I usually don’t have reservations about making decisions. I will make a choice, even if it is a poor one, and accept the consequences. Refusing to put on my big girl panties and say I was wrong, only prolongs the inevitable, not to mention, few people believe plaintive cries that abstain me from any culpability anyway.

I’m feeling indecisive about this one though. Is it better to be one who recognizes the unintentional acts that contribute to hurt feelings and righteous indignation, or is it better to be the recipient of such acts and the bearer of hurt feelings?

In the end I don’t think it matters, because both positions lack the ability alter whatever incident has left left people sniffling. And empathy, though really useful, lacks any tangible ability to turn back the hands of time and make things right. Apologies can be a step in the right direction, but seem trifle at times because everyone knows it is easier to get forgiveness than permission

*****

So, basically I spent ten hours in the car, and four days gasping for air with a chain smoker because people communicate in code, because my mother always couches the way she feels when speaking with my brother, my brother always remembers my sister frozen in adolescence with her drama queen ways, my sister in law is still suffering from chemo brain even though she is finished with her treatment and my sister was on her period. Nice. At least I wasn’t on center stage.

The problem with reading between the lines regarding what others need, is guessing wrong. At that point, you risk wasting your time, and theirs. Even worse, is downplaying it in your mind to the extent that someone doesn’t receive care they need. Can you live with yourself? Can you indefinitely saddle society or siblings with your responsibilities?

There are occasions when you have no choice but to waste time in order to get to the truth. I hate wasting time.

*****

By day two, it was obvious I was wasting my time. As the saying goes, my mother was milking it. She could have managed without me, but she wasn’t going to allow me to leave. This is humorous, because the woman is not a born manipulator. She will tell you what to do, and she will imply what you should do, but she will not trick you into doing it. She will however pout about it. It must suck to have kids who are as hard-headed as you are

*****

It’s good for family to be okay, even if they can’t see the things I see. It’s good for them to slow down, and not spend time worrying. It’s good for them to be relieved temporarily of their responsibilities. But mostly, it’s good to be back home.

Sunlight has been a scarce commodity of late. Rain, however, not so much. I’m not using a kayak to reach my mailbox, so I’ve no reason to complain. But I am surprised. Sure, it was raining when we left for New York seven days ago, but I didn’t expect it to rain all five days we were gone. Whoa.

As it turns out birdseed doesn’t actually grow birds, it grows wild grass. And the grass, keeps on keeping on.

Enough about the weather.

I mentioned New York. My first trip. I’ll spare you the itinerary. If you watch television, or read, you already know. I was hoping to see Avenue Q, but it went on hiatus a few days prior to our arrival. We saw this instead.

I knew nothing about it, other than the cast members. With a name like God of Carnage it sounded exactly like the sort of thing my grandmother would forbid me to see, so naturally I insisted on seeing it AND getting a t-shirt. That and musicals aren’t really my thing. Why sing along in pre-meditated artificial joy when you can watch skilled thespians behave badly and point fingers.

What can else can I say about New York that you don’t already know? Little. I can show the way I saw it.

Thank You Notes I Neglected to Send…

Dear Sister’s Husband,
Thanks for showing me those awesome pistol grip clamps. Not only are they easy to use, but the reduced the amount of profanity used during our last DIY project. If it hadn’t been for that stroke of genius, the Better Half and I would still trying to hold spindles in place using arms, wrists, ankles, and toes; sort of like a Bob Villa version of Twister.
With much appreciation,
Jaded

***********

Dear Wikipedia,
Your seemingly infinite data base leaves me in awe. Without you I would have never realized that my current music taste is leaning toward post punk revival. Who knew a thirty-something housewife would be drawn into music following diligently in the steps of the Sex Pistols or the Clash. Thanks to your insight, I will be able to sleep easier at night, though maybe not with any of those songs playing on repeat in my head.
Yours truly,
Jaded

*********

Dear Dad,
Thank you for teaching me the joy is in the deed and not in receiving credit.
Love,
Jaded

**********

Dear Nate from My favorite pizza place,
Dude, you are a wealth of righteous info. Without your help, I would have never grasped the potential of fish tanks and fully appreciated the beauty of a self contained ecosystem, much less heard about this guy. Inspirational. Thanks for sharing.
Sincerely,
Jaded

**********

Dear Lapcat,
Thanks for showing me how to appreciate sunspots and belly rubs. We all need to stop and eat the houseplants every so often.
Your less than humble litter scooper,
Jaded

********

Dear Friends,
Your fortitude is inspiring. Thank you for enduring.
to each I am a different beast,
Jaded

Summer is slipping away, and with it, the false optimism that accompanies sunny days, fresh squeezed lemonade, and picnics at the water’s edge. I remember when summer was MY season. It served as a laid back reprieve from all the adolescent insecurities that go along with trying and failing to fit in with your peers. The need for a rescue season hasn’t diminished upon becoming an adult, but the notion of a seasonal reprieve from reality no longer exists. There is nothing seasonal about it.

It’s reduced to a moment here and there.

It isn’t important it occur at once, but it requires patience seeking out Easter eggs during the drudgery of everyday ordinary. Most of life seems to be quite ordinary and tedious, and that is if you are the fortunate ones. Perhaps beneath our largest organ, all of us are destined to be advertising executives presenting our lives to others in a more interesting light than things actually occur. Are we selling to others, or are we selling to ourselves? I suspect a little of both.

*******

Last of the fireflies

I briefly considered catching a few of these over the summer to keep in a jar in my bedroom for a few days, until a experienced a votive candle moment and remembered the last time I acted on a similar brainfart.

I caught a few dragon flies, to dry for drawing references. I know, not exactly insect friendly. I sealed them in a plastic peanut butter bar waiting for, uh nature to take its course. I put the jar on the fireplace mantel with the intent of checking it for signs of life later. Dragonflies don’t go quietly. They have fits of violent movement that attract the attention of sedate housecats.

The cat knocked the jar from the mantel, and chased around the house like a hamster in a ball. But the dragonflies didn’t fair well, not very durable dragonflies in a jar. No drawing specimens for me, but the cat, he might have shed a pound or two.

Did you get the memo? You know the one yesterday? Oh, maybe not. I’m sorry I didn’t mean to overlook you, of course you are important to me. Please accept my sincerest apologies, oh the memo? Well yesterday was national hand-your-contractor-his-ass-on-a-spit-day. I’m sorry you didn’t know. It would more fun to celebrate together. You know after I finished grinding my teeth and pacing up and down the driveway. Well, no matter, we can celebrate together the next time it rolls around.

********

After last summer’s drought, I told myself I wouldn’t complain about the rain, and I’m not, but wow, the frequent showers this month have made it difficult to complete work. Green things are thriving without any assistance from me, which is the best way. My assistance leaves much to be desired where green things are concerned.

*******

Do you ever wonder after a lavish wedding if the bride and groom look back when they are courting the seven year inch and say, “Wow I wish I would have a simpler reception instead of a sit down dinner for a hundred fifty so that I could have invested that portion of my wedding budget into a portfolio to pay for marital counseling later.”

******
So, my better half reads one or two books a week. His job seems to allow more free time than my (ahem) job. Go figure. Anywho. At one point five paperbacks a week there are lots of books in the house. Our reading taste don’t intersect often, but I will read from his library occasionally, because it seems ridiculous with soo many books lying around. Case in point: I’m reading Stephen King’s Lisey’s Story. At least trying. I’ve gotten bogged down. The protagonist has just been tortured with a can opener. I’m not terribly squeamish about content, but this scene, described minimally in the book has left my inner imagination spinning out of control.

What is so perplexing is I read this years ago and never gave it much thought. I guess the difference is I have spent the past few weeks getting to know King’s protagonist, where as in the other book the victims were largely devoid of soul.

*****
Onward. There is a low chance of rain and a paint roller calling my name.