Shouting into the void

(Warning:  This post is just something I need to get off my chest.  Nothing else.)

My father & step-family spent Christmas waiting for my Stepmom to fade to black in hospice after she suffered an absolutely catastrophic brain aneurysm that week.  Dad was adamant that I not interrupt my holiday with Mom.  Plus a bunch of airports were digging themselves out from under some dreckish weather.  The memorial service (read: scattering of ashes) will be sometime during the more congenial part of the coming year.  So home I returned without ever seeing anyone from that side of the family.

All this went down mere weeks after my father regaled me with the saga of the guest bathroom remodeling and plans for doing the same with the master bathroom in a few years.  At the time, I damned near danced because it meant that he & my Stepmom felt vibrant enough to see themselves getting the use out of the work for years to come. 

When, a few years ago, I called Dad with the details of my sister's funeral, he sounded old.   That was a new experience for me.  But when I called immediately after receiving the news about the aneurysm, he sounded old and beaten.

Then today a completely unexpected call from Dad.  Who sounded more chipper, I'll grant you.  But he was calling because he needed my "official" legal name, SSN, etc. to change the beneficiary info. on all his financial stuff.

Now let's get one thing straight.  To say that financial security is A Big Deal for my father is an understatement large enough to have its own gravitational field.  Otherwise, right now I would be climbing the f***ing walls at the possible implications of that conversation.

That being said...dammitohellalready--what a craptastic feeling to be schlepping around the rest of the day.  It's not what you think.  It's not like I haven't--intellectually at least--squared with losing the 'rents.  (Dearest has already lost both, so don't think that I don't appreciate that, either.)  Also, it's not like I've just been set up for some nasty inheritance fight with my step-siblings--they're all adults and none of them shallow.

It's just don't want to inherit anything, particularly not money.  See, I'm not at all cool with how he made some of it, and I'd prefer to keep my hands clean of that karma.  Okay, there are a few pieces of furniture that I wouldn't turn down, just so I can see them in my mother's living room again.   (There was some disagreement over that kind of thing during the divorce, but I'm sooooo done with sorting out the he-said-she-said; having the stupid things back would shut that up forever.  Or had darned well better shut it up, anyway.)

But I digress.

Mainly I just don't feel the need or desire to be provided-for.  Partly, it's the independent streak talking.  Partly because I inflicted a lot of grief on myself (and, let's face it, plenty of others) by holding onto the anger over that divorce.  I try not to mix "stuff" (including money) and my feelings for people.  (Note the use of the word "try"--no, I don't always succeed where my money shows no--or negative--return on investment.)  I don't believe that Dad does that kind of fire-walling.  So I can't shake the feeling that leaving me anything other than a few odds-n-ends (of sentimental value) is a pay-off of sorts.

In which case, "something" is actually worse than nothing.  Debts to the past aren't fungible.  And I don't want to pretend that they are.  This puts me between the Scylla and Charybis of hurting someone at the end of his life with my version of the truth, and having to compromise who I am.  And I can't see a way around that Kobayashi Maru.

Yet.  If the 'verse grants me a bonus shot of luck--and I've been far, far luckier than I will ever deserve already--I have years to figure something out.

A bit of the old crowd is back

This past week or so, it occurred to me how many of the blogs I used to frequent are now dark and shuttered, so it was good to see the Stupid Evil Bastard get his groovemojo back.  Also, rumour is that Ally Brosh (of Hyperbole and a Half) is actively working on her book (which is a happier event for the fact that it means that she's probably managing her depression more than it means that I can read a new book). 

(Not that I have anything to complain about, being a lapsed blogger multiple times and URLs over, m'self, y'understand... )

But in my defence, the levels of stoopid and crazee coming from south of the border (and shedding their special kind of cooties on the freshly shampooed carpets) are edging kind of high lately.  Soooooo wishing I could schlep about five or so people up here under refugee status.  Whether they liked it or not. ("Oh, just y'all quitcherbellyachin'--remember what happened to Anne Frank?") 


But in the meantime, it's nice to know that I'm not alone in the rage.  And now you know too.

... Fruit Flies Like a Banana *

At the certainty of sounding cliche, it sure doesn't seem like all that crashing around to sell the house in The Old Country was a whole year ago. We had to drop the price twice with the additional insult of ponying up part of the closing costs for the feckless gits who bought the place.  I'm sure they they think of us as slobs, what with Dearest apparently thinking that the rollout dumpster was a Tardis, and my poor timing which resulted in the place not being vacuumed before we rolled out.  (For the record, Dearest had a second dumpster brought in and I sent over a professional carpet cleaner.  Neither of which lessens my embarrassment at the memory of the whole debacle.)

The first trek north was more than a bit surreal, partly thanks to sleep deprivation--and probably just the sheer life-altering change being finally realised.  But after it, I figure I can never count on another bit of luck in my life, what with the left-behind wallet being picked up by a Chicago gas station clerk, plus rain when and where snow and ice should have been a statistical certainty.  The second run for the balance of our stuff (this time in a single vehicle and no critters to worry about) was still a warm summer breeze by comparison.

No question it's worth it.  Even living in one of the "have-not" provinces.  Even having--at the last minute--to switch to contractor status (and thus lose perks like paid time off).  Even living outside the city (with the technical and interpersonal network setbacks that entails).  Even with the disadvantage of being mostly uni-lingual and facing a steep learning curve.  I see the maple leaf and bars flying by our driveway, and think that the battle against rolling back society to the 1880s (on so many levels) is more winnable here.  Mind you, Harper and his goons will put up one hell of a fight--as will the cronyism at the provincial and local levels.

But it'll be over three years until I can vote for or against anyone, so in the meantime, it's best to go heads-down learning French, building up the business, trying to make the local economy a stronger place, and studying for the citizenship exam that I am sooooooo taking the minute I'm eligible.

* Groucho Marx:  "Time flies like an arrow.  Fruit flies like a banana."

Hurry up and fret

Three weeks and change in the future, and nary a nibble on the place. Sigh. I wonder when the blame-game will start with the agent, who was floating the idea of dropping the price after the first week. (A suggestion, I might add, not borne out by the MLS cross-comparison, but it may come to that after this week anyway.)

Unfortunately, working conditions--if not actual work--promised to become unpleasant. The Powers That Be cannot, it seems isolate personnel/performance issues--they merely dilute them at the expense of the solid folks. At least in our area. We're not shy about firing the true losers, mind you--at least there's that mercy. It's all driven by the belief that the good developers/QA people aren't thick on the ground and we have no choice but to make due with anything mediocre or above.

Yet every pep rally speech from The Big Guy (crying wolf for the umpteenth time about how we have to be ready for The Big Break) segues into how we can't do it all ourselves, that we're going to have to re-gear to manage outside (read: offshored) talent. Never mind how many effing miracles I've seen the workhorses pull off over the years. Without, I might add, any productive assistance from said Big Guy, who doesn't understand that his core competence is to 1.) gladhand customers and 2.) Keep the higher-up off our backs. Anything more hands-on than that is negatively productive.

So, yeah, thanks heaps for the vote of confidence, dude. I suppose we should be flattered that he thinks we'll emerge from our technical chrysalises as fully formed project/program managers as naturally as anything six-legged manages to do. But to whine about how we can't find programming talent in the area--two colleges and a tech school notwithstanding--all while reflexively defaulting to offshoring as the solution and not see themselves as part of the problem (at least in the macro-sense)?

What.

The.

Fuck.

Like I needed another reason to move ASAP. Which I suppose is kind of the flip side of working so closely or so long with some folks that they're like family. Sometimes you really need put some distance between you and the office's peculiar brand of insanity, if only to grow into your own skin a little better.

Halcyon evening

We busted our butts, and I think it was worth it. The real estate agent came by tonight to take photos/footage. (I wasn't home at the time, or I would have snarked, "The house is ready for its close-up, Mr. DeMille!" which would probably have earned me a scowl or blank looks--either one deserved.) Dearest, however, reports that she was pleased, judging by her "You guys have been busy!" comment.

Such ridiculousness, this charade of living in a dollhouse while it's liable to be looked at. But if that's what tips the balance in a buyer's mind, I refuse to feel like a fraud: "Never tell the truth to anyone not worthy of it." Or something like that.

Still so much to do...but right now I'm savoring the milestone...and the illusion that it's all a downhill coast from here--with sun and flower-scented breeze at our backs, no less. Now to bed, and, hopefully a smidgeon of decompression/healing.

Forward momentum

There's just something inexpressibly sad about packing up books. It's like telling friends that you don't have time for them right now, and honestly don't know when you'll be able to get together with them. Packing the dollhouse I've had since grade school is a bit rough too--that's become a de facto symbol of having roots in the ground.

I'm not sniveling, mind you. Not in the wake of taping up U-Haul boxes a week ago with nothing less than fierce joy. The pace of this week will be nothing short of grueling--with Dearest bearing more of the brunt of it than I. Then again, pound-for-pound, working for me and mine always spices the exhaustion with exhilaration.

Another inch

Dearest & I signed the contract today to put the house up for sale next month.

Now, were I George W. Bush, I'd put on a flight suit and slap myself on the back under a big ol' "Mission Accomplished" banner. But I'm too busy semi-freaking that we have but couple weeks for a freakin' lot of work to make the place "HGTV-ready" (to quote the broker's semi-sarcastic term.) Once upon a couple incarnations ago, I would have scoffed at pretending that we don't actually live there. But that was before I learned that no one deserves the truth they're not willing to see/hear.

Now, if the Legislative and Executive branches could be considerate enough to not trash the economy and the value of the American dollar in the meantime, I'd be most obliged. I feel like I've already tapped out my lifetime ration of luck with this whole venture, and that the Gods will not be appeased by my offering of sweat and fret.