the toxic mom throne
hubby's sil wants to sell her hubby's portion of the farm. his brother is in advanced stages of huntington's disease and hasn't been fully capable of making such decisions for a long time. it really is her decision out of necessity. she is a bred, born and raised houston girl and has lived there her entire senior life. the dry, dusty plains are as foreign to her as any port she has visited in her vacation travels. with gratitude for the devotion she is showing in the caregiving of hubby's disabled brother, we are working with her to simplify her duties. we have first dibs on buying their half of the farm and she is working fairly with us in return.
now to come up with the $1.1 mil we need to keep the farm intact. . . those pesky details. . . again i sigh at the fact that my in-laws paid less for this farm in 1965 than they paid for the fil's last cowboy cadillac in 2009. that very cowboy cadillac has since been repurposed as hubby's "bee buggy." he uses it to tend the three apiaries scattered across our 130 acres.
finally! ! ! the perfect excuse to get rid of the toxic mom throne in the tourist trap 190 miles south of here. the real estate market there is as insane as the entertainers, politicians and educators who populate the still booming metroplex. we don't anticipate it taking long to sell the place at a ridiculous profit.
alas, that calls for reentering the place to take an inventory of what we still have stored there and make a toxic bucketful of decisions on what to do with all that accumulated crap. i haven't been there since ys's funeral in 2019. ys and his wife's thing piles were precisely where they left them before the fatal accident. i suspect they still are. the woman who has been living there rent free is not there to act as a clean up woman. she is only there to keep tabs on the place for us. aside from that, i haven't been there since 2016 when i started the farm restoration project here. when i abandoned that body of notions in 2017 to begin my big river tour, i launched from here. my place on the toxic mom throne hasnae interested me since i was awarded the toxic crown.
next week is thanksgiving break. the munchkins will be with their mother's family for the entire week. hubs and i have decided it would be a good time to do that unpleasant do. the sooner begun, the sooner done. small steps, big faith and lots of prayer.
once more i leave the mood icon on the rapid cycling median.
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so far, so good, i think. i pray. my sinuses are clogged with dust and animal dander. the filth remains thick enough that i couldnae live here, but the most toxic of the biohazards have been removed and we are approaching clarity on which pile holds which class of precious things.
the dawning of day three finds me wondering if the dual grieving of my two sons is unraveling. just wondering. my maternal heart still thinks of both sons together, but their living realities were/are radically different. my departed son lives on through the baby things and keepsakes i am finding here and there throughout the house. i imagine myself showing his three orphans those treasures and telling the stories attached. i find myself able to think of him and smile. methinks the healing is well underway.
most of my estranged son's precious things went out with the biohazards, generously sprinkled with animal dung and suspicious looking clumps i donae care to look at too closely. he spent far more time here than anyone in the family, but his legacy is primarily property damage and echoes of hateful judgements. yes, dear, toxic mom at your service.
the woman who has been keeping loose tabs on the place for us is my estranged son's last s.o. i still feel her as a daughter-in-law and she still wishes that was a fact. in actual fact, the two were exes long before the violence which triggered estranged son's jail time, subsequent homelessness and hubby's current attempts to let go and let god. methinks she needs the closure on the toxic mom throne even more than i do.
healing hopes for all. no exceptions.
my guit-chi therapy song for this round is, "ghost riders in the sky."
so cowpoke change your ways today
or with us you will ride
trying to catch the devil's herd
across this windy sky
works in progress. . .
life is as life is. not as we would have it.
we rented the uhaul to carry the keep stacks back to the farm. the new house is already full enough that we can't keep much of the household items, but the collection of outdoor goodies is substantial enough rate the uhaul rental. after all, this was an urban homestead before the middle aged children trashed to the bachelor crash pad standards.
the real estate market in this urban tourist trap is insane enough that house sales are frequently subject to bidding wars where the owner walks away with more than the asking price. we haven't figured out our asking price yet, but we already have 2 prospective buyers and the house isn't even listed yet.
prayers in progress. . . even with a good price on this place, we remain an uncomfortable stretch away from the $1.1 million we need to keep the farm intact. do they still hold farm aid concerts? save the children fundraisers? our 3 orphans quite proud of their farm life. i still squirm life a city girl when they introduce me as, "a farmer," but i've been called meaner names.
i know, aye no.
i began wrestling with that linguistic snot knot right here in the toxic mom throne --or is that thrown?-- while my manly men were in the early stages of burying my award-winning garden under their manly expertise. when i attempted to preserve bits of that garden, they often assured me, "i know, i know." by the time they were expecting me to do the maintenance on their manly superiority, i was emphatically saying, "aye no, aye no." i didnae care to study the techniques behind their k-n-o-w. "NO." is a complete sentence, macho dear. maintenance is always easier with slave labor. this slave is running like a beaten crazy bitch wolf. do your own freakin' maintenance.
the house cleanup has progressed far enough that i begun parsing through the tool shed and back yard. my turf. houses are something i do for other people more than for myself. for my utilitarian senses, a motel room provides all the indoor comfort i need. two star class, if you please. rich enough to be comfortable and poor enough to be humble. scraping toxic layers off high dollar antiques, etc., hasnae riled me much. my eye is on what will enhance the comfort onboard my little ship of fools with minimal effort. i donae mind leaving the antique evaluations to the high-steppers whom i look to escape quicker than they look to escape the unmentionable byproducts of their fur babies.
the focus i am attempting to maintain during the sorting of the tool shed and back yard is which pieces of my design survived the "i know" of my "aye no." quite a few, actually. the psychopations are rough, but the air is far easier to breath.
Oh my......so much work! I'm praying the hard work pays well and you get at least double your asking price ((hug)). Hope you were able to have a joyful Thanksgiving. I had a quiet day. Anytime shared with people you care about is precious.
thank you, mel.
yesterday's thanks were in getting the uhaul most of the way full. this morning finds me sitting amidst far more open spaces than i have seen in this house since the adult child takeover. it is possible we also found a man to do the punch out work of cleaning and unloading all the precious treasures we have no room for on the farm. possible. . . he was on his way to a traditional gathering and didn't really have the brain space to process the unexpected job offer.
my hope is to never again set foot in the toxic mom throne after we head back to the farm tomorrow. i feel far, far cleaner and safer in the toxic people landfill. just hoping. . .
my prayer is that healing happens here.
double the asking price would clear that $1.1 million dollar bill and keep the farm intact. i'm not holding my breath while i wish.
it feels like mission completion. the toxic mom throne remains too literally toxic for this metaphorically toxic mom, but it is possible to contract out the cleaning and disposal of literal toxins. that very chore provided some of the most lucrative contracts of my paid career. the metaphorically non-toxic people of the world pay dearly for the guarding of the truths behind the non-toxic mask. my personal scenario of the day isnae uncommon, either. i am willing to pay dearly to avoid wallowing any further in this heartbreak and disgrace. well. . . caring for my 3 orphans, farm, etc., doesnae leave me much time for wallowing in any event.
this morning finds me tempted to rename this messy metaphor, "the toxic son throne." the vast majority of the literal toxins covering the bones of this home are the contributions of my middle-aged cherubs. in this judgmental metaphor, my mother-in-law's geezer cherub contributed mightily, as well. i still have nightmares about attempting to raise my 3 orphans with the emotional support my busy tech exec offered here. "just popping in for a rousing round of tit-for-tat, dear. i so love the make up sex."
methinks i will resist the renaming urge. it is only a name for only a metaphor. let's call it a wrap and get this messy metaphor on the shelf.
the munchkins are due to be delivered this afternoon between 2 and 4. this leaves me with a light and easy day of tying up loose ends at a casual pace. we see what grows.
back in the saddle again. we got back to the farm after dark but all five of us breathed a sigh of to see the place in the gentler lights of the farm night. even here, light pollution drowns out too many of nature's night lights but at least were not blinded by suburban bozos competing to be the brightest bulb on the block.
the hour is late for this little ship of fools, but nary a one of us seems interested in sleep. it is quite restful enough to be breathing in the gentle comforts of home. here in my smoking corner i am taking in the soft sounds and doing my level best to repress memory of the tightly packed 15 foot moving van and partially loaded passenger van out front waiting to be unloaded.
i verily collapsed yesterday while hubby whipped himself into suck-it-up mode and unloaded most of the uhaul in his chaotic toss style. my efforts to rest and recuperate were not quite restful as i waffled between guilt over resting while he kept on chugging and dread of cleaning up yet another round of chaotic toss piles as i say goodbye to the last of the open spaces in the house. it sure is a stuffy age we live in. it is far easier to get more stuff than it is to maintain open spaces.
i'm still quite tired this morning. for now i am simply trying to keep the focus on getting the munchkins back on their school routine.
stepping small and praying big.
eldest son sent hubby another email for money yesterday. his most recent dog disappeared and he is dead certain she was stolen by an identified perpetrator. he needs a $20 bike to exact vengeance. sigh. . . the good news is that we know he is alive and well enough to ride a bike.
eldest son's critters are among the more dazzling jewels in my toxic mom throne. we share the critter connection, so our first years were a delight of exploration and discovery. we played with a wide array of nature's children and researched the ones we didnae have access to. somewhere during the onset of his narcolepsy during early adolescence, that connection started to take on some hideous tones. i mark its graduation to a jewel in the toxic mom throne with denny, the nigger chasing yard dog, circa mid 90's. dates available, butnae terribly important for this venting. perhaps this particular jewel should be recut into numerous jewels. one for each of the animals es has loved, hurt and neglected since then. the sad, desperate eyes of his last dog are still haunting me.
hubs wasnae eager to respond to the email, so es sent me an email, "tell you husband to check his email."
again therapist gen popped up on my shoulder saying, "don't engage a psychosis." i ignored her on the grounds that i had been wanting of sending him a christmas picture of the nephew and nieces he hasnae ever asked about. in retrospect, i wish i hadnae added text to the email, but i answered, "he checked. he shared. not too interested in your vengeance scheme."
should i feel guilty for being hopeful the newest dog found a more responsible owner?
should i feel delusional for hoping my beloved son will one day reconnect with his critter gene? i canae speak the depth to which i miss our shared passion for the bioweb.
the house is empty, freshly painted and a few other touches to get it ready for selling. alas, the recent inflation in interest rates has slowed all of the various real estate markets, even in the fashionable zip code where our suburban paradise sits.
when i first started bolting hysterically from that suburban paradise circa 2013, i was calling the idyllic little house, "a gilded cage." 2013 was the peak of the toxic people fad. even kinder kids were calling their mothers, "toxic mom" while they were fuming in the quiet corner. in the slang of the day, listeners seemed to understand the metaphor of a toxic mom throne far better than they seemed to understand the gilded cage metaphor. as the fashion turns. . . it's easier to assimilate if i don't try to understand ^it^. a name is just a name. somewhere along the way, the meditation visuals of my metaphorical toxic mom throne acquired gems and jewels implanted in the finely crafted woodwork. why ask why? the heart goes where it goes.
the chicken keeping and award-winning garden are two of the gems in the toxic mom throne. my urban agriculture ties were brutally severed while those gems were being implanted into the toxic mom throne, but urban agriculture has since earned a place on wall street. i am confident those ties can be re-established, should the need arise.
the 10 roosters in the brood house is the current day psychopation that has me visualizing hubby and i prying the chicken keeping gem from the toxic mom throne. in a suburban paradise, even one rooster will get the neighbors dialing 9-1-1 quicker than witnessing animal cruelty. no, my dear neighbor, our "no kill" animal shelter does not take roosters, much less promise they won't wring their necks. long before my first rooster out-smarted my rooster catching technique of taking them out of the roost by leading his flock up into the tree overhanging our property line, my favorite hen educated me on the need for killing the chickens you keep with the miseries of her old age. i felt psychotically helpless watching the flock peck her to death, then eating her corpse. a human family chicken dinner would have been the far more humane option. within the court of my toxic mom throne, those psychopations were from a neurotic housewife making things up again. "aye no, aye no."
this morning there are only 7 roosters in the brood house. hubby has killed 3 of them over the past 4 days. no, dear, those psychopations are genuine forces of nature that your grandma had probably formulated in the pre-programming of making her style of chicken dinner shopping look easy. it's always easy once you have the formula. thank you for helping me work out the formula. i've still killed more birds than he has, but this would be the first time i've felt free and easy in discussing those unexpected side effects.