liquish's blog: "Allsorts"

I drove to my parents' house this morning. My brother's birthday is today. Happy birthday, bro. He and his wife and his two awesome labs came to visit, I drove in from the Land of Cleave. Wonderful time--laughing, eating, drinking, a nice evening walk on a beautiful country road. Then my father and sister-in-law get into it. My dad, 82 in March, only recently became an old man. He's slowed down quite a bit in the last year or so. Even so, this past summer, he finished building--all by his lonesome--a house that he and my mom now live in. Suffice to say he is a good man, but a more stubborn, opinionated person I have never met. Enter my sister in law. 10 years older than my brother (58), she is a force of nature, about as opinionated as my dad but much more volatile (she gets PISSED really easily). Politically, she (a raging liberal) and my dad (a crazy conservative) reside at opposite ends of the spectrum. He, at my mother's insistence, doesn't engage. She takes advantage of this, it seems to me, and often speaks to him patronizingly. He grits his dentures and says nothing. For years, this has been a smoldering relationship, an uneasy truce. A powder keg. The DMZ in Korea. The Kashmir. The Texas/Oklahoma border. Unstable, ready to blow at any time. Tonight, it blew. The story goes: a man whom my sister-in-law dated when she was 16, who suddenly disappeared from her life without a word, called her out of the blue a few weeks ago. He was in her neighborhood, and wanted to come by and talk to her, to explain why he disappeared. He came over, my brother busied himself in another room, and they had a very nice chat, a reconciliation. This old boyfriend had been married 32 years, happily, with 2 children. He just wanted to apologize, apparently. My father is old school. In his day, this day, if any man, especially an old boyfriend, talked to his girl, he'd punch him in the nose. The snotlocker, as he'd put it. 40 years later or not. He expressed his opinion--old boyfriend comes sniffing around he's after one thing. My SIL said, tongue in cheek (but patronizingly), this is one of the few times you're wrong. My dad said "Don't give me that bullshit." He NEVER swears. I've heard him swear maybe 2x in my life. Seriously. He's PISSED. I listened for a bit, then went to get more whiskey. And came upstairs to write. I have no role here. All I can do is be uncomfortable. And I've had too much to drink to drive home (5 hours). Honestly, for years my dad tried to keep the peace, stay quiet. (He did that with my ex, too--after we split, he felt it necessary to tell me how much she pissed him off, how he hated her, and how he was so distraught knowing that I was so unhappy. Thanks for that--not like I could have used that information during those 17 miserable years of marriage). And staying quiet allowed his resentment, his anger, his shame, his hurt pride, fester. So tonight, my SIL, unwittingly and insensitively, created a spark. And my dad, with all that anger unreleased, exploded. So I'm going to sober up. Have some coffee. And head home. I don't need to be here. Don't want to be here. If I wanted to live in a shitstorm, I'd have stayed married.

My younger daughter is a thoughtful, kind, feisty and remarkably free-spirited 7 year old. The kind of kid who, when I ask her (and I always do) if I can have a bite of her cookie, or ice cream, or bagel, says “Sure, take as much as you want.” I like to work with wood. Over the years, I’ve made my two girls a bunch of wooden toys—dollhouses, dollhouse accessories, stables, cars, other stuff. This year, Faye asked me to make her a doll. I haven’t had much success with dolls. None, actually. But, last night (yeah, last night), armed with good intentions, a sharp knife, and a scrap of mahogany, off to the shop I went. My expectations were low—I was aiming for something primitive (waldorf style, if that means anything to you). After an hour, I emerged from the basement with a doll that certainly was primitive. Real primitive. Any self-respecting Neanderthal child receiving such a gift would have rolled her eyes and tossed it onto the fire. But not my Faye. When she opened the package, her eyes widened, a big smile spread across her face. “Oh, Daddy! A wooden doll! I love it! It’s beautiful! It’s just what I wanted!” I got what I wanted too, pumpkin.

I've always been a morning person. Rising at dawn, to peace, quiet, calm, clarity, to a day still full of promise. The first and best cup of coffee, black and bitter and strong, more ritual than craving. The sun, still low, still soft. Sit and think time. Love it. Always have. For a while, though, mornings lost their charm. Days became harder to leap into, to take head on, and my bed far too warm and inviting and comforting to leave. I became more of a night owl, staying up all hours, either dicking around online or enjoying the mystery that is late night tv on basic cable, sleeping later and later. I met the days when they were already well underway. Dawn was something I'd see from the backside, through eyes tired and red. But I've decided to take my mornings back. I miss them. Want them. Long for them like I haven't for some time. Recently unfettered, unbound (not referring to the *good* kind of bondage), freed from the private shackles (again, not the good kind) that made the days harder to stomach, I am diurnal once more. Or that's the intention, anyway. Of course, that's easier said than done. My body got used to the new schedule. Jetlagged by life (lifelagged?). The next couple of days will suck. I am going to be irritable and cranky and a real prick. Just for a couple days. After that, I'll just be a real prick. Like always.

What a strange and wonderful world, this fubar place. I am grateful--beholden to--sugartastic for leading me here. I, like many of you, spend a fair amount of time wandering around the online wilderness. A largely pleasant experience, filled with surprises and good times and friends, old and new. Despite the interaction and community, though, it is a solitary undertaking. Me, alone, at home, computer on my lap (no small feat--it's a desktop), a cat on each hip, keyboard a-clicking, engaged. This past week, though, I stepped out of the web and into face-to-face land. Went out with friends a couple of nights, to a friend's party another night, and to my own party --first one I've hosted in some time--on yet another night. It was a very pleasant, very happy, and way too fun reminder that life is best lived in the presence--the actual, physical presence--of others.