Friday, August 01, 2008
One. More. Week.
I have some really good friends. I know this. I know this because they have been so patient this summer, listening intently? as I expound upon my two subjects: my dad's house and my online class.
Tripper, a saint (more to come about last weekend's twentieth class reunion), is going to Rust Belt Town sans Chrissy to work on said House. Yes, House must be capitalized. I hope that Vic and her husband understand that time is precious. This means get started early-- no waiting around for kids to be ready to go somewhere, getting coffee, running to get materials that should have been purchased earlier. All involved need to realize that we must make hay while the sun shines, that Tripper and I are not stepping foot in Rust Belt Town for more than an afternoon once school starts. Too much coffee, Chrissy?? (Can hay be made while sitting on one's ass in front of the computer???)
I hope that Uncle Wayne has his shit gone so that Vic and Tripper and Steve can work easily. I hope that the house appraises somewhere near where we'd like it to appraise. I hope that Vic understands how serious I am that I will not rent out this house, I will not put thousands or even hundreds of dollars into getting this house ready to rent, and we'll accept whatever offer we get after a certain time. She has alluded to me that part of her doesn't want to be "done" with the house because then it'll be like we're done with dad. I can kind of understand that. Since I've resigned from teaching the graduate classes, though, I've felt this tremendous relief, a sense of carefreedom that I haven't experienced in over a decade. It's like crack. I want more. I want to be able to continue to cry over my dad, not his house, not possible conflicts and confrontations concerning the house, the cleaning out of his house, the fixing of his house, the whys and wheres and hows of selling his house.
In one week, next Friday, almost all the work on the classes will be finished. I will have graded the last online assignment, the last response. I'll have six portfolios left, but that will take no time at all. And then I'll go see Springsteen for the third time with Deb, Trip's mom, in Hershey. Then school will start. I will think about nothing but school-- no annual instructors' meeting, no sites for classes, no marketing, no use of facilities forms, no registrations. Nothing.
I'll pick tomatoes and cucumbers and peppers from my garden. I'll pick zucchini and squash, basil and parsley. Peas. I'll learn to can. I'll plant more perennials around the deck and next to the front steps.
Miss Gabor will come to spend the night, and maybe she'll actually make it through the night this time.
I'll go to Rock Hall City with Professor Girl and dance at a wedding, thumbing our noses at Those People.
Before all that, though, I have to make it through this weekend-- finishing the online class and getting through the class with six fucking people. (Please note that these people are probably great. If there were 15 or 20 of them, I'd be like the Count from Sesame Street-- "18 marvelous people! Ah, ha, ha, ha!" ) I have to review the material, get supplies, make copies of the syllabus, set up the room, and watch Baby Ruth.
Carlin's Baby Mama, Kelly, has a pretty good job-- $12/hour to ride around looking for pests in trees. Not bad for a college student-- I'm sure she works hard, and someone has to do it, right?
It's perfect for her-- back to nature, she can commune with the Great Spirit and not worry about dirty toenails. (Why does Carlin always date people who end up lacking in foot hygiene?)
What I don't understand is how someone who needs money for college, who complains there's a year waiting list for HUD apartments (she can't afford anything else, of course, but she thinks she'll be making it "on my own"), can take off an entire week of work in order to go Florida. Someone who's the mother of a toddler. Someone who chose the week Carlin is working 12-hour nights to do this. Someone who has made no arrangements whatsoever for the care of her child during this week. (Carlin has one week off a month. If she had chosen that week, no arrangement would have needed to be made. Carlin loves spending time with Baby Ruth and misses them both terribly.) Someone who held Baby Ruth's birthday party in a state park 25 miles away from every single person who would be attending so that SHE could go camping that weekend. Someone who screams, "Why are you being so mean to me????" every time Carlin tries to discuss anything with her.
I may have to throttle her.
The problem, though, is that Carlin's the one who needs to deal with her and make his needs, and most importantly, Baby Ruth's needs known. Not Trip. Not me. In the end, it doesn't matter how we feel.
One. More. Week.
Tripper, a saint (more to come about last weekend's twentieth class reunion), is going to Rust Belt Town sans Chrissy to work on said House. Yes, House must be capitalized. I hope that Vic and her husband understand that time is precious. This means get started early-- no waiting around for kids to be ready to go somewhere, getting coffee, running to get materials that should have been purchased earlier. All involved need to realize that we must make hay while the sun shines, that Tripper and I are not stepping foot in Rust Belt Town for more than an afternoon once school starts. Too much coffee, Chrissy?? (Can hay be made while sitting on one's ass in front of the computer???)
I hope that Uncle Wayne has his shit gone so that Vic and Tripper and Steve can work easily. I hope that the house appraises somewhere near where we'd like it to appraise. I hope that Vic understands how serious I am that I will not rent out this house, I will not put thousands or even hundreds of dollars into getting this house ready to rent, and we'll accept whatever offer we get after a certain time. She has alluded to me that part of her doesn't want to be "done" with the house because then it'll be like we're done with dad. I can kind of understand that. Since I've resigned from teaching the graduate classes, though, I've felt this tremendous relief, a sense of carefreedom that I haven't experienced in over a decade. It's like crack. I want more. I want to be able to continue to cry over my dad, not his house, not possible conflicts and confrontations concerning the house, the cleaning out of his house, the fixing of his house, the whys and wheres and hows of selling his house.
In one week, next Friday, almost all the work on the classes will be finished. I will have graded the last online assignment, the last response. I'll have six portfolios left, but that will take no time at all. And then I'll go see Springsteen for the third time with Deb, Trip's mom, in Hershey. Then school will start. I will think about nothing but school-- no annual instructors' meeting, no sites for classes, no marketing, no use of facilities forms, no registrations. Nothing.
I'll pick tomatoes and cucumbers and peppers from my garden. I'll pick zucchini and squash, basil and parsley. Peas. I'll learn to can. I'll plant more perennials around the deck and next to the front steps.
Miss Gabor will come to spend the night, and maybe she'll actually make it through the night this time.
I'll go to Rock Hall City with Professor Girl and dance at a wedding, thumbing our noses at Those People.
Before all that, though, I have to make it through this weekend-- finishing the online class and getting through the class with six fucking people. (Please note that these people are probably great. If there were 15 or 20 of them, I'd be like the Count from Sesame Street-- "18 marvelous people! Ah, ha, ha, ha!" ) I have to review the material, get supplies, make copies of the syllabus, set up the room, and watch Baby Ruth.
Carlin's Baby Mama, Kelly, has a pretty good job-- $12/hour to ride around looking for pests in trees. Not bad for a college student-- I'm sure she works hard, and someone has to do it, right?
It's perfect for her-- back to nature, she can commune with the Great Spirit and not worry about dirty toenails. (Why does Carlin always date people who end up lacking in foot hygiene?)
What I don't understand is how someone who needs money for college, who complains there's a year waiting list for HUD apartments (she can't afford anything else, of course, but she thinks she'll be making it "on my own"), can take off an entire week of work in order to go Florida. Someone who's the mother of a toddler. Someone who chose the week Carlin is working 12-hour nights to do this. Someone who has made no arrangements whatsoever for the care of her child during this week. (Carlin has one week off a month. If she had chosen that week, no arrangement would have needed to be made. Carlin loves spending time with Baby Ruth and misses them both terribly.) Someone who held Baby Ruth's birthday party in a state park 25 miles away from every single person who would be attending so that SHE could go camping that weekend. Someone who screams, "Why are you being so mean to me????" every time Carlin tries to discuss anything with her.
I may have to throttle her.
The problem, though, is that Carlin's the one who needs to deal with her and make his needs, and most importantly, Baby Ruth's needs known. Not Trip. Not me. In the end, it doesn't matter how we feel.
One. More. Week.
# posted by Chrissy Snow @ 8/01/2008 08:22:00 AM 
