Not a happy camper

I just reset the countdown clock. For a number of reasons, it appears we won't be loading the U-Haul and seeing Georgia in the rear view mirror quite as soon as the S.O. and I had been hoping.

I definitely have mixed feelings about lingering in Atlanta. Living in a state that seems intent on proving that every stereotype about ignorant rednecks is true does get old after awhile. Everytime I think the good ol' boys under the Gold Dome have managed to come up with the World's Dumbest Idea, they top themselves. Maybe it's something in the fertilizers they use on the peanuts?

On the other hand, and in a feeble attempt to look on the bright side, there is Mexican Coca-Cola being sold within walking distance of our apartment, and it's a lot easier to shovel pollen than it is to shovel snow.

To blog or not to blog

Does anyone come from a normal family?  I'm struggling this morning with the need to talk while at at the same time dealing with the usual reluctance to go anywhere near the weeds that are Too Much Information territory, especially when the TMI involves relatives and not me personally.  But I swear the family tree has enough oddballs in it that it's real hard to keep it all contained.

Actually, it's not too bad.  It's not like the family tree is loaded with criminals or perverts.  No, we've just got an over-abundance of reclusive agoraphobics.  Is there such a thing as a Garbo gene?  A "just leave me alone and let me eat my Oreos, ignore reality, and play endless games of solitaire in peace" marker on the DNA?  I've got relatives who, I swear, did not leave their homes for literally years on end.

And now the latest of those wannabe hermits:  a relative who retreated into a recliner, remote control in hand, a couple years ago and has been quietly ignoring the growing stack of mail that included the various warning notes from the bank and the county until someone physically knocked on the door to tell him, oh, by the way, your house was sold at a tax sale and the new owners take possession Monday.  As in 5 days from now.  Late last night I got a frantic call from the brother of the reality-challenged soul pleading with me to help with a last minute rescue mission.  That mission will, of course, consist primarily of hustling as much stuff as possible out of the house and into a U-Haul truck on Saturday and Sunday.  

In Macon, Georgia.  In 90+ heat.  It's going to be an interesting weekend.   

(And, yes, I'm pretty sure the dude qualifies as clinically depressed and has a desperate need to make the acquaintance of either a good therapist or some Prozac, but as long as someone is functioning well enough that he's not a danger to anyone other than himself, it's going to be hard to get the man any treatment.)

Update:  I survived.  As for the experience in general, all I can say is that whatever the 'winning' bid was at the auction, the buyers are going to be thinking they paid way too much.