Archives for the month of: March, 2009

Tweaking

March 27, 2009 //

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.

Categories observation, Those People

We Are Sitting Ducks….

March 25, 2009 //

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.

Categories over thinking

Titles R Overrated

March 21, 2009 //

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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.

Categories Uncategorized

Huh? Road

March 18, 2009 //

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.

Categories over thinking, Those People

Faking It

March 15, 2009 //

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.

Categories anecdotal

Home Sweet Home

March 12, 2009 //

I looked at my desk calendar this morning, and the date was February 16th. Time slips away quickly. I have a four-legged companion keeping my lap warm after a lengthy absence. The human in me is inclined to get all sentimental and say she loves me and missed me, but the pragmatist in me knows the house is cold and the cat is clearly stoned from the zen tea bag wrapper I gave her earlier.

How to measure the passage of time? It seems like three months have dissolved before my very eyes, but I know that isn’t entirely true. I hiked a few times and I completed a few drawings, but oddly I still feel like a guest in my own home.

I could measure the passage of time, by the changing market values, but that isn’t enlightening insomuch as it is utterly disgusting. I could measure time by the amount of cat hair on my pants but there is always cat hair, so that isn’t satisfactory unless I produce a bald house pet. I can measure the passage of time by the number of these, I’ve hand stitched, but it only accurately depicts the past week. The body count was eleven.

Last week, my husband expressed concern over all the stress possibly sending someone over the edge. I wondered if he intended it as a barb directed at me. I don’t function as well as I should around crowds, and fervent crowds are the absolute worst. Too much raw emotion.

I worked to keep perceived slights to myself and ignore emotionally driven irrationality. Although, it isn’t becoming of one’s character to gloat about a behavior that is expected in polite company, I am gloating now. I didn’t lose my shit and create a scene, in spite of residing in the land o’ plenty. The best part was my husband didn’t seem to notice the tension between his SIL (he can claim her. I choose not to) was so thick and icy you couldn’t fracture it with a snow shovel.

I suspect someone left with their feelings hurt, though I know not who.

Categories dead pan, observation

Panties Optional

March 8, 2009 //

It isn’t easy to follow someone else’s will. If no specific requests are outlined, you find yourself playing a complicated version of WWJD, when you’ve hardly skipped three steps, much less walked a mile in Jesus’s velcro fastened tennis shoes. You can surmise intent by how the person lives, types of hobbies, and things that move them, but it’s all second hand guessing. Maybe that’s what makes death so difficult, that unmistakable realization when we become aware we never bothered to really know the person in the first place.

After a premature wake which included Mexican food and two pitchers of Texas margaritas, we embarked on a group field trip to shop for a proper suit for my FIL. Most of his dress clothes had been been donated either to charity or the local landfill. I don’t understand this obsession of dressing loved ones in their Sunday best before being lovingly preserved and sealed in fancy casket designed for comfort. As the departed, I wouldn’t feel comforted dissolving into eternity knowing my loved ones overspent on a brief ceremony which did nothing to improve my standing in the universe, but this isn’t really about me or my intent.

At his most vibrant, my FIL is a threadbare flannel shirt kind of guy with an offset baseball cap, tilted WWII style. He splits the elastic in his socks because he doesn’t like the way it makes his ankles itch. His pants may or may not be zipped. No one is likely to accuse him of vanity in any measure.

My MIL is the polar opposite. She possesses the style gene that is synonymous with the blue haired ladies who lunch with cloth napkins, play bridge together, and bring seasoned waitresses to tears. Her signature calling card is the color red. Red is the answer to all that ails. Consequently, she dresses in red, has a diner-style red formica table, and compliments everyone who wears her color du jour.

It seemed odd my husband and his brothers settled upon an okay-sport coat, paired with an un-imaginitive pastel green shirt, conservative (a.k.a. boring as hell) tie, and shit brown dress pants. My cool SIL and I were sorely disappointed as the attire succeeded in underselling the vibrance my FIL exuded during the prime of his life. We protested in favor of a red tie on behalf of our MIL, but the brothers ignored us in favor of the opinion of a pushy yet sexually repressed sales representative.

Not to be unduly silenced, we opted for a subtle display of rebellion and purchased a lacy red thong to place in his coat pocket, for a reminder of the soul mate he left behind. We were pleased with ourselves, having deposited
a naughty memento without publicly flashing the inner conservative of all their sons. And the plan was going swimmingly until………………some fucking asshole stole the suit with all its trimmings from the hospital closet of a dying man. Nice. I just hope the asshole needed it more.

SInce the family was dead set against baring him in flannel or in the nude, we embarked on a second trip, for a second suit, for what would be a first death. This time a committee wasn’t necessary, or maybe it simply wasn’t available. I joined my husband to shop for clothing items I know nothing about. Lucky guy!

We found a sport coat and pants, which better reflected the personality of the wearer. Debonaire, but not too serious, dressy, but nor uncharacteristic. And the tie, was a reflection of the love of his life as it should have been. Red with white, grey, and black circles in equal measure, making the lacy panties unnecessary.

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Its finally over. The waiting, that is. The rest. Well, the rest leaves much to be desired, Too many people, too much raw emotion, and too much animosity to subdue, and too many wasted days stripped from my fingers . My head may explode before this is over, but that wouldn’t be the first time.

Categories dead pan, Those People

Full Up

March 1, 2009 //

In times of need, it is prudent to accept needed assistance without condition. Placing stipulations of personal preference, when someone offers you the unsolicited benefit of their time or influence is high maintenance and self-centered.

There is also help that costs too much, inflating the value of time, and shattering eardrums, with the inundation of glory days and the unwritten requirement of entertaining and providing a measurable amount of grief to casual onlookers.

It’s official. I’m ungrateful. Feel free to chide me for my lack of decorum, but don’t be surprised by the absence of guilt on my part.

I’m sick of staying with my husbands pre-marital outlaws. In the interest of being fair, they have been excellent hosts. They have fed, watered, and offered transportation, but I am sick of listening to the same tired stories about how smart they are, and how stupid the rest of the world is. I don’t give a good god damn if I ever hear another word from their mouths about my husband’s ex-wife or ex-inlaws. His kids don’t discuss them as much as this couple does, and the. I don’t need anymore non-recipricating relationships in my life.Thanks, but I’m all full-up.

I’ve made it clear to my spouse, I don’t hold him responsible for his friend’s conduct, but I don’t think I should be expected to be present for these performances. They have no interest in me as a person, only a captive audience in their self-narrated sitcom, and I won’t be an unconditional listener.

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We returning home until my FIL begins deteriorating more quickly, or until, well, you know, happens. My pets deserve to be coddled. I need to be reminded of what my bed feels like, and maybe, just maybe I’ll be home long enough for a decent hike.

When necessity dictates the return visit, I will be staying elsewhere, even if it means curling up on the floor in the fetal position (of course, it won’t actually come to that.). My husband can handle the situation with his outlaws as he sees fit, provided he doesn’t stuff my mouth with sentiments I would not articulate.

I offered to handle the matter myself, but I suspect he fears my directness will reflect poorly upon him. My husband has many strengths, but worrying about the manner in which others perceive him isn’t one of them.

What does it really matter what someone else thinks, when they can’t be bothered with listening to all the details in the first place?

Categories cow tipping, Those People