Wednesday, August 27, 2014

Mark Doesn't Live Here Anymore

I realize I haven't posted anything since the cat was discovered cowering in the garage. Well, it took a day or two to realize how glad I was to have her back. Being alone, she is often my only companionship for days at a time. Friends (especially married friends) tend to forget about the widows and widowers among them, and fall away socially after a time (who wants to be reminded of death and its emotional aftermath), and I was precluded from attending the one event to which I was invited in months due to the idiots who put in the stairs. ("GET OUT OF MY HOUSE," Wednesday, July 2, 2014 entry.)

No one is willing to come over for even a few hours to help out with things like moving furniture and other two-man chores; they're just too too busy. Everyone, of course, wants to get together for dinner before I leave town, once the tribulations are over. Many of these "friends" were in AA with Steve, and I am shocked at the insincerity and lack of caring that's come from these people. To them I'm not a fellow human, I'm a leftover "normie" spouse, and a theological third wheel.

I was crazy to think a bunch of recovering drunks would extend their compassion to me. Now, if I were an alcoholic or a heroin addict or a meth head who went to three meetings a week, there'd be compassion to spare. I guess if I don't share in their suffering, then they feel no need to share in mine.

By the way, the workers never cleaned the wood glue off of the stairs or the bathroom floor, and I can't get any reply from them, via phone or e-mail, on what solvent to use to clean them myself. The company is called ST Builders Group. Never never never never never hire them to do anything.

The job here was done satisfactorily, but only because I kept making them come back and do it right. Had I not complained, they would have left the shoddy work undone. And the most unsettling thing is they have a great rating and online reviews. I suppose if I were spending an extra $50- or $100,000 on the project, they would have paid a little more attention.

So anybody know how to get dried wood glue off floors? I Googled it and wet hot towels are the most consistent answer I found, but I'm hoping someone knows about a great product that will do it without all the hassle of microwaving wet rags and scraping slowly by hand to get the crap up off the otherwise attractive flooring.

Kittie and David visited the weekend of the 16th, and most of the undone work was picked up. Dave installed the bedroom light fixture (now all are done) and, with a little help from me, we put in a slate floor at the foot of the garage stairs (he cut, glued and placed; I sealed and grouted), so now it matches the entryway floor. The only DIY remodel left is painting the banisters and balustrade white and touching up the paint in the office.

Also, the screens need to be replaced. The old ones never really fit well, and the workers did a great job of destroying them even further when they were here. Then windows cleaned outside (I'm hiring a service for this, since I don't fancy balancing on a 14-foot ladder with a bottle of Windex.)

Happening in parallel with this is packing all non-essential items and gleaning even more donations from the closets. Things are actually starting to pay off, as the bedroom is now clear, the two bathrooms are clear, all ready to be restocked (with the bare essentials only) and staged.

Yesterday I went around to all the drawers and decorative storage boxes and emptied all contents into several cardboard boxes. Today I plan to sort through all that crap, which will leave little else to sort through. Most of what's left in the upstairs closets are big-ticket donations already in the box. The last big packing area is the kitchen: anything I haven't touched in the last six months is being packed or donated (fancy glassware, the crock pot, etc.).

So I'm seeing the end of the tunnel. Once all my stuff is packed and to storage and donations have been picked up, then I can clean the garage and the cleaning women can come and do their magic and make the house sparkle.

This past year has been filled with unpleasant anniversaries: March, Steve's diagnosis; June, his birthday; August, our wedding anniversary. Next month will bring the date of his fall (which was really the day some kind soul should have shot him and put him out of his misery, as he never saw home again); and, in October, the anniversary of his death. These last two—by far the most unpleasant—will fall just about the time I relinquish this house to the open market and the machinations of Realtors.

I plan to take the wedding ring off my finger on the anniversary of his death, put it away in the box in which it arrived or perhaps wear it around my neck. But, at some point, I have to admit that I'm no longer married. All the reasons for my being in L.A. and Pasadena are no more (Steve being the major force keeping me here).

I follow this grand plan of mine in a sort of semi-daze. I'm not engaged with the world around me beyond existence and sharing the same municipal and business facilities of the community. But my heart is wandering. My head has made these big decisions and plans directed toward a new life, but my heart won't be warmed again until I have a new home, new friends and a new community.

So, off to the boxes of junk and a fresh garbage bag: it's amazing what we hold onto.

I shall fill the dumpster this week.

Saturday, August 9, 2014

The Prodigal Returns

After round two at the food bowl
Yesterday was our wedding anniversary. For three days, I had left the front door open just in case Patty the cat decided to (or found a way to) return home.

I prayed to Steve to go find her and guide her home. I left cat food on the doorstep, just in case. Once I posted the last entry here, I got e-mails and phone calls, everyone with suggestions, condolences, hopeful words of encouragement.

But yesterday, I told myself that if she did not return that evening, I would stop leaving the door open. That's when I prayed to Steve to help her. It could be his anniversary present to me. Then midnight came and went, I closed the door and accepted the inevitable.

I had dreams of Patty, over and over, last night. I awoke feeling like I never wanted to stand up again. But the conscious (and conscientious) part of me kicked in, and I got up to greet the day. After my morning routine (such as it is), I went to the garage to go do some shopping. I pushed the garage door opener, and the assembly let out its great moan and chunk. At just that moment, I saw a tricolored tail dart from under the car into the storage cubby under the stairs.

Could be Patty, could be a stray. I had been down here three times already, calling her name.

"Patty." I made it singsong and happy sounding. No response. I repeated it, and after a beat, a desperate yowl replied from behind the file drawers. I cleared out enough of the stored stuff to get a look behind the drawers, and sure enough, there was one freaked out Pitty Pat. I kept calling to her, but she was doing her Tippi Hedrin zombie freak from "The Birds."

So I went upstairs (making sure to prop the door to the garage open) and got her a bowl of canned food and put it on the stairs leading up to house. I expected her to smell it and dash to eat, but that wasn't the case. So I got the bowl and put it up where it normally goes. I sat down and turned on the TV, a sound she knows.

Sure enough, ten minutes later she was sticking her head around the corner, then dashing upstairs to hide. I went down and closed the door to the garage, then came back up and called to her, which got a yowl of desperation once again. (These would continue for the next hour or so.) After about five minutes, she came back downstairs, made an olfactory inventory of the area, then hopped up onto the couch next to me, as she was ready for a reunion.

That's about it. She's been back to the food and water for a third time, cleaning after each snack. I need to get back to packing, but I don't want to freak her out with it. We'll see how it all comes down.

I have reflected upon this experience, and I think it's God's way of telling me I have to get out more: If I was in the habit of a daily drive for errands and such, I might have found her a day or two earlier.

In any case, my roommate and companion is back in the living quarters once more and things don't feel so terribly empty.

And I didn't waste good money on the Pet Tube.

Wednesday, August 6, 2014

Come Back, Little Shithead

Patty the cat has disappeared. It happened sometime yesterday when the finishing guy was here doing the final fixes and touch ups for the remodel. The last day that people would be invading the house and taking over large parts of it.

Normally, when workers arrived, she would head upstairs and hide in a closet or behind furniture. In the last week or so, I would see her first thing in the morning, then she would disappear during the day and finally show up on the stairs around 6 p.m.

Last night, she didn't come down. This morning, she was nowhere to be found. The only thing I can think of is the fix-it guy (who had his gear set up in the entry) had the front door open, Patty wandered down, got spooked by something and bolted out the door.

We had made it through. When I made the final payment on the remodel job last night, I was so relieved that these people wouldn't be coming back. And on the last day of the insanity, Patty makes the decision (whether ruminated or instinctive) to take off. She had no idea this was the day we got our house back.

At present, the front door is open wide enough to accommodate the entry of a returning cat. I've made up posters and put them up in the immediate area, but I'm not holding out a lot of hope. Patty is terrified of strangers, and hiding and fleeing are her only real defenses. She has no knowledge of streets and cars, or dogs or other cats, for that matter.

I am devastated. She was the one source of concern and affection I had available on a daily basis. After having Marcel put to sleep, it was pretty much she and I. Now I am quite literally left alone in my house.

It seems to me like God has been taking things from me: my career, my husband, my home, and now my only remaining companion. Now I am going this totally alone. The house is now empty, and my only work left is emptying it more, making it look less like the home I've shared for nearly a decade.

The door will remain open, even in the evenings, until I go to sleep. I trust that the security gate will keep out the worst of intruders, and I can only imagine how Patty would feel if she recognized the door but couldn't get in. It's really the only hope I have left, and it doesn't feel too promising.

So I will motivate myself to do more packing, keep myself busy and hope for the best. I imagine the moment when I will hear her meow again as she trots through the door. But I have a sinking feeling that I won't be needing the Pet Tube for the drive to Wisconsin.

I keep dreading the thought that, having gotten worse, things aren't going to get better; that there will be another set of losses for me before I get the house sold and move on with my life. It's not a happy feeling by far, and is yet more fecal matter through which I must wade on the way to the rest of my life.

And in two days is the sixth anniversary of Steve's and my wedding. That will be another fun day to get through.

Sunday, August 3, 2014

Don't Push the River

Fritz Perls had a saying: Don't push the river, it flows by itself. I'm taking his advice.

When the remodel adventure began back on June 18, contractor Roni promised the job would be completed by July 14; "Maybe even before Fourth of July," he had said, but I knew that was probably unrealistic. And it was.

Here it is, Aug. 3, and the painters are still touching up work they've done. There are just a handful of things left to do, and it seems like it's taking forever to get them finished. Roni is quickly failing his goal of me referring everyone to him because he's so good at what he does and I was so happy with the remodel experience.

The problem. Miguel has remedied it.
It's Sunday and Carmen and Miguel are here, doing the final paint fixes. They were upset because when I called Ronnie on Thursday to explain that Miguel had plastered the pendant light's faceplate into the kitchen ceiling, making it impossible to get the screws out. I requested that either he or Sam be here to explain to Miguel what he needed to do.

Roni never called me back. Instead, he called their boss (his subcontractor) who then called Carmen and yelled at her because I was upset (according to her, she hung up on him when he started spewing the F word). In any case, they thought I was angry with them when my real irritation is the lack or organization and management of the job.

In all this, I am coming to the conclusion that Miguel, while a sterling fellow, is not terribly bright; that fact, combined with the breakdown in bilingual communications, has caused the major headaches and goofs on this job. Once he understands the situation and what is being requested, he goes out of his way to do the right things and do them well.

These are the folks who have been working their butts off on this job. They are pressuring me to come in on weekend days to do the extra work to get the job done. It's all flowing in its own time, and freaking about about it won't change the situation.

I just want to get the job done. It's very disruptive to everything I have to accomplish (which in itself is also inherently disruptive) in getting the house ready to show and my stuff ready for storage and moving. I simply have to have people stop coming through and taking over the house. I need time to
clean and pack items not included in the home staging, and still I run across things every now and then that set off emotional bombs for me. The process needs time and patience and privacy.

I really have to process my feelings about each item. It reminds me of the end of "Torch Song Trilogy," when Harvey Fierstein embraces an object from each of the people he loves/has loved. I imagine needing to do that with an item: does it feel weird or natural? Is this something that will comfort me in days to come, or is it simply more leftovers of Steve and my life with him that need to be left in the past?

Certainly I have to keep some things to remind me of Steve, but an item or two, things that bring a smile to my face even now. He should be happy enough that I'm dragging his cremains halfway across the continent with me; that's as much a reminder as anyone needs.

The days have been hot and muggy. A high-pressure dome sitting over the four-corners region circulates clockwise, pulling up lots of tropical storm remnants from the Gulf of Mexico and dumping all that moisture into the Southwest. It's been sprinkling off and on since about 11 o'clock last night, but the skies are starting to clear this afternoon. It by no means relieved the  current drought.

I've been training Patty (the cat) to go out with me and spend time on the patio. She appreciates the outside space (which has a 6-foot privacy fence around it), and has come to enjoy it. She goes out when I go out, and she comes back in when I do. That last part took a couple of tries to get understood, but now she's the first one to hop though the door when it's time to go inside, almost like a compliant dog. But this rain has thrown her for a loop.

We were on the patio last night when it started raining; barely sprinkling, just a couple drops on the ground. Patty was sitting near the door, waiting to go in when she jumped like she had been electrocuted: a raindrop had fallen on her. She looked around in alarm and jumped again as another made a direct hit on top of her head. All of a sudden, she's pawing at the door, yowling to get inside. I let her in, and she sat and watched me outside and the rain falling (of course, I was under the umbrella).

Saturday I drove down to Irvine to visit Jessie and see her new place. All I can say is it's all very Irvine. (For those of you who don't know, Irvine is a planned community south of Santa Ana in Orange County: think "The Stepford Wives" meets "Poltergeist".) Jessie's place is in a warren of apartment buildings (a single development) with serpentine access, both via car and on foot, to the hundreds of apartments designed like boxes that don't look like boxes.

Birthday cookies!
I'm being a little unfair now, but it's odd to see my best bohemian friend (BBF) in such button-down surroundings. At present she's feeling the pressure of everything being new and strange. Although she'll pull through the culture shock soon enough, I could tell she really appreciated a visit from a an old friend.

And she gave me a birthday present (well, a couple, actually). First was a framed photo of her and me at Andy's Diner. Second was two tubs filled with homemade cookies (enough to bathe in, I commented via text.) When I opened the tub, I took this picture and texted it to her. Her reply: "Blogtime!" So I have included it here to scoop her on this mundane publication of idiocy.

This longterm disruption of the home has really thrown my routine (such as it was) for a loop, and there are things that need to get done, calls that need to be made, and I don't have any real battle plan to get it all back to a cycle. So I'm reduced to picking up the loose ends as I see them dangle and hope that I don't forget anything—or anyone—important.