When I buy new fish for my tank, there are strict instructions for acclimating them to their new home. The process involves slowly adjusting the fish to the new water’s biology and temperature. You float them in a plastic bag like some kind of aquatic hostage situation, adding small amounts of tank water over time until, an hour and a half later, you release them without ransom—smooth, seamless, stress-free.
Coming home after log weekend get-a-way? No such program exists. One minute I’m nestled in a cocoon of love; the next, I’m being ripped from it like a trash panda in a dive bar dumpster.
Welcome Home! Hope You Like Surprises.
One of my greetings? A flooded basement. Five days prior, storms knocked out power to our neighborhood, and we walked in to the unmistakable perfume of swamp rot and despair. A foot of water in the basement. Lovely.
That wasn’t the first time. One trip, Keely turned off the water softener to save salt. Smart move. Unfortunately, our oldest child decided to live there while we were gone, leaving behind a scene that looked less like a temporary residence and more like a home invasion in progress. Lights on, TV humming, no one home. Every sink, toilet, and even the ice maker bore rust stains and the kind of funk that suggests law enforcement should be involved.
But this year? I knew the other shoe would drop. I just didn’t expect my sister to beat me senseless with it for 48 straight hours.
Borderline Personality Disorder: The Gift That Keeps the Gaslight flammable.
Dealing with Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD) is like athlete’s foot—you think you’ve killed it, and then it flares back up with a vengeance. Unlike the groundhog, which appears on schedule because its handler craves a little TV time, BPD episodes arrive without warning, logic, or regard for anyone else’s schedule.
It’s like Rhesus monkey cocaine button behavior—the dopamine hit from manufactured drama is too good to resist. The bigger the reaction, the higher the rush. And here I am, her personal pleasure device. Great. That makes me sound like some kind of rechargeable silicone wand.
She’s too self-absorbed to care that she’s dragging her kids—and mine—into her emotional Cirque du Soleil. I try to apply logic, but that’s the trap. Logic in a BPD showdown is about as useful as a seatbelt on a roller coaster that’s already gone off the tracks.
This is Episode 5 of ‘Subdividing the Lake House Master’—a Limited Series of Poor Decisions.
What If I Just… Use Facts?
In my latest role as the villain in her one-woman play, I dared to suggest that turning the master bedroom into a village of tiny bedrooms might be a bad idea. I explain why—to her kids, while copying her—because we all know that documenting conversations is a survival tactic and she brought them into this conversation.
Then, I showered and got ready for a funeral. Sadly, not hers.
Mid-shower, logic creeps back in again. What if I just… found an authoritative real estate website that proves no one in their right mind does this? I text my real estate friend, Rae asking if I can call her in 10 minutes, plug the funeral home address in Richmond, IN into Google Maps, and drive off at 10:00 AM, feeling like I’m really getting things done today.
On the drive we talk. Five minutes on real estate. The rest? Rae sharing her own horror stories of dealing with BPD relatives.
Wait… Why Am I in Cincinnati?
At 11:20 AM, I notice something strange: No Richmond signs. The funeral is at 11:30. I am not in Richmond. I am driving straight to Cincinnati.
Charlie Daniels once sang, “I think I’m gonna re-route my trip.
I wonder if anybody’d think I’d flipped
If I, went to LA via Omaha!”
Buddy, I get it now. Google took my brain hostage, and I just sat there, smiling and nodding like a willing participant in my own kidnapping.
Takeaways from my two-hour round trip to nowhere?
- According to real estate experts, no one actually subdivides their master bedroom. It’s such a bad idea that there’s no data on it.
- My sister is now claiming that turning the office into a bedroom would raise property taxes, a suggestion everyone has offered. BUT splitting the master won’t. Cue the sound of an entire group scratching their heads in unison.
Reality Check (Or Ticket to Another Universe?)
I pull a highly questionable U-turn in one of those police speed trap cutouts on the interstate, fully expecting to get a ticket.
Maybe he’d take pity on me and gibe me a one-way ticket… to LA via Omaha.
To hear more suburban absurdity, listen to Episode 56 of Welcome to the Suburbs click here to listen on our website https://suburbspodcast.com/ or your favorite podcast platform like Apple Podcasts: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/s3-ep-56-fake-deaths-part-2-felon-wisdom-fast-food-nightmares/id1669816704?i=1000697379186
