Day Two in Green Acres

I opened my bank account today, and on Monday, I will begin the process of transferring Social Security to the new account. I also signed up for e-statements and automatic bill pay. This is new territory for me, as I've previously paid all my bills in cash. This should be a wonderfully liberating experience, but naturally, I'm paranoid about identity theft. There is so much left to do, but the ball is rolling.

More family time today, alas. Look, I love my family. They're my crazy clan, but God help me, there is only so much family interaction I can stomach. They're so solicitous as to be overbearing, and they have no sense of decorum or discretion. This morning over breakfast, my mother took it upon herself to tell Papa Chris that I was constipated. For fuck's sake. As though that would ever be appropriate breakfast for anyone, let alone my stepfather. She has no concept whatsoever of personal privacy. Perhaps it's a product of dealing with the relentlessly invasive questions of doctors throughout my childhood. Her life was often consumed by questions of biology and the messy business of being, of how often I was using the bathroom or menstruating or how well I was walking. Doctors have a nasty penchant for gleefully violating one's natural sense of reticence, and after prolonged scrutiny, one forgets that the rest of the world considers the topic of proper bowel function gauche.

In many ways, I am still a child in her eyes. When the banker handed me the packet of papers that come with a new account, my mother took it and began to read it aloud, as though I hadn't spent the past twenty-eight years being thoroughly educated, particularly in the subjects of reading and English composition. It infuriated me. It's not meant as a slight, but such relatively innocuous and benign actions serve to undermine my self-confidence and my standing in the eyes of others. How is a banker supposed to take me seriously if my mother is reading to me as if I were a slack-jawed imbecile?

My uncle took us out on Lake Chatuge today. It was lovely; I wanted to enjoy the quiet and the mountains, but my family never met a silence it could abide and gabbled incessantly. They're so excited that I've returned to the fold. I wish I could return the enthusiasm, but I'm overwhelmed by the magnitude of the seismic changes I've endured in just three days and mourning the life and sense of independence I've temporarily left behind. I'm glad to be here in such beautiful, temperate climes, but I'm also viciously, deeply homesick for the familiar bustle of Tallahassee. This is my new home. The bank account I opened this morning binds me to this place, but I want to go home. I wonder how long it will be until I get there.

For the curious, a picture of my new environment. Lake Chatuge and Bell Mountain

Day Two in Green Acres

I opened my bank account today, and on Monday, I will begin the process of transferring Social Security to the new account. I also signed up for e-statements and automatic bill pay. This is new territory for me, as I've previously paid all my bills in cash. This should be a wonderfully liberating experience, but naturally, I'm paranoid about identity theft. There is so much left to do, but the ball is rolling.

More family time today, alas. Look, I love my family. They're my crazy clan, but God help me, there is only so much family interaction I can stomach. They're so solicitous as to be overbearing, and they have no sense of decorum or discretion. This morning over breakfast, my mother took it upon herself to tell Papa Chris that I was constipated. For fuck's sake. As though that would ever be appropriate breakfast for anyone, let alone my stepfather. She has no concept whatsoever of personal privacy. Perhaps it's a product of dealing with the relentlessly invasive questions of doctors throughout my childhood. Her life was often consumed by questions of biology and the messy business of being, of how often I was using the bathroom or menstruating or how well I was walking. Doctors have a nasty penchant for gleefully violating one's natural sense of reticence, and after prolonged scrutiny, one forgets that the rest of the world considers the topic of proper bowel function gauche.

In many ways, I am still a child in her eyes. When the banker handed me the packet of papers that come with a new account, my mother took it and began to read it aloud, as though I hadn't spent the past twenty-eight years being thoroughly educated, particularly in the subjects of reading and English composition. It infuriated me. It's not meant as a slight, but such relatively innocuous and benign actions serve to undermine my self-confidence and my standing in the eyes of others. How is a banker supposed to take me seriously if my mother is reading to me as if I were a slack-jawed imbecile?

My uncle took us out on Lake Chatuge today. It was lovely; I wanted to enjoy the quiet and the mountains, but my family never met a silence it could abide and gabbled incessantly. They're so excited that I've returned to the fold. I wish I could return the enthusiasm, but I'm overwhelmed by the magnitude of the seismic changes I've endured in just three days and mourning the life and sense of independence I've temporarily left behind. I'm glad to be here in such beautiful, temperate climes, but I'm also viciously, deeply homesick for the familiar bustle of Tallahassee. This is my new home. The bank account I opened this morning binds me to this place, but I want to go home. I wonder how long it will be until I get there.

For the curious, a picture of my new environment. Lake Chatuge and Bell Mountain