time slot, while much more time would be devoted to his, I was miffed. The previous trip south was so brief, I didn’t contact my family at all and spent five hours with his. I thought about using the time comparison for leverage, but seemed pointless. He’s not beyond playing the,Well, I don’t know how much longer my parents are going to be around card (like it’s really valid, because seriously, how many of us know when we are going to lose anyone our lives?), and my issue was not that I wanted to spend more time with my family…I wanted to spend less time with both families, and more time at the watering hole with my catsitter.

Visits with both families have been enjoyable and non-confrontational. It is still dangerous body-surffing in these waters, you can’t feel the undertow, but you know it lies inches beneath your toes. You know because you have been both warned, and felt the faintest of pulls.

• Road trip. Twenty Hours in car.
• Five days of family.
• 40 minutes in dentist chair.
• Mexican food, Italian Food, seafood.
• Baby shower, One Eyes, 800lb gorilla.
• Cats will poop in favorite hiking shoes when I return home.

I suppose there are advantages to burying you head in the sand. If you are unaware of what happens around you, your are absolved of responsibility and therefor, guilt. Okay, maybe not that last one.

I mentioned earlier my husband’s family was engaged in remodeling his parents home, so they could divide their time between assisted living and being cared for in their home. It seems procrastination has outlived its usefulness and the plan will come to fruition before the year expires.

Throughout the renovation process, the One Eyes have been brought home to view progress as the painting was completed and new carpeting installed. A few weeks ago, my BIL and his wife drove to the property to work on touch-up painting, and were surprised to discover the One Eyes had driven themselves to the property. Neither One Eye has a valid driver’s license, but that is hardly a deterrent when you have the reasoning capacity of a kindergartner and an operational set of car keys.

My BIL is not one for confrontation, so he said little about the escapade and opted instead to follow them back to the assisted living facility. Twice, Mrs One Eye drove completely off the road (the entire car width…not just a tire width), she also crossed the centerline a few times. When they arrived at the AFL, BIL talked to them about their irresponsibility. They were sheepish and a little defensive, but not remorseful.

During, the course of interaction, BIL obtained the car keys. Before he left, Ole One Eye asked him if he had the keys. He owned up to having them. Ole One asked for them, but BIL wouldn’t give them back, and left.

The Mister has been praising BIL for escaping with the car keys. He finally asked what I thought about it. I said I wasn’t ready heap praise on BIL yet, but if kept the keys for a month without caving, I’d consider it.

BIL is easily intimidated by the One Eyes. I’ve listened to make idle threats about selling their vehicles before, because he knew where the Power of Attorney was, and they had no business driving, and Ole One Eye’s vision was deteriorating quickly, and the doctor said Mrs One Eye shouldn’t drive either. He’s had their car keys in his possession in the past, and HE GAVE THEM BACK.

I don’t think it’s easy to confiscate your parents car keys. It’s their last grip on independence. I just believe some of us are more resigned about being the target or irrational anger, and not nearly as scared of our parents as others are.

If this takes, I’ll be proud of BIL. I’m just not going to praise him for growing a pair, until I see the short and curlies taking root.

Two Months Earlier:

Mister: Baby showers aren’t for men. Why should I go? It won’t be any fun.

Self: People don’t attend baby showers because they’re so goddamn fun, they don’t think they can live with themselves for missing the party of the century. It’s not about doing belly button shots off the mother or comparing plasma TVs with the person next to you. It isn’t about you. It’s about sharing excitement with the future parents and showing your support.

Today:

It isn’t about me either. At least it shouldn’t be….

I’m having difficulty wrapping my brain around this. In December, the Mister will become a Grandfather, Grandpa, Granddaddy, Gramps, or a Pa Pa, and I’m going to be a…oh, fuck can, we just not talk about that part at the moment? He’s excited, his Son is excited, his DIL is excited. I’m excited too, because excitement is contagious, just like PMS.

I am so out of my league here.

I don’t know what to do with babies. I don’t know how to hold them, or burp them. How many month’s do I have left to say fuck, before she repeats it? I don’t want to be the asshole that teaches the first grandchild to drop the f-bomb. Diapers? Only if you provide me with a barf bag and there will probably be two messes to clean up. Imagine if Hiroshima had been a cowfield. But these messy little rituals I’m obsessing over are the easy part. Throw down a drop cloth, buy a respirator, snatch the salad tongues from the kitchen drawer, and drape a protective garment over you shoulder. Adapt, or hand the baby back to her mother.

It’s the expectations that have me wrapped around the axle. The Mister and his family have expectations of what roles people should play, but determining those expectations is like hunting for ground pepper in an urn. It is against the family code of conduct to spell out expectations beyond the initial exchange of wedding vows.

You shouldn’t say fuck in front of his parents, nor should react negatively if Ole One Eye say something racist or bigoted (I’m not defending him, but this is a common characteristic of his generation. Suddenly my saying fuck doesn’t sound so bad). You must compliment his mother, and pretend you don’t notice her upper denture plate is not secured to the roof of her mouth as she keeps clicking it in place with her tongue. Don’t say anything suggestive in front of this brother, you’ll embarrass him. Never mention the squealing hearing aids. Don’t mention this person’s DUI. Never mention Ole One Eye is mentally declining. You are not allowed to defend yourself if someone verbally attacks you. You do not buy Mrs One Eye long sleeved shirts. You always hold hands. You must hug them even though their hygiene is marginal. You never discuss their poor hygiene. You must pretend Mrs One Eye can hear. You should pretend you share the same religion. You must pretend like you aren’t offended when Ole One says something chauvinistic, or Mrs. One Eye says something misogynistic. You should pretend women are the lesser sex and were bred specifically to wait on lazy southern white men and hand and foot.

I re-read my vows this week, and none of these items were mentioned, though there was something about being supportive. Supportive isn’t a euphemism for loophole, is it?

Part if this depends upon the Mister, and what type of grandparent he chooses to be. His relationship with his son during the adolescent years was a rocky. Son raised his share of Hell, and the Mister was frequently absent due to the amount of travel required for his job. Son was frequently the Man of the House accounting for a power shift as he got older. They get along well today, but I see subtle signs of the stress the relationship endured, and I wonder how, or if it will impact the next stage in their relationship. The Mister may be so infatuated with the little person that all else ceases to matter. These are the Mister’s choices and the loophole dictates I support him, though I would probably support him anyway, keeping in mind support doesn’t constitute unconditional agreement.

I wonder, who or what I will become, as I extend myself? I don’t anticipate any fundamental change in the person I am that core, but small adaptations, as harsh sarcasm has no place in a nursery. It’s not a question of power. I never had any in the Mister’s family. I frequently feel like a second class citizen. Sure, I am his second wife, but my opinion doesn’t carry much weight when it comes to his first family and the way they treat others. There is an assumption on his part that I should always see them through the same glasses as he, and have the same feelings toward them as he. Speaking out in my defense, or the defense of others is a form of betrayal, making the concept of grandhuh? more difficult to extrapolate.

When someone else recognizes a repetitive behavior in you that foreshadows inevitable change in your demeanor, it feels insulting for them to point it out. When you recognize it in yourself without the aid of a seeing eye friend, it is disheartening, and somewhat amusing in an ah, shit kind of way. It’s perfectly acceptable for dogs to exhibit tells, when they discover the perfect location to drop a load. It’s part ritual and and part gloating, discovering the prime square foot of real estate in which to shock the lawn into that unfortunate shade of yellow that indicates centipede never had a chance against canine terrorism.

I didn’t recognize it in the moment. There I sat in the passenger seat watching a feral cat scavenge in a gas station parking lot. It was about 8 months old, orange tabby, and it had a medium build. Not scrawny or wild eyed like many of the non-domestics you see scavenging dumpsters. I rolled down the window, and called out in the stereotypical I-am-oh-so-friendly-that-I’m-accidentally-scaring-you-shitless-because-I’m trying-so-hard tone, “Here, kitty, kitty.” The kitten, paused, took note, then mewed back, then retreated to the service island trash can. What in the Hell was I thinking? Did I expect it run to my car window, stand on it’s hind legs, and blurt out, “save me.”

I lingered a little too long with the window rolled down, sighing. The Mister uttered something unmemorable, I rolled up the window, and he drove us home. I fed the troops after we arrived home and didn’t think much about the incident.

Until this morning…We were paying homage that great idol of humanity, the coffee pot, and my mate asked me if I really wanted a third cat. I said it wasn’t about having a third cat as much as it was about saving a kitten from an uncertain future, and preventing the current population from spiking out of control. I made some flip remark comparing rescuing feral animals to having an affair in a marriage. The underlying cause of most affairs has little to do with sex, and more to do do with their being a larger problem in a marriage. The desire to rescue the gas station cat had little to do with the cute quotient, or the effect it would have on our cats, and everything to do with wanting feral animals to have homes where they are loved and cared for. That’s when the little florescent bulb in my head warmed up enough to put out light.

When I begin feeling unsettled, I exhibit my own tells. I become less tolerant of empty conversation, I spend more time plotting out creative projects, and I contemplate adopting another cat. Maybe, it’s a quest for validation. Nothing makes you feel like a warm fuzzy companion, that does not judge, doesn’t leave shoes in every room of the house, and doesn’t pass judgement when you don’t want to spend three entire days with his family.

During college and I got a tawny, nine week old kitten. I thought it would be calming if I had something soft and fuzzy to hold while I was stressing out of the inevitable approach of graduation, and that all so common, Oh fuck I have degree, so now what do I do with my life?. Getting a kitten, was more optimistic than effective. The little bastard suffered separation anxiety from his littermates, and cried for three freakin’ days. I had to return him, my sleep deprived, coffee-fueld, the sky is falling self couldn’t handle it.

Ironically, the two currently in our care were both the Mister’s idea. I adore both of them, and they worship me, but had it been been solely my decision, I would have erred on the side of pragmatism, and they might be living in other homes. This year alone, I have almost adopted / rescued four different cats. They were near misses. I guess that says much about my state of mind this year. When many people will be assessing the success or failure of 2008 based on investment statements, anti-depressant prescriptions, rolls in the hay, and presidential candidates, I will be sipping a margarita, and muttering, “ah, yes, 2008. That was a four pussycat year.”