Resurrection: NOW!

I watched "The Loved One" recently. You might think it would be a rather insensitive film for someone who's grieving, but if that someone is in L.A. with an insight to "the business" that my tenure at the Hollywood Reporter gave me, it's a cathartic laughfest. Steve and I could put each other into fits of laughter by simply working "Mom's Big Tub" into the conversation. If you haven't seen it: See It! If only to get the title of this entry.

Things are plugging along. I'm starting to get quotes on all the work to be done on the place and on the costs of the move. I keep up on the comps' sales prices in Pasadena and the home prices in La Crosse. When I get a quote on the work or the move, I crunch the numbers against my estimate; then I get another quote and recrunch the numbers, and it always turns up the same: This is going to work, with lots of wiggle room left. I'm safe, at least financially. And it looks like the move is going to cost as much as the remodeling to be done on the house. I'll pack the house contents when it's time, but I'm paying someone to do the shlepping.

And I'm contemplating just what's worth shipping. I look at an object, from Furby to furniture, and ask myself two questions: 1) Do I want to take the time to pack this; and 2) Do I want to go through unpacking this at the other end and finding a place for it?

The second question seems to carry more weight than the first, though I'm not sure why. So far, I have a nice haul for Out of the Closet (the local AIDS thrift store chain) to pick up. There's an Ethan Allan corner shelf unit, a desk, a desk chair, a standing paper screen, an end table, even more books, quite a lot of framed artwork and hundreds of CDs and their storage cases.

Another thing I'm not attempting to move is Marcel, the pig-headed 14-year-old cat I inherited from Steve. He sheds worse than a cheap feather boa and he hasn't washed himself in over a year. He's also arthritic and totally deaf, so all he produces are long, loud banshee-like yowls: I communicate with my own sign language (a wave for "hello," flipping the back of a hand for "go away" or "stop"). He's also taken recently to regurgitating his food once he goes upstairs, and on several occasions he has crapped completely outside the litter box.

No one can touch him to do something so wicked as untangle the hair mats that cover his entire hindquarters: he bites hard, and for keeps. Don't attempt to touch his paws, much less trim his talon-like claws: he does not scratch, he rends flesh. He's never liked me and I've never liked him. Since Steve died and I've become sole provider, he's invoked a sort of grudging glasnost. I daily pet his head and brush his back and upper sides (the only regions I'm allowed to brush) and make sure he has food and water, a litter box and two very nice nests, but I have no trust or love for him at all.

I will try to get Pasadena Humane to take him, as they're a no-kill facility; failing that, it's euthanasia. When Steve and I contemplated retiring to Eureka, we both assumed Marcel would have departed long before we made the move. Still, I feel a little guilty not caring for his horrible cat until its last gasp of breath.

I was looking at my calendar today and realized that I have numerous things, both social and realty, listed this month. My insomnia is improving: some days I'm asleep by midnight, others I'm up until 3 or 4 a.m., but don't see the sunrise before going to bed anymore. And the mornings when I wake up in thick depression are fewer and fewer.

I'm coming out of this dark sad place and suddenly realizing I'm semi-retired and that's just fine! As a grieving widower, it's my duty to be in this horrible, lonely repressive place, but I've spent enough time there. I'm ready to be done. Just like I can start beginning (see entry for 05/25/14), this new life chapter, I can also finish ending the last one. The grief needs to be put to rest, the sadness embraced as another texture in my being alive.

Wow. I think I'm emerging from something, like an Addams Family chrysalis cliche.

The one last list that I'm making for the move is the stuff that I don't trust the movers with; stuff I want to take in the car with me. Currently on the list are Patty the cat (who will not harm you), the art glass (including my 80-pound phallic paperweight) and a gathering of the more precious Christmas ornaments. What route I will take or how long it will take to get there I haven't even begun to calculate.

Oh, and Steve's leftovers box will ride along with me, of course.

He always did like a road trip, especially when I drove .

Do You Want Vindaloo With That?

My emotions are going in so many directions right now I can hardly see straight.

You may or may not know that yesterday was Steve's birthday. I spent the day doing things that Steve would have bugged me to do: get a haircut, get the shopping done, restock cat food and supplies and get the hell out of the house for a change.

I did all these things and felt very good about it. Then, last night, I had a very disturbing nightmare; the first one I've had since Steve died (at least the first one I remember vividly). It had to do with theater and cats and Steve somehow coming back as a kitten and bonding with our cats, all happening in the house area of the theater. There seemed to be Serlingesque overtones to the reincarnation, but nothing upon which I could put my finger. Doesn't sound very scary, I know, but it was terrifying to go through it.

In the dream, Steve fell down a flight of stairs and died, and some folks thought I had pushed him. Part of the banister was lodged in my right side, which was somehow proof that I didn't, but I couldn't convince some people. Oh, my: get me to a therapist, stat. It was also the first time in months that I really sweated in my sleep, almost like I broke a fever, and perhaps that's not too far from wrong. And I'm wondering, did Steve have a hand in this? The whole experience was meaningful in some abstract, symbolic, spiritual way. Somehow, I feel progress has been made somewhere in my life or my soul. (We humans are such a superstitious lot.)

I had my first contractor coming over this morning around 10, a drywall guy recommended by Bob McBroom (Steve's ex and one of the few people to really be there for me all these months). He was a drywall guy, so it was a fairly quick tour of the house: Pull down the popcorn on the ceilings, finish off the tray ceiling in the kitchen, patch a couple cracks in the bedroom walls. (I just got his estimate by e-mail: $2750, including closet ceilings.) I guess I'm going to have to get used to strangers tramping in and out of the house for the next couple months.

Before Kevin (the drywall guy) showed up, I got a telemarketing call for Steve. I have a love-hate thing going on with telemarketers these days. They call and ask for Gary (none of his friends ever called him that) and I say, as coldly as possible, "Gary's dead." Then on of three things happen: 1) the caller expresses their regret at my loss and hangs up or; 2) they offer condolences and ask if I'm the new homeowner, then go into their pitch or; 3) they just hang up.

This guy, obviously calling from the dark subcontinent of India, started asking when he died, said he was a friend of Gary and this was a personal call. I started confronting him about the information he wanted and asked what the call was about. He asked my name and I said it was Mark. Then I asked his name and he said "Dwayne." Yeah, Dwayne the hindu. Dwayne the global telemarketer. Dwayne the bathtub, I'm dwowning. Dwayne the asshole (and is there a more universal human state than that?).

Usually I play a bit with these telemarketers, much like a cat playing with a cornered mouse, then hang up. This guy was obnoxious. This guy got me. I was fuming when I hung up the phone. I guess cruelty in any form or degree eventually comes back to bite you in the ass. And I realized our call had been just like a colonoscope: fiber optics with an asshole on each end.

Well, enough of that. Next comes painters, then comes flooring guys, then comes movers. Estimates and quotes and finally a budget, hopefully to take me through escrow, which I have an ugly feeling is going to hit just about in the dead of winter (not a problem here, but a definite factor on the Wisconsin end of things). Whatever happens happens. I just want to take it a day at a time and pray everything unfolds as it should.

As for my Days to Deal With, next up is our anniversary in August, then the anniversary of his death in October. Will the house be on the market by that time? I hope so. Once escrow closes and I'm flush once more, I'm sure I'll know what to do next. There are lots of steps between here and there, and I can only deal with them one at a time.

But things are good, considering. As the vanity license plate on the car I inherited from Steve says, "OK TODAY."

From Here to There and Back Again

Visiting on the Central Coast is so confusing. And wonderful. And a tiny bit sad.

I drove up to visit, among others, my sister Kittie and her husband David. I stay at the Motel 6 when I'm up there because it's cheapest and I'm not on vacation, so the surroundings while I sleep are not of too much concern to me. And it's cheap.

Arrangement of objects with no apparent function

It's only fair. Kittie and David have been coming down to Pasadena every other weekend since Steve died. At times, their arrival was the only thing that saved me from insanity, I'm sure. (Well, maybe just delirium). I have promised the first opportunity, I'd come up. They were having a stay-cation last week, so I visited from Sunday to Wednesday.

Even though I wasn't staying with them (the house is small!), I did spend the majority of my time with them. It's a neat place; an old "beach cottage" from the middle of the last century, from its looks. They have a corner double lot, which means a big back yard and lots of room in the garage and storage shed for David's STUFF. Some folks might look at it and say he was a hoarder, but this is not so: he spends too much time maintaining and organizing it, and he utilizes stuff when he needs it.

Back yard fountain

The back yard has fruit trees complemented by a lawn of native biomass (a nice way to say well-trimmed weeds), but with this drought gripping everyone, when those with a manicured lawn are paying through the nose to water it, just so it dies slower, their natural approach seems smart to me.

Inside and outside the house, there are things that catch your eye, almost like strolling through a museum of modern art. You have to suspend analysis, intellect and judgment and just encounter the pieces all around you.

From old tanks to temple bells

There are the wind chimes in the front yard fashioned out of old acetylene tanks that strike deep tones reminiscent of a large Japanese prayer bell. They interplay with the tenor tones of the wind chime on the back porch. Then there are things seemingly scattered that, upon closer examination, have been arranged in some eclectic abstraction.

The inside of the house is likewise stocked with an overflow of objects, but arranging the collections makes them valid as collections: there are no piles. The walls are covered with a wild assortment of artwork and the innumerable shelves hold groupings of a dozen different collections: dragons and shoes in every form (from small reproductions to the handles of canape knives), just to mention two.

A line drawing of a woman
done in pipe cleaners

Each and every thing has a story behind it, from the very first gift Dave gave Kittie (a monster pedestal candle) to the dozens and dozens of coffee mugs that hang on the walls (and ceiling!) of the kitchen. The longer I stayed, the more I saw, the more questions I asked. It was really fun.

So after checking into the Motel 6, I drove over to their house, and we ended up ordering Chinese and watching "Cosmos," which we are all following with dedication.

Monday morning Kittie and I went over to visit our nephew CJ and his wife Renee (who I had never met but have been following for several years on Facebook). Unable to join us, David had to go into work (on his vacation) to rebuild the forklift. (He works at a very large printing business). It was obvious he was not happy about this, but my suspicion is saying "no" was not an option just then.

Renee is a very pretty woman with three dogs. This has made it difficult for them to find a place to rent, but she put it out there on Craig's List and landed a roommate situation that seems to be working out nicely. The three dogs are a pit bull (and the sweetest dog ever), a German Shepherd (warm-hearted, with the biggest ears I've ever seen on a dog) and a little rat terrier/chihuahua mix that loves to wear sweaters.

CJ had to leave for work at 1 o'clock, so we got there early enough to visit a little and then have Uncle Mark take them out for breakfast (at a place called Huckleberry's). Good breakfast, great company. But like all visits, it was too short. We dropped Renee and CJ off back at their house, and then checked in on our potential afternoon visit with my longtime friends, Bob and Vena Norton.

Vena has had health problems and was getting adjusted to a peritoneal shunt that she had installed (replaces the need for dialysis but can be tricky to balance out). We called ahead to make sure Vena was in the mood for visitors, since Bob had said the previous night had been a little bumpy. Vena said, sure, come on over, and so we hopped into the car.

When we got there, Bob was almost on his way out the door, having numerous errands to run (it was obvious he was taking advantage of our visit to get them done). Vena looked a little on the tired side, and I could tell she was still adjusting to the shunt, but she was in great spirits.

We spent a long time catching up, since I hadn't seen her for almost five years. I had wanted Vena to officiate at our marriage, but with Prop 8 looming over us, there was no time to coordinate a full-on wedding ceremony. We had said that, when the Supreme Court rules, we would have a real wedding. Unfortunately, the ruling came just after Steve's terminal diagnosis. Sometimes timelines just don't work out.

Heading back home, we took a chance and stopped by the bakery in the village that makes the best chocolate eclairs ever. There was a parking space! They were still open! They had five eclairs left (and we only needed three)! I bought a couple monster macaroons to nibble on watching TV at the motel.

Kittie was talking about putting together a tomato-basil pasta dish at home, but I talked her out of it (it's her vacation, for goodness sake) and took them out for some really good Mexican food at Old Juan's in Oceano. Afterwards was hanging out and visiting (I think "The Big Bang Theory," Kittie's favorite program, was also part of the evening) and eating those wonderful eclairs. Around 10, I headed back to Motel 6. The macaroons were just awful.

Tuesday morning I headed out for another visit, this time with almost-as-longtime friend Lisa Woske. Lisa had sort of been adopted by my mother and Aunt Kit, and she's been a family fixture for years and years. She's also just a really sharp, no-nonsense person, and I always feel energized and grounded by my time with her. Does that make sense? No matter; she is very special to me: My precious. (Well, I had to get a "Lord of the Rings" reference in somewhere or the post title makes no sense!)

We got together at the Budget Cafe, which is a good brunch place, though not as "budget" as it once was, since it's prolonged popularity brought slowly climbing prices. Still, you get really good food, and that's what you're paying for, after all.

I dropped by Kittie and David's in the afternoon and, once again, David was working on the forklift. He popped in and out a couple of times, having to stop and shower and change for a 3 o'clock dental appointment, then returning, putting on the sweaty work clothes again and heading off to work. He was not a happy camper.

Kittie and I just relaxed in the back yard and visited, talked about their efforts to sell their property, along with development plans, to a spec contractor; pulling their equity out and getting a multiple unit building for income in eventual retirement; my plans for selling my house and the process of getting it into shape to show.

Tuesday evening Kittie finally got to do the tomato-basil pasta (which simmered most of the afternoon). It was really-really good; perhaps a tad too much olive oil, but still delicious. Around 10, I said my farewells, as they were going to San Luis Obispo the next morning, spending a day as tourists and staying the night at the Garden Street Inn bed and breakfast. I was heading out by 11 a.m. to beat the rush hour back in L.A.

The drive back on Wednesday was not daunting at all other than being fast (75mph) and crowded. The cats were glad to have me back. I was glad to be back. I nuked a frozen dinner and flaked out. Thursday I slept late, recovering from the stress of re-entering the this-is-not-a-war zone we call L.A. Today I've been reassessing all my lists and plans in light of Realtor Jan's comments and suggestions.

Now I'm looking at everything and asking two things: "Do I want to ship this to Wisconsin?" If the answer is "no," it gets donated. If the answer is "yes," then I ask "Can I pack this away and still live in the house comfortably?" A "yes" answer means I have to start packing for the move.

Box Store, here I come again!

Disassembly Required

I have a Realtor now. Jan Thornton, who has been sending promotional notepads several times a year (how we got on her list, I have no idea). I have been using them for my web design, as they are just the right size upon which to put lists of code snippets, image lists, hexidecimal color values, etc.

She's a seasoned professional, and I felt immediately at home with her. She had done all her homework (even pulling the court filing for the probate petition) and brought an excellently presented packet with all the realty information I could want about my place, comps in the area, sales trends, etc. We spent about an hour and a half touring the house, her sharp eye pointing out positives and negatives about the place and suggesting things to improve the value of the property.

One of the things that impressed me most about her was she asked about Steve, how he died, and even asked if I thought that a prolonged death was better than an unexpected one (a friend of hers lost her husband when he was hit by a car just walking down the street one morning). People are so hesitant to speak about death, but she knew this was the reason I was selling. She left me with the info packet and several numbers of painters and contractors she uses regularly.

One of the things she was stressing was remove just about everything from the house. I had planned on taking out extraneous pieces of furniture, but she was saying take down everything on the walls except a very few generic pieces. She explained that house hunters have a habit of looking at the things in a home, and this distracts them from looking at the space itself. She really made a lot of sense.

When we arranged the appointment, I told her that the place was messy because I was decluttering, and to expect nothing immaculate (I'm in the final stages of getting Steve's things donated or trashed). But after hearing her talk, I realize that I have to go through the whole process again, clearing out things I want to keep (my precious stuff!) in order to prep the place for open houses, etc.

Actually, it does make sense to move all the stuff out before the painters and contractors descend to do their work. But after all the emotional turmoil of culling through Steve's stuff, now I have to box up what little is left of him that I decided to keep. With a sinking feeling, I realized I was stripping down our only home, painting it up like a whore and putting it on the auction block. I sense another emotional wall approaching: the sale and release of this special place may be more difficult than I thought.

So next week the contractors will start coming by, checking work to be done and providing quotes. One of the first things she said was, "You need to get rid of the popcorn ceilings, some people don't mind them, but lots of people hate them and will write off your place, no matter how great it looks." I said I thought that was a lot of work and would be expensive. "Oh, no," she said, brushing my concern away with her hand. "They just put everything in the middle of the room and clean them off before they start painting; no problem."

I was most pleased to find that the comps for similar properties were at or above what I was expecting to list this place for. Also, she said there are only about half the normal number of condos on the market in Pasadena right now, which makes it a strong seller's market, and prices are supposed to rise by 7.5% this year, so we may list the place well above what I thought my asking price was.

So I'm taking a few days off to visit the Central Coast, but I'll be back in time to collect the information Jan's compiling for the improvements. June, we hope, will see the beginning of this process. Once I have an idea of the cost of improvements, I'll stop by the bank and pull the needed cash from my personal line of credit, which will then become an part of escrow when the place sells.

My goodness gracious; it's just one adventure after another these days.

How to Start Beginning

Many years ago, right after high school, in fact, I worked as a paraprofessional at the local mental health clinic in San Luis Obispo. My dad had worked there, but the family moved when he took a job in Alaska, so stayed behind, being gainfully employed.

One of my duties was to sit in on group therapy with members of the Day Treatment program (people with chronic mental illness who are able to function outside an institutional setting). Having to sit in therapy with seriously ill people not only brings elucidation of one's own sanity (and insanity), but also provides genuine human insights.

One day the group therapist was dealing with emotional outbursts about depression and suicidal thoughts. A verbal conflict had broken out between several of the group members, and the therapist shouted, "SHUT UP!" Everyone stopped. He cocked his ear. "What do you hear?" Everyone strained against the quiet. "Nothing," was the general reply. "There's a bird outside the window, singing." Everyone smiled as they acknowledged the masterful mocking bird in the bush as beautiful, nodded, "Oh, yeah." There was a sudden serenity in the room at the connection. "That bird's been singing since we walked into this room; never stopped." People are so ready to grapple with the horrors of life that they often screen out the beauty sitting right in front of them.

That was a good lesson in making choices for me.

Another session, not nearly so dramatic, dealt with something vital: beginning. A group member was talking about how she tried to do things (it was a eclectic list of fairly simple life tasks). "I try and try and try, but I keep failing," she sobbed. "It's such a vicious circle." The therapist replied, "Don't try. When you try, you set up a situation where you win or lose. Simply begin. Without trying, just begin. And if you only do what you want for two minutes, you haven't tried and failed, you have begun. The next time you begin, you can focus on the doing, and not the winning or losing." That one rang a bell for me, even back then. "We are beginning things every day. And as we begin, we become."

Self-actualization was big back in the '70s.

I'm having a problem with beginning these days. In the past months I've gotten really good at being overwhelmed, depressed mourning Steve's death and dealing with the paperwork that ensued. We're reaching the end of that now, and although I'm still grieving, I've got to put some time, energy and thought into beginning. I've created a detailed four-page to-do list (plus a PERT flowchart) of what needs to happen to get the house on the market; that was a genuine begin. I could have done it two weeks ago, rather than putting obstacles in my own way and halfheartedly failing to surmount them. But rather than beat myself over this wheel-spinning, I take this Memorial Day weekend to begin, over and over and over again. Trying feels nothing like beginning.

NEWS FLASH! Just now, for the first time, I realize the real fear here: if I sell the house we lived in together, if I move from the city we called home, if I start anew in a new town, I'll somehow dishonor and forget about Steve; he'll end up like the memory of an old college roommate. So I sit in the house and declutter and clean rather abstractly and avoid driving or going outside. The house is a widower's Womb/Tomb/Cocoon for me. This is all I have left of our life, our marriage, our joy, our love, and I know in my heart I've got to leave it all if I'm to survive.

I now see why widow(er)s keep the cremains and a nice picture of the Loved One: it's a compact and portable way to make sure you remember them without letting the fact of them overshadow your remaining years.

Steve had a great sense of humor. We laughed, even to the end, over the things he'd say. We had mostly good times and many priceless moments. All that drained from my life when he died. I know, deep down in my soul, that I can't have that kind of joy and enjoyment in my life without bidding goodbye to this house, this place where it all ended last year.

Tired of Looking Back

A year ago Steve was beginning his first round of chemotherapy treatments. He said there were no side effects, but I think he was hiding them from me. Even while he was declining and dying, he didn't want to burden me with his illness. His birthday is coming up (June 9), and I'm not sure how I'm going to handle that, emotionally. The real kicker will be when our wedding anniversary rolls around in August.

You know, I'm really sick of thinking about what happened a year ago or six months ago. I'm sick of being depressed and then realizing the day marks come morbid milestone in Steve's demise. It's very difficult, to say nothing of confusing, to be mourning Steve and our life together while I'm also trying to build something significant for myself on the other end of this process.

Everything I do with the house seems to be temporary. I know there's a long list of stuff that has to get done before I can get a good price for the place: spruce up the kitchen, update the baths, paint, new lighting fixtures, new carpet upstairs. I will know more when a Realtor comes through and talks about it to me.

Kittie and Dave came down last weekend and helped finish up the office reorganization. While Kittie and I were busy with that, Dave absconded with the upstairs (good) vacuum and gave the downstairs floors a thorough going over. The upshot: I now have my work station set up at the large desk now, and I think the extra elbow room, cubby holes and storage space will help keep me more organized than I have been. And that weekend was the first time the house has been clean from top to bottom.

Some really good news: Social Security finally came through with the spouse's survivor benefits, and I got a big fat deposit of payments going back to the month Steve died. On top of that, there was a sizable refund check from one of the medical providers. Feeling flush for the first time in months, I of course began writing checks for medical bills, HOA fees, and personal loans, leaving enough for the next couple months until income streams flow a little more predictably.

Also, the deed transfer came through in the probate courts, so the house is now legally mine to sell. I haven't gotten the final paperwork in the mail, but my lawyer e-mailed a copy to me just so I'd know that closure is imminent.

I'm still in my diurnal variations, staying awake until 4 or 5 o'clock in the morning and sleeping until noon. I was feeling very bummed out about this, but then realized that it has minimal impact on my life. I simply schedule my appointments in the afternoons. Also, with the heat wave we've been experiencing, it's not really comfortable outside until 9 or 10 at night. By sleeping during the day, I cut down the time I have to run the air conditioning to only three hours a day.

Today is not so bad: the last three days have been 102 in the shade with no breezes as all. The humidity is 5% to 7%, which is why we're having all these wildfires. And in the areas where they're burning, they do have high winds, and the flames can pour down (and up) a hillside with the speed of flowing water.

Along with massive wildfires comes the unhealthful air quality. Even this far away from San Diego, the smoke gets caught by the upper-level winds and carried over the entire southern section of the state: You can smell it in the air, feel it crusting over sinus membranes, parching your airways with the mere task of breathing.

There is a moderate cool-down coming at the beginning of next week, so hopefully that will be some relief, but that will only be followed by another hot spell. This kind of weather usually waits until late June or early July to really hit. Then the heat stays around until November. That works out to seven months of summer, seven months of living in air-conditioned boxes, cars and cubicles.

Also, last week I got a call from a company that wants to hire a graphic designer to develop a monthly newsletter (and a possible brand identity redesign). The interview went really well, and I think there's a possibility that this will be a lucrative and consistent income source.

That's about it. I'm hoping this is the first weekend I can actually clean the whole house in one day and without stumbling over Steve remnants about which I then have to make decisions. There is still a good half dozen boxes that need to be wrapped up for donation. I have to make a list of the stuff, since I'll be taking it off my taxes for this year. Last year, donations were over $1700.

I realize that I am now using this blog entry as an excuse not to go downstairs and dust. I groan at the chores aspect of the activity, but look forward to the piquant smell of the wood furniture polish.

Mmmmmmm. Lemony.

The Pasty Heart

This first part was written on Saturday, April 26

The last week or so has been down and dismal for me. My borderline agoraphobia is trying everything it can to assert itself, showing up with its psychic disruptor buddy, insomnia.

Now, I haven't had severe insomnia since back in my twenties. My dad used to refer to it as my "diurnal variation." Basically, I'm getting to bed between 4 and 7 a.m. in the morning, sleeping until noon or 1 p.m., then getting up and feeling shitty about being incapable of getting back into a routine that matches that of the outside world. If I had things that I had to get done, I might be bouncing back faster, but the only thing of note for this month seems to be six months since Steve died.

Fancy highball glasses do dye double duty.

Kittie and David came down for the Easter weekend, which was a nice surprise (like they haven't been coming down every other weekend for months). Kittie had made it through tax season and put together a holiday care package, including our Easter dinner, which we had on Saturday, since they had to leave in the mid-afternoon on Sunday.

On Saturday we got a start on cleaning up the office, which has become a tangle of piles of paper and corners festooned with cat hair clumps the vacuum did not retrieve on its last pass in the room. We got it to the point where the cupboard was nearly cleaned out. But like so many times before, clearing out stuff from anywhere ends up with me feeling exhausted from the emotional portion of the experience, and with stuff getting moved from one room to another, still without a real new home.

Overview of the festive fabrications.

After an hour or so working in the office, Kittie and I went downstairs and set up the Easter egg dyes. Once we were finished with our ova fabulosi, Kittie turned to putting dinner together. She had brought a spiral-sliced had and a box of au gratin potatoes. I provided the frozen peas.

We had a lovely meal. Afterwards I brought my desiccated Peeps down from on top of the refrigerator, we hauled out the candy and baskets, and Kittie put two Easter baskets together: one for them and one for me. Needless to say, there was a lot of sugar consumed in the week following (which exacerbated the the insomnia and agoraphobia, no doubt).

Pretty nifty for Satan's testicles

So this weekend, I continue on the office, sorting, tossing, cleaning, organizing. Slowly, the things in the piles are finding homes and the trash bags and donation boxes are filling up. There is a kind of catharsis in seeing a new organization appear in the office. I'm really looking forward to being able to invite clients over without making apologies for the mess and the cat hair.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

This part is being written on the date indicated above

Clearing out stuff is a lot more complicated than I'd thought, especially with the surprise piles of papers that Steve left. Every time I clear out a cupboard or organize a pile, I come across more papers from early in the century or late last century that need to be shredded, an activity which can take several hours, depending on the number of staples to be removed.

And here it is, early May, and it's in the upper 90s and lower 100s here in Pasadena. I always get depressed when it's hot outside, so that hasn't helped my demeanor or insomnia.

I've decided that the mountain of paperwork that has been generated by Steve's death is going to get its own box; it's the only way I'll be able to clean the office up and get back my surfaces. What with the VA, sundry medical bills, IRA conversions, taxes, mortgage, line of credit, property deed, bills and half a dozen other things I'm not remembering at this point, every surface on both desks is stacked with piles of records.

Once the desks are fairly clean, the office will have progressed to the point where I am ready to pull all the wires and plugs from underneath the desks, remove Steve's computer and move mine to the larger desk (which is the one Steve had when I moved in). This is going to be a more daunting task than it sounds. 

As each layer of technology has been added, so has a tangle of wires, which tangles with the tangle of wires from the previous upgrade, which tangles with the tangle of wires that was here originally. So I move in with an extra computer (another layer) and we add a wireless router to the modem (another layer). We convert to cable Internet service (another layer); add peripherals (printer/scanner, phone/answering machine, cable TV split, fax phone lines, back-up drives): it's my own little techno-Gordian knot.

You may wonder why I'm so fixated on getting the office in order, but it has to do with my theory of hairball flow. I've been so frustrated being unable to keep the downstairs clean for more than a day or so, and realized the cat hair was floating down from the source (Marcel), and until I got his chair and the office in general clean, organized and under control, I wouldn't be rid of the hairballs.

So once the upstairs is organized and clean, the dilemma of hairballs on the bamboo floors downstairs should be mitigated. I worry about this from an aesthetic point, since I'm going to have to keep the place looking presentable once it's listed.

I have to keep reminding myself that I'm halfway across this sea of shit that is the first year after a spouse's death. At times, I sense glimmers of normalcy and happiness through this mourning process, so I'm hoping things become downhill-easy from here on out. But I'm not counting on it.