Driving up the mountain last night the sky was the color of blood orange, a strange combination of a low clouds and lights surrounding the concrete plant along the river front. Eerie, seductive and an omen for impending rain. This morning the clouds (fog?) was so thick I couldn’t see my neighbor’s house across the street. Visibility maybe a hundred feet.

I don’t like not being able to see what’s ahead.

So there is this relationship of the Better Half’s, a premarital relationship. I was brought in by proxy of my marriage, but I don’t regard it as any more significant than a polite acquaintanceship on my part. After a decade,I know them like one would know friends, but I don’t trust them as I trust my friends. There is a smearing, pettiness and provocation I do not wish to be associated with. The she of the pair is a skilled manipulator, not someone to trust. Ever.

I’ve continued this passive acquaintanceship for the benefit of my spouse. It was easier to be tolerant, when they (mostly she) remained non-confrontational. Things have shifted.

I’ve only been around them on three times in the last six months, and each time the female attempted to provoke me in a social setting. A viewing. A funeral. And a wedding. Last straw.

After the wedding incident, I told the Better Half he should continue his relationship as he saw fit, but my participation was over. I would not voluntarily subject myself to an antagonistic relationship. I offered to call and end it, but he promised he would handle it.

He didn’t. Avoidance. I can’t say I blame him. She will twist every detail into a knot and feign ignorance at every turn, as she will likely discuss it with his kids and his ex. Lose lose. I refuse to be held in a relationship when extortion is the only binding agent.

Now, she is calling. I refuse to answer the phone. As does he. She will not take a hint and give up, so I am left to wonder how this will end.

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.

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.

***********

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.

***********

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.

***********

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.

***********

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?

**********

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.

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.

*******
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.

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.

********

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?