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Yep, bloggy slacker, that’s me. I had an excuse at first… my laptop power cord broke, and I was stranded without the internet for 1.5 weeks, which was highly annoying. During that 1.5 wks, I (of course) had ridiculous amounts of things to write about, but couldn’t.  By the time my replacement cord arrived, however, the thought stream had dried up and I was completely obsessed with sudoku and crossword puzzles.

So blogging? I’m a slug. But ask me for a 6-letter word for “careless shepherdess,” and I’m your girl.

What’s been going on for the last few weeks? Let’s see….  I’ve continued volunteering at the Museum. I agreed to join not one, but TWO committees (I know, jump back), and attended my first meetings for both. I’ve also attended not one, but TWO Sunday School classes. Social Sarah is thriving, I tell you. There’s been the occasional backlash from my inner introvert, but since I’ve already committed to several events/meetings/etc, Social Sarah is still prevailing.

We went to Virginia to visit the grandparents this past weekend. I acted more like myself than I ever have around my grandparents…. I think it was a bit disconcerting for them. At the dinner table, I randomly mentioned that I’ve been country-commandmentsthinking of murdering my father, and then went into a full discussion of the best methods of making it appear natural. (Sidenote: if I stabbed him with an icicle, the murder weapon would melt. Ingenious, yes?) My grandmother was appalled, my grandfather consulted the “Country Commandments” and informed me that #5 specifically addressed this issue, and the uncle and cousins seemed open to the idea… Uncle Rocky’s never liked Daddy, so it wasn’t such a stretch for him.

And for those of you who think I’m serious, I’M NOT. I’m not going to kill my father, although it would be a vast improvement. Just saying. Which brings me to this past Saturday. We left Virginia after lunch with the grandparents, and headed home. After 5ish hours in the car as the Maggie-Entertainer, I pretty much just wanted pajamas and the sofa. Changed into pj’s, gave Bobby a brief synopsis of the weekend, and settled on the sofa with a glass of wine. And Daddy calls. I haven’t talked to him in weeks… he hasn’t called me, I haven’t call him, and it’s been nice. I wouldn’t have answered, but was already halfway through glass #1, and, strangely, thought that answering was the best choice.

Bad decision. Fast-forward 1 hour, and I’m sitting in the bathroom floor, crying on the phone with Daddy with an empty bottle of wine. I don’t remember most of the conversation, but I do remember saying “You can have another wife, but I’ll never have another mother.” I don’t think he knew I was imbibing — he’s just clueless like that. So after I finally hung up, I cried and puked. Bobby yelled at me for puking into the trash can instead of the toilet, and I told him to shut up and go back to bed, because “it’s my fucking bathroom and I can puke wherever I want.”  Good times were had by all.

Sunday, Bobby and I skipped church (don’t think that I would have been a great addition to the worship service) and watched movies all day. Daddy called, but I didn’t answer. He also called on Monday and Tuesday. Didn’t answer. Wednesday, I talked to Dr Jerry about the Saturday night breakdown, and the whole big crappy father-mess. He says I have three options:

  1. I can talk to Daddy about my father issues by myself (based on our history, this isn’t recommended).
  2. I can talk to Daddy about my father issues with Dr Jerry.
  3. I can not do anything, and Dr Jerry and I can just still be having the same conversation this time next year.

Wednesday night, Daddy called again and I answered. He made casual chit-chat, then brought up the possible grandparent visit in two weeks. (Basically, Jennifer and I invited the grandparents down so we can take Grandma to Townville and pick her brain… we have no idea where lots of Mama’s stuff came from, and Grandma will hopefully have some idea). Conversation ensues as follows:

Daddy: So do you know if they’re coming down for sure?

Me: I don’t know. I hope so, but we probably won’t know for sure until the week before.

Daddy: Well, I mean, if you don’t mind, could you please check with me before you schedule things in Townville?

[Insert long pause here, while I process that fact that he really just suggested that I don’t have a right to invite Grandma to help go through her only daughter’s things.]

Me: Daddy, I’m not sure what you mean. Grandma & Grandpa haven’t been down since Mama died, and Jen & I would really like to have her input about Mama’s stuff.

Daddy: I understand what you’re saying, but anything to do with Townville needs to go through me. I mean, I’m not trying to get into it with you, Sarah… I’m just trying to communicate. All the stuff in this house — it belongs to me.

Me: Huh. Well, I’m not sure if you’re implying that we would take something from the house without your permission, or that we’re not welcome in the house without your permission, but either way, I’m can’t believe that you would say that to me.

Daddy: Now, Sarah, I’m just trying to communicate. I’m trying to cultivate the relationship between you and me because, I mean, we didn’t talk while you were growing up. Mama was the go-between for us. And now that she’s gone, I feel like I need to cultivate our relationship.

[“Cultivate our relationship?” He’s obviously been reading self-help books again because he SO didn’t come up with that phrase on his own.]

Me: Daddy, our relationship is what it is. It’s always been this way, and I guess it always will be. It’s too late to cultivate.

And then I hung up and chanted “IhatehimIhatehimIhatehimIhatehim” for approximately 30 minutes. I really do detest him. Not even kidding. I have to work through this. The grudge, the bitterness, the anger at him is going to swallow me up if I don’t figure out a way to let it go. I don’t want to pass it on to my children. I know that it’s unhealthy — a grudge is like a cancer. I want to be indifferent to him. If he’s nice, great. If he’s hateful, great. I want to be totally unaffected by him. Is that even possible?

So you see why puzzles are so appealing right now. They’re nice and safe and predictable. They don’t make rude phone calls or come up in therapy and they sure don’t cause me to puke in the trashcan. All they ask is that I know a 3-letter word for “One Gershwin.” Ahh, finally….. a simple relationship.

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