OZZIE AND HARRIED

In the recent absence of any definitive structure and order to my days, it came as a relief this morning when I realized I had an early-afternoon, routine dentist appointment.  Normally, I would wince at the notion of having to hand over any portion of my precious time for such a mundane obligation and viewed these bi-annual dental forays as the ultimate buzz kill.

But this morning I prepared for my visit as though I had been selected by merit for an audience with the Tooth Fairy.

Apart from the thirty-five minutes I devoted to brushing, flossing and whitening my teeth, I also showered and then ironed a clean, white shirt to wear, as if the color would compliment my now radiant smile and further emphasize all of my hard work.

I am that disoriented.

It has been four days since my daughter and her husband moved out of state, thereby rendering my home  officially divested of offspring but also with these two gone, of the possibility that any will be dropping in; and on some level I think I am still in a period of serious confusion.

The fact that this reorientation has hit full-tilt in the middle of summer only adds to the instability because my husband-the-teacher, has these months off; and while he maintains a daily schedule of tutoring, the hours vary and are constantly subject to changes and last-minute cancellations as everyone is predominately in vacation mode and pool time is vastly more alluring than tutor time.  What this means is that he lurks.


His spotty but relentless appearance throughout the day adds a moody layer of surrealism to my waking hours and creates another substantial hurdle between this current state of seasonal and familial flux and my newly-gained autonomy.

I am neither totally liberated nor totally alone; both of which cause me to raise the white flag of surrender every time the thought occurs that I might now sit down to write or begin that new illustration or sketch out the underpainting for a new piece.

These summer interruptions are frequent and random and because I am the one who relishes solitude and  the fertile promise of quiet and he is one who goes into a complete panic if he is forced to endure more than thirty minutes without company and compulsive dialogue, our preferences clash.

However, because I am also the one with the genetic predisposition of an Oriental rug, I lay down my agenda and oblige with a well-intentioned ear and eyes only slightly glazed over as they betray my struggle against total preoccupation.

I think it is part of the marital contract or something; feigning interest under penalty of till death do us part.   Lord knows I am well-tenured by now.

In any case, this explains my infrequent posting and the inefficiency of connecting to my cerebral side while reorienting my expectations and redefining busy.

I now feel more like the lone nurse on a mental ward in charge of one highly unpredictable patient whose needs must be met when called upon but are impossible to anticipate.  And like any underpaid, over-worked, well-trained nurse, I smile through my clenched, newly-cleaned teeth and do my job.

Nothing quite says, "You're screwed!" like hearing those words:  "Honey, I'm home!"