They are rusty brown, stiff, not scratchy, and entirely too long. There’s a loop stitched on the left leg for a hammer and some weird-ass pockets behind the right knee for god knows what. Not exactly CFM pants, but I didn’t buy them for that. I wanted functional wear I could splash with paint, bleach or gouge with a box cutter without fear of ruin. With these, the more decrepit the better. It’s not like I wear them for date night, or to pick up men at the hardware store.

They are for scraping, sanding, priming, painting, plumbing, pressure washing, and eating chinese food. So these pants, well, they haven’t won me any brownie points with my Better Half (or just Other Half, depending upon the moment). Meh. Sexuality and functionality aren’t exactly codependent.

Unplanned repairs required renting a truck at the home improvement store. Someone, who shall remain nameless, has reservations about strapping 16 foot pressure treated timbers to the roof of his precious SUV, but maybe they aren’t completely unfounded…Oh, yeah I remember almost being sucked out of the sunroof when we tied a queen sized mattress to the top. MMMM my bad. The Better Half and the Home Improvement store guy start loading our lumber on the truck. This isn’t one of those standard pick-ups you see good old boys pulling into diners. This is a truck on steroids with a wiener shrinking eight foot cargo bed. I know. What were those yahoos thinking. And the clincher? The bed is only certified to haul 3000 lbs. ‘Scuse me, why did you spend extra money on the engine only to restrict hauling capacity for cargo, who are you a a bank?

As they loaded the lumber, I stood off to the side in my rusty brown non-lycra work pants. That is until the Better Half decided I would be of more use in the truck bed stacking boards. Sure…The bumper and tailgate were taller than factory equipment. The bed was not standard equipment, but industrial grade after market reinforced steel. Great for stability, but sucky for catapulting short legs. I stepped onto the bumper effortlessly, but there was no way my spandex free pants would allow me to raise my leg over the tailgate.

Using my hands to walk along the truck bed, I pulled my body over the tailgate until my feet cleared and resumed shifting lumber to the amusement if my better half and the HI loader dude. All behaved as if nothing unusual occurred.

As we pulled out of the parking lot, the Better Half remarked, “I think I like those pants.”

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.

*********

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.

Since my FIL was stable, we returned home Monday evening to attend to personal matters, wash clothes, and check on Satan’s evil minions (the four-legged ones). I was searching the closet for appropriate attire if or perhaps when it becomes necessary to plant my FIL. I smiled as I recalled the last occasion I wore my black suit.

It shouldn’t come as a surprise that I lack awareness of all things fashionable. I favor functionality over stylishness. You can’t climb a kitchen cabinet in a dress or scale a fence, so I have little use for feminine attire. In the interest of pragmatism, I keep a black pant suit in the closet, just in case. Fortunately, in case means happy celebrations, as well as, necessary evils.

********

I last wore the suit to my mate’s aunt and uncle’s 50th wedding celebration. Fifty years. It’s difficult to comprehend spending half a century with the same person, especially since I haven’t been alive that long. Having donned business casual for the celebration of life, it is only appropriate the pendulum should be dictated by gravity to swing in the opposite direction.

After issuing congratulations to the aunt and uncle, we made an impromptu decision to visit my brother unannounced.

As we approached the door, my brother walked out, and said in an stiff tone, “Can I help you?”.

Not one to ignore a tense vibe, I presumed we came to visit at a bad time. I continued to approach with the intent of speaking and departing quickly. I said something to the effect of being in town, and thought I would say hello but since it seemed inconvenient, we would be leaving.

Upon recognizing my voice, my brother’s face relaxed and he smiled. “Ah, shit! I didn’t recognize you all dressed up. I can’t see as well when I wear my glasses. I thought you guys were Jehovah’s Witnesses. Come on in and visit.”

********

It feels weird selecting appropriate attire for a service that isn’t yet necessary. I don’t think the boy scouts were referring to funerals, when they coined the motto about the importance of preparedness. So much for being prepared. Wednesday AM we return to wait.