Home again at last. We've spent the last several days visiting relatives. We packed the car (rather badly, since we left some gifts behind) and left in the middle of snow showers on Friday, Dec. 21. That night we stayed in a hotel south of Memphis, and I had the bliss of sleeping on a Tempur-pedic mattress. Talk about never wanting to get out of bed!
We arrived at Mimi's house on Saturday and had a family get-together that evening. One of my husband's sisters-in-law had a bad cold (which Esteemed Spouse now has), but everyone else seemed okay.
My visit with my own family had its good and bad moments. On one hand, sometimes I feel as if I never want to see them again (not because of anger, but because of despair). I can't do anything to help them. They seem unable to envision a way to help themselves. My three-step plan is too obvious and simple: (1) quit smoking, (2) clean your filthy houses, and (3) take responsibility for your own actions. Too simple, thus, it would never work. (BTW: The imported image in the upper corner of this blog is not of my sister's house, but it easily could be.)
I'm not a house-proud person. Goodness knows, I'm sitting here right now with a cat hairball on the floor behind me, but it will be cleaned up shortly. There are a few dishes in the sink, but they too will be washed. My cabinets will be wiped down. The floors will be swept and mopped, the carpets vacuumed. The toilets will be cleaned, the counters uncluttered--eventually. If I knew I was expecting company, the house would shine like a new penny. I would not have a cat litter box full to overflowing in the dining room. There would not be a dried clot of feces on the living room wood floor. (I don't know whose--the dog? the cat? my disabled niece?) My carport/garage would not be impassible with various kinds of crap--old milk jugs, fishing equipment, sacks of garbage--all stacked on and around one of the two cars that doesn't run. When guests used my bathroom, they would have a clean towel to dry their hands with and not have to rummage around among the dirty nightgowns on the counter to find something usable.
And most of all, the overwhelming stench of cigarette smoke would not permeate the air. I'm tempted to make a plaque that has a picture of a gun with a smoking cigarette sticking out the barrel and label it "Are you killing yourself fast enough?" Or worse--are you killing your children fast enough? It's hard to feel sorry for people sometimes. But it's easy to feel sorry for their poor children.
Okay, I'm depressing myself. I'll write more later when I'm not so darned tired. Dr. S.
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