There is knowledge and there is aloofness, then there is denial and there is wishing not to know the truth, only desiring things be settled.

After a week of quietly seething, my spouse announced it was time to call his brother about an old voicemail. I could feel my shoulders tense up in anticipation, and before I knew it my heart was racing. I was relieved he closed his office door. I didn’t want to know what was being said, provided it didn’t create an irreparable rift between us.

I had no no desire to listen at the door, or subject myself to a recap. I wanted the moment to be over lest my beating heart explode within my ribcage. One phrase escaped unnoticed through the gap between door and hardwood floor, “This is the last I will say of it..”

Don’t ask. Don’t tell. Hopefully this isn’t a symptom of denial.

The conversation was brief and ended with an opening door and a request for an old phone book to look up an address. He text the address, presumably to his brother, and said “Let’s have some of your homemade wine.”

Uh? Homemade wine is a generous phrase. I’ve taken to calling it the science experiment. It’s like a fruity, slightly yeasty variation of moonshine. He thinks it is close to 40 proof, but I don’t believe he is right. I also don’t believe in driving down the mountain immediately after downing a glass.

He hasn’t been very interested in my science experiment. He knew it was quietly fermenting in the cabinet, with balloons in place to inhibit gas exchange. He knew I was starting with the most basic of materials, recycled wine bottles, baking yeast, canned concentrate, and a rubber band collected from a broccoli purchase.

I think he’s intrigued because I started at the most basic level. My expectations are low, but I hope to learn things that will make the next fermentation better. Simple, but learning by doing. That’s life, dozens of finite adjustments in hopes of finding something that works for you without infringing on the rights of others.

working in the yard in broad daylight on an ordinary Monday. Our attempts to invest sweat equity into our home do not go unnoticed by contractors patrolling residential neighborhoods for economic opportunity. The state of the economy is reflected by the number of cold calls beckoning at our doorstep. Tis a terrible time to have a house on the market, but a good time to contract for home repairs, at least here, and especially for cash.

Lured by three untouched pallets pavers littering the front door, a pair guys in a beat-up taurus wagon, attempted to negotiate installation. We were not swayed as most of the prep work has been completed. Had they shown up prior to the excavation of dirt, and sandstone, the temptation to negotiate, might have been stronger. Yet, the kicker, was the discover these two yahoos were responsible for installing the shitty path, I spent weeks removing because it was an unstable lawsuit waiting to happen. We were polite, a thanks but no thanks, gentle dismissal.

I admire their tenacity, going door to door, trying to put food on the table, but there are some services you can’t afford no matter what a bargain they are. The willingness to work isn’t enough to cancel out the know-how which brings a project to fruition. If they had installed the path, any less than perfect, I would have never been unable to live with my spouse, as he would speak of little else than a job not perfectly executed. You have to be careful, frequently you get what you pay for.

And so the paver path continues, well not the path, so much as the preparation, and it progresses in the tradition of DIY. Slowly, painfully, with much sighing and sweat. My husband has done this before. Each time the pattern is different and the complexity varies. He installed a straight path, at the shared home with his former wife, in his former life, thus making him the master paver layer. We worked to together laying a path and patio at our former home. No easy task with a curving herringbone pattern that required numerous cuts and the sacrifice of a circular saw.

It would natural to assume the process has become easier, but it would be an incorrect assumption. This path is simpler, no cutting required, yet he still struggles with the foundation, the dimensions, and his controlling effort to perfect that, which still has a plus and minus margin of error. When he becomes overwhelmed by the inconsistencies that require him to punt, he returns to the digging, sometimes massive amounts of earth moving, and other times packing the moved earth back into place. This is part of his struggle, something he needs do to complete the task.

He would like nothing better than for me to stand around and listen to him think. That is the most painful part of the process. He doesn’t really want input, but validation. I need to move, even if it is small increments, hauling mulch or weeding flower beds. As for validation, it’s not as though I don’t appreciate his efforts. If wants to be the master paver project foreman, he needs to lead the project, and assign me tasks. I don’t need to watch him find his way, I know he will, it just takes time.

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Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies inside us while we live ~ Norman Cousins
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If you look closely enough at situations, you can create corollaries to serve your own purposes. This typically stems from a human desire to understand why things happen rather than just chalking it up indiscriminately to shit happens. When unpleasant situations arise many of us want to understand why, as if happenstance will lessen guilt, more than the concept of an invisible hand manipulating the universe. If unpleasant situations are singular, then seldom is additional thought to motive given, it becomes merely an undesirable isolated incident.

Death comes in threes, a popular unconfirmed myth from my own family, is losing some of it’s street cred. People have been dropping like flies. Maybe daylight saving time has placed unfortunate stress on the precarious health of the ailing.

Five have passed within a month. Some closer in relation than others. Some family of family. Some knew their fate, like my sister’s uncle by marriage.

Uncle woke up Sunday, and sat on the edge of the bed for an extended amount of time. His wife asked what was wrong as it was time to get about the business of welcoming the day. Uncle replied, “Today, is the day I will die.”

Not to be sucked in by melodrama, the wife retorted, “You can’t die today. Tonight is your night to cook supper.”

At lunch, he collapsed in the kitchen.
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Life is returning to a state which will be defined as the new normal. We have resumed watching Six Feet Under on dvd. We spend more time observing the birds feed from the kitchen window. The four-legged ones, The Hunter and The Gatherer continue to be insufferable and narcissistic, but if they behaved any other way, they wouldn’t be mine.

I asked my cool SIL what she was doing with all this newfound free time, her reply, was laundry. We have to start somewhere.

The problem with taking the high road, is the path is narrow, and dangerously impassable in some sections. The view is shielded by scrub brush and fallen trees. Passage takes longer, and the only validation is of a self-congratulatory nature. It’s no wonder the high road is less traveled.

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Last night, I had a difficult conversation. It was somewhere between the territories of Honey, I’ve met someone else… and Honey, I have a big gash on the door of the car because I cut my wheels too sharply exiting the garage. Not the end of the world, yet not something that allows sleep to come easily.

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If you take the high road in hopes of having your effort validated, maybe you aren’t taking the high road for the right reasons. Maybe you aren’t really taking the high road at all.

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I feel like I’m walking a tightrope (not because of who my spouse is, but because of who I am). I don’t want to draw him into petty disputes and force the taking of sides. It’s true we are partners, but I don’t recall anything in our vows that requires him to take my side in disagreements regarding mutual associations.

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If you attempt the high road, and are consequently treated like a doormat, are you justified in standing up for yourself? Does it detour the high road, or do you transform into a villain because of a single transgression?

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It felt like having to chose between him and me. It wasn’t a choice I was asked to make, strictly self directed, driven by my own desire to stand up for myself. I didn’t take the road less traveled, and I regret my choice will change things for both of us. If I could have achieved closure and allowed him to remain in the dark, I would have done so. In the face of premeditated destructive behavior, it’s better to hear it from the source rather than a third party, know? Own it, and know thyself.

I wonder how long it will take for normal to feel like normal again? Technically, the word normal is a piss poor descriptor of my everyday life. It only applies in relative way. My normal is someone else’s version of WTF?, and their normal is probably my version of just give me something sharp and rusty so I can cut my leg off to escape. All relative.

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In lieu of what has become the habitual death watch post, I offer a recess which includes charming pictures of my non-human allies over the course of this void.

First, is Delilah*, a charming golden retriever who keeps my loyal friend, and spare bed provider, Marsha* company on cold nights. I like staying with Marsha. It’s relaxing, and informal and did I mention? She bakes. Delilah* does not bake, but she is genuinely glad to see you.

Delilah is generally low key, until she wants your undivided attention, at which point she brings a love offering consisting of a destroyed single-eyed-stuffed-weinerdog or perhaps a pair of dirty socks from the hamper. Pawing your leg is her pull-out-all-the-stops move.

Avoid all open mouth kissing attempts and lascivious advances, as Delilah has been known to drink directly from the toilet. Ask me how I know. Well…Delilah woke me at o’fuck thirty lapping water from the commode, and then expressed her gratitude with an attempted good night kiss, as I lay in the bed half-asleep. Love knows no boundaries….but she seems unaware I don’t really love her that way, I just like her a lot, though maybe shaving the fur off her rear end confused the issue and sent the wrong signal.

This is Delilah’s* house mate, S.O.S*.

Don’t be fooled by the dramatic lighting. S.O.S* is a one woman cat. I am not that woman. My kitty sense has taught me to give characters like S.O.S* a wide berth.

She had the misfortune of hiding under a dresser one evening and getting locked in our bedroom. She was fine until 3 AM, when I heard scratching at the door. Drowsy me assumed the scratching was coming from OUTSIDE the door, so I made hissing sound and muttered stop. It worked until 4 AM, and then there was a repeat, and at 5AM. After 6 AM it was apparent the cat was in the room with us. After she tried to gnaw off my husbands ankle, we decided it was best to get up and make coffee.

This charming creature is Dakota*.

He’s a frequent visitor at Marsha’s*. Dakota* may not look the part, he’s so humble, but he is a movie star. Currently he’s working on a zombie movie with W00dy Harels0n and Matth3w McC0naugh3y. I never said he was discriminating about selecting scripts. He has much to learn about show-biz, but he is very resourceful in the kitchen. During my stay, he swiped 2 loafs of bread and a serving of bread pudding with lemon sauce. Dakota* has good taste in food.

Last but not least, is Gorgeous George*.

Gorgeous George* turned out to be an error in judgement. He is a green anole, I caught in a sego palm outside my MIL assisted living facility. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Small lizard that turns from green to brown. Food from the pet store, plastic cage. Easy to catch. I should have put more time into research before I brought George* further north. It seems Gorgeous George is high maintenance. He needs a 10 gallon tank, special UV lighting, and a misting system.

I am an idiot. I caught a perfectly happy lizard, transported him almost 400 miles, and brought a solar powered reptile to a colder climate. Anyone else care to sit beside me in that hand-basket?

George hasn’t been consuming his pet store food, and I don’t intend for him to starve to death. While SOMEONE on four legs would love to become intimately acquainted with him it seems somehow wrong to witness natural selection on the tile floor between refrigerator and the swivel bar stool.

Today, when the temperature peaks, Gorgeous George* will be released into the yard edge, with plenty of cover from the birds. Sorry George*, but if I keep you caged you won’t last long enough to return to the south. I need not worry about the source of my bad karma any longer.

* names changed to protect the innocent and the not so innocent.