Mom and Dad are in my house again

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Contents of my kitchen floor: one sock, a ponytail holder mistaken by a cat as a toy, the remains of the 10-minute taco dinner I’ve substituted as cat food because I haven’t been to the grocery store, and glitter confetti from my daughter’s 13th birthday party three months ago when all four of her grandparents came dressed in the party’s advised “bling theme”.

Above: a painting of a cardinal my former mother-in-law gave me, askew on the wall above the coffee maker, the pot with the remnants of the morning’s brew made by Dad, way too early. He and Mom are in town again from Alabama where they retired but haven’t seemed to have fully moved, the two of them with many loose ends here in this town where they raised my brother and me and where I still live.

I’m sitting on the kitchen island, pajama-clad and tired but wired from an evening networking event. I would go to bed but the music playing on my kitchen radio (it’s not really a radio; it’s a device that plays music from my phone) is stuff my dad likes and thus I am thinking about my parents. They are staying in my house but are out late because they have theater tickets to Chicago.

I think they’ll be coming back to Nashville for the rest of the TPAC season, probably staying in my guest room, showering in my daughter’s bathroom. So we’ll have three generations here on occasion, which is unexpected and sometimes awkward but fine. Dad always fixes the things he breaks after trying to fix them in the first place. Mom forgives me for being easily impatient and short-fused at this odd family arrangement, which is more than we can sometimes say for her own mother, who is elderly, back in Alabama, in need of constant attention and is more impatient and short-fused than I am.

In my driveway is a trailer with a tall ladder they brought for Dad to fix a light fixture no one else can reach. They hauled it all the way from six hours south after they took my grandmother to a doctor’s appointment that didn’t start until 4:30 in the afternoon. They arrived at midnight, slept four hours in my aforementioned guest room, woke up, made the coffee, went to meetings and dental appointments here in the city they don’t seem quite to have moved away from, and then to the theater. They’ll be home again – to my home again – in another three hours, at which time I’ll probably be asleep. Then, tomorrow, they’ll fix that light and probably pick up the sock and buy cat food and straighten the askew bird painting and drive six hours back south to be with my cranky grandmother.

They’re too old for this, I’d think, but clearly I’m wrong. Brat that I am, lucky kid I am, horrible cat owner I am, proud daughter I am.

The Gift of Petty Grievances

The Gift of Petty Grievances

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Thursday night I was the second to last parent to pick up my daughter from the middle school football game because I went first to the wrong school and sat there in the crowded parking lot while I talked to her on her friend’s cellphone, wondering why she couldn’t see my car right in front of the main entrance where I said it was.

And Wednesday morning my mother texted me to ask if she and Dad could stay at my house another night because their brakes were suddenly shot and the mechanic told them it was unsafe to drive back to Alabama, where they live now and spend the majority of their time fixing up the house they just bought and taking care of my elderly grandmother, who needs them like I presume my daughter still needs me.

My brother has been looking after their golden retriever, who requires a thunder shirt when it rains. It rained three nights ago in Auburn, and the thunder shirt could not be located.

The day I moved into my house eight years ago, a hornet flew in and landed on a second story windowsill in a clear story unreachable by any normal sized ladder, and it died there and the crumbled remains remain.

The air conditioner stops working on the hottest day of summer. The water hose disconnects from the washing machine and floods the basement. The fruit flies return. The email piles up, then disappears (along with the IT guy) in an email vortex. You disappoint a colleague and annoy your spouse. You run out of clean pants.

God, the petty annoying stuff of life is always there, but we don’t even notice it when we’re freshly in love, beginning a new job, or packing for vacation…

And then the minute routine kicks in, so does our sensitivity to irritants, until sadly someone we know is diagnosed with something terrible or otherwise dealt a hand irrefutably uglier than a crowded inbox, kid waiting at the wrong school, or large repair bill. Suddenly, the daily bullshit things are reminders you’re still here in this game, still fighting and mostly winning.

A cat falls asleep on your feet, a teenager trusts you with a secret, your boss calls you a star. Life is good, and you can see that it is. You kiss your darlings good night, and you sleep tight without Ambian or alcohol.

Why I Write

I have a writer crush on my friend Kidd Redd (that’s a radio name; I know his real name because sometimes he writes professionally for a publication I manage, and thus I have his W9 on file. But I digress…). Anyway, Kidd roped me into writing this post for what seems to me might be the nerdiest and / or most self-indulgent digital chain letter ever. It’s called The Writing Process Blog Tour, and I have no idea who started it. I’m not sure why I’m part of it, other than Kidd asked me to participate and I have a hard time saying no to people I respect.

The Writing Process Blog Tour asks its participants to answer a handful of questions about … yes … their writing process. I’m a little bored by my own answers to these questions, so at the end of this – rather than forward this on to three other writers, which is what I guess I’m supposed to do – maybe I’ll start a whole new “blog tour” involving questions I’d REALLY like to see a few folks address.

Here goes.

Writing Process Blog Tour Question 1: What are you working on?

Writing-wise: Proposals for new products / services I think my company should offer people. (BORING.) A book about happy divorces and maintaining relationships with the people you were close to when you were still married, including your ex. (NOT AS BORING.) A journal I’ve been keeping since fifth grade, largely about all the things I dare not say or write for public consumption. (INTERESTING, though perhaps only to me.) Aside: Would anyone read the divorce book? Also, related: When I first began writing the divorce book, I interviewed some other people who claimed to have happy divorces and positive relationships with their exes. What I actually discovered about these people is suitable only for my private journal.)

Writing Process Blog Tour Question 2: How does your work differ from others of its genre?

I’m not sure what my genre is. Personal narrative? Self-help? I guess I need to decide that before I can fully answer this question. I think I can say that my writing is, when it’s good, vulnerable. I try to be honest, even when I’m worried how people might respond.

Writing Process Blog Tour Question 3: Why do you write what you do?

I can answer this one. I’m a trained journalist, and when I write professionally, I do it because it’s my job. That’s not to say my professional writing isn’t fulfilling or relevant; I am not the kind of person who could do a job dispassionately. But I say that to offer a contrast to my personal writing. I have been writing here for six years because I wanted a way to talk about some things without worrying about deadlines, editor feedback or – most importantly to me – how many people would be reading. Writing for an audience of, like, six people is far more intimate and far less intimidating than writing for an audience of 100,000. Additionally, what I write about here tends to be addressed to a specific person or group of people. In this way I respond to people in a way I don’t have the finesse, nerve or opportunity to say to them in person. I often wonder if the people to whom I am writing are aware that I am writing to them.

Writing Process Blog Tour Question 4: How does your writing process work?

I tend to chew on things for quite awhile before I put them into writing. Sometimes it’s a conscious “chew”, and other times the chewing is done more from the back of my head. My best writing is a result of the latter. When I’m writing from a sub-conscience conversation with myself, it feels like magic. Many times I don’t realize what I’m trying to write until I’ve written it. I think this is fairly common among writers, and maybe the reason why so many of us are not so great speaking off the cuff. It’s also why even if we need deadlines so we can be productive, we are limited by them creatively. We need to mull.

There, chain letter questions answered.

At this point I am supposed to tag three people to answer these same questions via a blog post of their own.

I’ll do that so as not to be a snob, but I’d also like to add a fifth question: What would you write if you were not at all concerned with what your spouse, children, parents, clients, pastor, employees or employer might think? Be brave.

Tagging ML Philpot (one of the funniest writers I know), Lily Fleenor (my 13-year-old daughter and one of the most thoughtful people I know), and Jennifer Justus (a former colleague who uses food to translate life). If y’all ladies want to participate, just answer these questions with a post of your own, then spread the cheer to three more.

Happy unassigned, non-deadline writing to all.

Death by a Thousand Papercuts

1. The freezer began to make a terrible whirring noise that would have woken the dead.

2. I attempted to fix it. The “fix” involved three hours of me standing in front of the freezer with a hair dryer, attempting to melt the ice that had built up around the fan.

3. Finally, I melted all the ice. (And threw away all the food that had been sitting there defrosting for hours.)

4. The fan was still jacked up.

5. I dismantled the back of the freezer and poked at things – tore shit straight out of the wall – for another hour or two.

6. The freezer still didn’t work.

I went to a friend’s house and drank.

7. The next morning, I shoved a screwdriver into the fan to make it STOP MAKING THAT HORRIBLE NOISE.

8. Then I went and bought a new refrigerator / freezer.

9. They said they could not deliver until the next day.

10. I’ve been sitting here for 10 hours, waiting for the delivery.

11. In the meantime, I’ve tried to vacuum my house.

12. The vacuum is broken.

13. I’ve dismantled the vacuum, gone to the vacuum store, and YouTubed “vacuum repair”.

14. I now have MORE cat hair on the floor than before I attempted to vacuum.

15. I am drinking the last of the hot beers from my broken refrigerator, surrounded in cat hair.

16. Also, today, I called the cable company to cancel the land line and cable subscription that I don’t use. I am tired of paying $182 a month so my daughter can watch Dance Moms one night a week.

17. The cable company would not let me cancel without my ex-husband’s permission.

18. I yelled at the cable company. THIS IS LIKE DEATH BY A THOUSAND PAPER CUTS!

19. My ex-husband came over and called them to tell them it’s fine for me – the person who PAYS THE DAMN BILL EVERY MONTH – to make changes to the service.

20. They told him, “Sure, fine.”

21. He put me back on the phone with them. They told me it would be fine for me to put the cable bill in my name, and cancel the service if I wanted, if I was willing to come to the cable company office TOMORROW (not today, because they’re on vacation), and bring along a copy of my divorce decree, a photo ID, and be subjected to a credit check.

22. I yelled at the cable company some more.

23. I listed my house on Craig’s List. It’s a nice house, and in about a half hour (assuming the appliance company was not lying when I called them AGAIN), it’s a house with a brand new refrigerator / freezer.

24. But it’s too big for me. I am a single mom who shares custody with her ex and avoids being at home whenever I can. I do not need four bedrooms, a dining room, library, home office and big yard. THAT IS RIDICULOUS.

25. As soon as I listed my house for rent, people began to ask if I’d lost my mind or if I was drunk.

26. I am neither drunk nor crazy. Though it is truly a wonder that I’m not.

27. However, I have eaten six cookies, two biscuits, and nothing else today.

28. Tomorrow is another day.

29. In five days I’m heading to the beach.

30. In 40 minutes I’m heading to my friend’s house, who is making me dinner.

31. Another friend has texted me – without solicitation, through what I know is sure intuition on his behalf – to ask if I’d like him to come over with provisions.

32. If life was easy, we’d take it for granted.

33. Cheers.

Unpopular Choices for the Right Reasons

Bravery comes in many forms, but “people who made unpopular choices for the right reasons” is apparently not a common Google search term.

So says my daughter, who – for a family project about dealing with peer pressure – put together a research paper on people who have made such decisions.

Her choices are both historic and very modern.

AND she built it in PowerPoint, which is all the more awesome.

Here it is – with a blog title optimized for the next kid who’s asked to write such a paper.

Why We Miss Our Childhood Houses

Mom and Dad's house, where I grew up.

Mom and Dad’s house, where I grew up.

With a sizable percentage of people under 40 having moved here in the past three years from some other place, I am one of the increasingly smallish number of youngish people who can say I am from Nashville.

Of course, as real Nashvillians will tell me, I am NOT actually from here. I am FROM Mt. Juliet, which is 20 miles to the east of downtown, in Wilson County. Mt. Juliet – known now for rapidly growing mixed-use residential-commercial developments like Providence and Del Webb – is where my parents moved when I was 6 and my brother was 3.

In May, I will have had a 615 area code for 31 years.

My parents are about to trade theirs in. They are putting their house on the market, and they plan to move to Auburn, Ala., when it sells. My mom’s family is in Auburn, and she is going home.

The emotion I’ve felt about this has caught me by surprise. Continue reading