The weather has been ungodly hot since the weekend. Supposedly, the bakefest will subside during the middle of the week (that's tomorrow, when it's going to be 101 instead of 106 like today). The weatherman promises it will be in the upper-80s/low-90s on the weekend.
I went to the chiropractor on Wednesday last week and got my back examined and adjusted. The relief from the nerve pain was almost immediate, but my back was sore and tender and nowhere near better, even though I had better range of motion. Still, standing for any length of time resulted in aching muscles and the return of the nerve twinge.
The instructions were ice packs when desired, but at least three periods in the day (including night) when I lie down and completely relax my back for at least an hour. No lifting, no carrying, but when the back feels good, exercise it to discomfort (i.e., go out to dinner or go shopping or something else you don't even think about when you're feeling good).
The upshot is that here, a week later, I am standing up without worrying too much about clenching muscles. Sometimes they cramp up, but I just work through it or take five minutes out and sit down. I'm still very frustrated that I can't continue on the packing, but Kittie and David will be down this weekend to help.
Jessie drove up from Irvine on Saturday and we went out to Panda Inn for dinner. Unbeknownst to her, it was the anniversary of Steve falling on the sidewalk outside the house and breaking his shoulder and hip. It was the last time he saw our home.
It was tougher on me than I thought it would be. There were some tears shared before dinner, and I realized how strange and lonely my life had been over the last year. It's very hard to see all the changes going on when you're in the middle of something scary, strange and new.
Jessie helped out when she arrived, taking the trash out and cleaning the kitchen, since the trash had drawn flies over the last week and I couldn't even get it to the garage, much less tote it out to the dumpster. I was just sick about the flies (I had only seen a few; the cleaning activity really stirred them up, and there were at least a dozen). I started to cry, imagining taking my first steps toward being on "Hoarders."
When Jessie dropped me off after dinner, I sat down on the couch in the living room and looked over to the spot where Steve used to sit. A whole year without him there; a whole year to the minute, almost. And I started wondering if he didn't have a little something to do with this back problem here on the anniversary of his injury. Or perhaps it's all me having a hysterical conversion over the whole mess.
The work on the chamber of commerce directory is going well. I've got a rudimentary layout file going, a general graphic concept and ads are beginning to come in. It's nice to have a large and complex project to concentrate on. Kelly from the chamber office will be picking me up on Thursday morning so we can go over and coordinate the ad sales and production needs of the book.
Steve's accident's anniversary did get me thinking more about him, about not having him here, about selling our home and starting a new chapter in my life, quite separate from the past. I want to feel myself carrying him in my heart and my life, but I want to feel myself moving ahead at the same time.
I've stopped being angry at our "friends" not helping out. Perhaps I'm just not begging enough or my circumstances aren't dire enough to actuate their concern; whatever, I'm going to go with the resources I have and stop wasting energy and focus on those who aren't here rescuing me. How dare they have lives busier and fuller than my own. Just you wait! Once I'm established in La Crosse, I'm going to be a primal force of civic fabulous.
So I'm on the mend and simply frustrated by my inability to continue the packing. There are some small things I can probably clear out in the next couple days, but I have to be judicious about how I expend myself. Emotionally and spiritually, I'm good: I hit the mark when I grieve, and bounce back faster and feeling more confident each time. TCB.
I have another appointment with Dennis (my chiropractor) tomorrow afternoon, and I'm hoping that the back will limber up a little bit after the treatment. My fantasy is to be able to jump in with both feet this next weekend and make it to within sight of the finish line, houseshowingwise.
But, as I reminded Jessie, Fritz Perls, the father of Gestalt therapy, said, "Don't push the river; it flows by itself." He also said something about cataclysmic expectations, but I forget what and I can't find it on Wikipedia. Oh, well.
Tuesday, September 16, 2014
Sunday, September 7, 2014
Can I Have My Back Back?
The last couple days have been uncomfortable and totally unproductive. I hate that.
The sciatica (that is, the low back pain) got progressively worse until, on Thursday, I was hobbling from place to place in the house. I was lucky to get some food made and keep myself hydrated. In the evenings, the muscles would be sore and knotted and obviously pinching on the nerve. Owie.
Luckily, I have a couple of bottles of generic Tylenol with codeine left over from Steve's illness, so I was able to mitigate the pain, but any hope of packing or carrying boxes to the garage was gone. I was hobbling around, moving things from upstairs to downstairs, and I even got a box of framed artwork packed and labeled. But chronic pain wears me down really fast.
As with any back problem, bed rest is the main element of recovery, and for someone with insomnia, that's not easy. Lying down on the couch watching TV is not the same thing as lying flat on your back, giving the muscles hours of rest. And I can't help but think there is a psychosomatic component to this, a kind of hysterical reaction (if you're up on your Freud). But the point is moot: pain is pain and lack of progress is frustrating.
I found that by bending forward slightly at the waste and taking short steps, I could get from place to place in the house without setting off the twangs in the the nerves. It was a shocking realization to find myself moving just like a 90-year-old man. I had to laugh: I had turned myself into an old, dottering creature who could do nothing more than exist in pain in this house until he died. I reconsidered the psychodynamics of it all and spent time last night before sleep concentrating on the "injury" and relaxing the muscles. I think it did some good.
I woke up this morning and the pain on the right side had subsided to where I could walk comfortably on that leg. The left side is still sore, and any twisting movement sets off the pain, but it's not knotting up like before; as soon as the movement stops, the pain stops. Most certainly, I'm calling the chiropractor on Monday to get this dealt with.
There are other things to deal with, as well: this coming Saturday is the anniversary of Steve's fall in front of our house (the last day he was at home and the beginning of a very expensive end). A month to the day after that will be the anniversary of his death. I'm sure I will be going through a tumultuous passel of angst, emotional upheaval and upset. I only hope that the year's milestone will move me into a stabler place, and that I can put the mourning away.
I'm wondering what to do with my wedding ring. I don't want to wear it on my finger anymore. I was ready to take it off several months ago, but I thought wearing it for a full year would bring some kind of formality to the gesture. I still have the box it came in, so it might get stowed with other precious memorabilia. I might wear it around my neck, but that feels too much like hiding it, putting it into my emotional closet.
Then there's Steve's cremains. The actual container for the cremains is much smaller than the larger, formal box within which it resides. Perhaps I'll collect marriage stuff and make a sort of time capsule out of the bigger box, putting the corporeal remains of Steve and the marriage within and placing it somewhere unobtrusive in my new home.
So, as this is Sunday, I have decided to rest: no packing, no cleaning, just lots of napping, reflecting and relaxing. The weather has gotten very hot and very humid, so I'm splurging and running the air conditioner on automatic all day just like normal people do. I'm focusing on the image of waking up tomorrow morning with the soreness and stiffness simply gone.
Where have all the simple things in my life gone? I've got to pack them and make sure they reach my next destination.
The sciatica (that is, the low back pain) got progressively worse until, on Thursday, I was hobbling from place to place in the house. I was lucky to get some food made and keep myself hydrated. In the evenings, the muscles would be sore and knotted and obviously pinching on the nerve. Owie.
Luckily, I have a couple of bottles of generic Tylenol with codeine left over from Steve's illness, so I was able to mitigate the pain, but any hope of packing or carrying boxes to the garage was gone. I was hobbling around, moving things from upstairs to downstairs, and I even got a box of framed artwork packed and labeled. But chronic pain wears me down really fast.
As with any back problem, bed rest is the main element of recovery, and for someone with insomnia, that's not easy. Lying down on the couch watching TV is not the same thing as lying flat on your back, giving the muscles hours of rest. And I can't help but think there is a psychosomatic component to this, a kind of hysterical reaction (if you're up on your Freud). But the point is moot: pain is pain and lack of progress is frustrating.
I found that by bending forward slightly at the waste and taking short steps, I could get from place to place in the house without setting off the twangs in the the nerves. It was a shocking realization to find myself moving just like a 90-year-old man. I had to laugh: I had turned myself into an old, dottering creature who could do nothing more than exist in pain in this house until he died. I reconsidered the psychodynamics of it all and spent time last night before sleep concentrating on the "injury" and relaxing the muscles. I think it did some good.
I woke up this morning and the pain on the right side had subsided to where I could walk comfortably on that leg. The left side is still sore, and any twisting movement sets off the pain, but it's not knotting up like before; as soon as the movement stops, the pain stops. Most certainly, I'm calling the chiropractor on Monday to get this dealt with.
There are other things to deal with, as well: this coming Saturday is the anniversary of Steve's fall in front of our house (the last day he was at home and the beginning of a very expensive end). A month to the day after that will be the anniversary of his death. I'm sure I will be going through a tumultuous passel of angst, emotional upheaval and upset. I only hope that the year's milestone will move me into a stabler place, and that I can put the mourning away.
I'm wondering what to do with my wedding ring. I don't want to wear it on my finger anymore. I was ready to take it off several months ago, but I thought wearing it for a full year would bring some kind of formality to the gesture. I still have the box it came in, so it might get stowed with other precious memorabilia. I might wear it around my neck, but that feels too much like hiding it, putting it into my emotional closet.
Then there's Steve's cremains. The actual container for the cremains is much smaller than the larger, formal box within which it resides. Perhaps I'll collect marriage stuff and make a sort of time capsule out of the bigger box, putting the corporeal remains of Steve and the marriage within and placing it somewhere unobtrusive in my new home.
So, as this is Sunday, I have decided to rest: no packing, no cleaning, just lots of napping, reflecting and relaxing. The weather has gotten very hot and very humid, so I'm splurging and running the air conditioner on automatic all day just like normal people do. I'm focusing on the image of waking up tomorrow morning with the soreness and stiffness simply gone.
Where have all the simple things in my life gone? I've got to pack them and make sure they reach my next destination.
Tuesday, September 2, 2014
The Mortification of Unclean Stairs
Stares/Stairs; get it? (OK, so I'm running out of clever headlines.)
It's been hot and humid (in the 90s with nights in the upper 60s), and I'm only running the air conditioner when absolutely necessary. Finances have been carefully planned out, and I've budgeted for the $270 electric bills (about what two months in the summer costs running the A/C full time), but if I can save that, so much the better. Besides, the six weeks of remodel with no A/C at all toughened me. But I still fume when sweat drops fall onto the lenses of my glasses.
The Labor Day weekend was just more sorting and packing for me. And things aren't going as fast as I'd like due to a flareup of my sciatica. It started bothering me significantly in March, when I was constantly being squeezed onto airplanes, sleeping in a different bed every few days, and spending nearly a week bouncing and rocking on the train.
I start out stiff in the morning. The physical sensation is somewhere between sore muscles and a charlie horse, with the discomfort/pain being bilateral. Only when it gets really bad do I have any pains transferring to the legs (which is typical). An ibuprofen and working it out are the only really effective methods of dealing with it. It's my first real old-person's malady, and I accept it with the same dignity as I did my graying hair.
The upshot is that I haven't been moving things as fast as I had planned. Standing at the top of the stairs with a heavy box of books, I take my time going down the two flights of stairs to the garage. Sometimes I forgo the shlepping altogether and just clean and pack. Also, I have been compromising, taking things down just one flight of stairs and collecting boxes in the entryway.
The one thing in the house that's clean is the stairway going up to the bedroom. This is the bamboo that was installed so semi-satisfactorily. I have been trying to get an answer from the folks at ST Builders Group how in the hell to get the wood glue off the bamboo, the bathroom linoleum and the office carpet. After a week, Sam finally called back last Friday, saying he would have a guy here between 11 and noon today.
Of course, no one showed up. But I had swept and mopped the bathroom and stairway in preparation for the work. If we can get the guy here this week, I'll feel lucky. The person with the right solvent and/or technique will spend perhaps 30 minutes cleaning, maybe a little more on the carpet. But it's not a huge job. I could probably have the cleaning ladies tackle it when they do their thing, but I would much rather have someone from the company do it, just in case they screw up.
After getting a few comments about how bleak the last blog entry was, I reread it and, darn if it wasn't just the gloomiest thing I'd read all week. I even wrote a couple e-mails to folks, letting them know that I'm not suicidal, just deflated, defensive and depressed. This condition was middlingly mitigated over the weekend, as in moments of reflection I realized every ounce of effort I put toward getting the house ready is taking me closer to the edge of the friendly cliff. You know, the whole alpha/omega thing: my primary goal is to conclude this portion of my life; my ultimate goal is to launch a heaping helping of Mark 4.0.
When Steve died, I was busy with papers and bills and forms, and it was soooooo good when that part of the death process was over. Now, however, I'm looking at re-entering a new paper phase. Last time, I was formally erasing Steve's existence from the world. This time I will be formally erasing every sign of the home that we shared together. And with the move to Wisconsin, I'm putting the last nail in the coffin of our life together. 'S'gotta be done.
Last entry, I mentioned emptying out the drawers and going through everything. I figured a couple hours, tops. But after 15 years of stuffing crap into drawers, there was a lot to go through. Since the majority of the stuff is Steve's, it often means trying to figure out what this clear plastic doohickey goes to, or getting that urge to save all the loose screws, washers and nuts because they might go to something. There are papers with unlabeled phone numbers, business cards and coupons, AA coins and tiny inspirational books, greeting cards and an endless font of promotional pens that no longer write.
So four boxes took about a week to go through (off and on sorting, since each box results in the creation of three things: a storage box for moving, a donation box for items I don't want, and a trash bag for all the stuff no one wants. The items for the storage box all need to be cleaned and wrapped and carefully boxed and labeled. The donation items need to be wiped down and wrapped enough so they don't break between here and Out of the Closet's sorting facility. Trash is trash, but those in the know will tell you sometimes I have problems even getting that out to the dumpster.
While on box No. 3, I ran across a cinnabar-colored book with a tooled leather cover. It was Steve's final journal (or one of them; I've come across three final journals so far). I skimmed through a bit of it, finding a silhouette of life and dying, with no secrets or details. I then absently leafed through the pages for photos and such possibly stuck in the pages. There was a sealed white envelope with "Mark" written on it in Steve's own hand.
I was kind of creeped out for a second. Now is not the time for some lifelong secret to emerge from the confessional of the grave. After a moment, I opened it and found two pieces of paper: one was a signed "last will and testament" (neither witnessed nor notarized, just a paper he wrote up saying I get everything), and the original copy of our marriage certificate. Did he tell me about this? I don't recall him mentioning it, and I would think he'd put this stuff in our safe place, along with the passports, pink slips, birth certificates, etc. As with all things dealing with the dead, I shall never know what was going through his mind, why he left this.
My emotions were paradoxical, like eating a Peep liberally sprinkled with bitters. At first I was pissed off that, with all the urging I did to get him to fill out a will, this was what he left me. Then I was overcome by all the sweet and quirky things that comprised our life together, and how typical it was of Steve to do something like this. (Avid blog readers will recall that I found the original deed and mortgage documents for the house leaning against a bookcase, under a pillow, in the bedroom. What kind of accountant does that?)
I'm just so glad that I had him in my life for a period of time, and that I got to spend the end of it with him. I'm getting used to the comfort of missing him, and the familiar hollow pain of uninvited moments of grief.
I was going through the house on Friday, assessing where to make my next move, organizationwise, and I realized that there is very little left in the house (save the office/business stuff and the kitchen) that's not organized and/or boxed and ready for storage/donation. I'm sure I'll run across more documents that need shredding before the process is over (I do have one personal box left to go through), but the lion's share of that task is also finished.
This is my job now. None of my clients have pressing graphic needs at the moment, and I don't feel it's ethical to go around town soliciting new clients, knowing I'll only be here for a few more months. Once the house is sold, nothing's finished, just put away. The drive east is going to be the great divide for me, I'm sure.
It's been hot and humid (in the 90s with nights in the upper 60s), and I'm only running the air conditioner when absolutely necessary. Finances have been carefully planned out, and I've budgeted for the $270 electric bills (about what two months in the summer costs running the A/C full time), but if I can save that, so much the better. Besides, the six weeks of remodel with no A/C at all toughened me. But I still fume when sweat drops fall onto the lenses of my glasses.
The Labor Day weekend was just more sorting and packing for me. And things aren't going as fast as I'd like due to a flareup of my sciatica. It started bothering me significantly in March, when I was constantly being squeezed onto airplanes, sleeping in a different bed every few days, and spending nearly a week bouncing and rocking on the train.
I start out stiff in the morning. The physical sensation is somewhere between sore muscles and a charlie horse, with the discomfort/pain being bilateral. Only when it gets really bad do I have any pains transferring to the legs (which is typical). An ibuprofen and working it out are the only really effective methods of dealing with it. It's my first real old-person's malady, and I accept it with the same dignity as I did my graying hair.
The upshot is that I haven't been moving things as fast as I had planned. Standing at the top of the stairs with a heavy box of books, I take my time going down the two flights of stairs to the garage. Sometimes I forgo the shlepping altogether and just clean and pack. Also, I have been compromising, taking things down just one flight of stairs and collecting boxes in the entryway.
The one thing in the house that's clean is the stairway going up to the bedroom. This is the bamboo that was installed so semi-satisfactorily. I have been trying to get an answer from the folks at ST Builders Group how in the hell to get the wood glue off the bamboo, the bathroom linoleum and the office carpet. After a week, Sam finally called back last Friday, saying he would have a guy here between 11 and noon today.
Of course, no one showed up. But I had swept and mopped the bathroom and stairway in preparation for the work. If we can get the guy here this week, I'll feel lucky. The person with the right solvent and/or technique will spend perhaps 30 minutes cleaning, maybe a little more on the carpet. But it's not a huge job. I could probably have the cleaning ladies tackle it when they do their thing, but I would much rather have someone from the company do it, just in case they screw up.
After getting a few comments about how bleak the last blog entry was, I reread it and, darn if it wasn't just the gloomiest thing I'd read all week. I even wrote a couple e-mails to folks, letting them know that I'm not suicidal, just deflated, defensive and depressed. This condition was middlingly mitigated over the weekend, as in moments of reflection I realized every ounce of effort I put toward getting the house ready is taking me closer to the edge of the friendly cliff. You know, the whole alpha/omega thing: my primary goal is to conclude this portion of my life; my ultimate goal is to launch a heaping helping of Mark 4.0.
When Steve died, I was busy with papers and bills and forms, and it was soooooo good when that part of the death process was over. Now, however, I'm looking at re-entering a new paper phase. Last time, I was formally erasing Steve's existence from the world. This time I will be formally erasing every sign of the home that we shared together. And with the move to Wisconsin, I'm putting the last nail in the coffin of our life together. 'S'gotta be done.
Last entry, I mentioned emptying out the drawers and going through everything. I figured a couple hours, tops. But after 15 years of stuffing crap into drawers, there was a lot to go through. Since the majority of the stuff is Steve's, it often means trying to figure out what this clear plastic doohickey goes to, or getting that urge to save all the loose screws, washers and nuts because they might go to something. There are papers with unlabeled phone numbers, business cards and coupons, AA coins and tiny inspirational books, greeting cards and an endless font of promotional pens that no longer write.
So four boxes took about a week to go through (off and on sorting, since each box results in the creation of three things: a storage box for moving, a donation box for items I don't want, and a trash bag for all the stuff no one wants. The items for the storage box all need to be cleaned and wrapped and carefully boxed and labeled. The donation items need to be wiped down and wrapped enough so they don't break between here and Out of the Closet's sorting facility. Trash is trash, but those in the know will tell you sometimes I have problems even getting that out to the dumpster.
While on box No. 3, I ran across a cinnabar-colored book with a tooled leather cover. It was Steve's final journal (or one of them; I've come across three final journals so far). I skimmed through a bit of it, finding a silhouette of life and dying, with no secrets or details. I then absently leafed through the pages for photos and such possibly stuck in the pages. There was a sealed white envelope with "Mark" written on it in Steve's own hand.
I was kind of creeped out for a second. Now is not the time for some lifelong secret to emerge from the confessional of the grave. After a moment, I opened it and found two pieces of paper: one was a signed "last will and testament" (neither witnessed nor notarized, just a paper he wrote up saying I get everything), and the original copy of our marriage certificate. Did he tell me about this? I don't recall him mentioning it, and I would think he'd put this stuff in our safe place, along with the passports, pink slips, birth certificates, etc. As with all things dealing with the dead, I shall never know what was going through his mind, why he left this.
My emotions were paradoxical, like eating a Peep liberally sprinkled with bitters. At first I was pissed off that, with all the urging I did to get him to fill out a will, this was what he left me. Then I was overcome by all the sweet and quirky things that comprised our life together, and how typical it was of Steve to do something like this. (Avid blog readers will recall that I found the original deed and mortgage documents for the house leaning against a bookcase, under a pillow, in the bedroom. What kind of accountant does that?)
I'm just so glad that I had him in my life for a period of time, and that I got to spend the end of it with him. I'm getting used to the comfort of missing him, and the familiar hollow pain of uninvited moments of grief.
I was going through the house on Friday, assessing where to make my next move, organizationwise, and I realized that there is very little left in the house (save the office/business stuff and the kitchen) that's not organized and/or boxed and ready for storage/donation. I'm sure I'll run across more documents that need shredding before the process is over (I do have one personal box left to go through), but the lion's share of that task is also finished.
This is my job now. None of my clients have pressing graphic needs at the moment, and I don't feel it's ethical to go around town soliciting new clients, knowing I'll only be here for a few more months. Once the house is sold, nothing's finished, just put away. The drive east is going to be the great divide for me, I'm sure.
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.
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
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| After round two at the food bowl |
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
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. |
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! |
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.
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