Bachelor Hall

I seem to have given up on what I used to call, "The Urban Homestead." Most of that psycho snot knot remains a silent conversation between Hubs and I, but the sneezes from that hall of closed doors keep on coming. As of the funeral, the master bedroom had regressed to the DIL's free storage unit once more. I'll bet dollars to wishes all those thing piles remain untouched behind the closed door. I do not even know who all lives in bachelor hall these days. In the 7 years since I started detaching from that middle-aged child mess, the communications dropped with the accessibility to the Mommy ATM. If my ifs are in alignment, ES could die in that house and no one would know until the neighbors started complaining about the smell of rotting fat. His constructo buff has picked up a substantial girth. Is there still muscle under all that padding?

Still work continues on making the subject safe to talk about between Hubs and I. Is it progress that Hubs is using the words, "I don't know." more often when I reach to take the pulse of that long running business-as-usual? Sometimes I think he is even beginning to understand why I don't want the job of playing domestic servant to random numbers of disparaging middle-aged retirees, nor even try to relax in the midst of the cumulative bachelor neglect and closed doors.

Hubs is tooling away on his Fall honey harvest. He is almost finished with the hives here on the farm. The hives in the outyards of the Urban center remain untouched and the logistics of his getting down there are daunting in the midst of all we have going here with the newly orphaned, chronologically young children and the housing upgrade. He has reached out to the non-resident bachelor out of that psycho snot knot who worked here a while as the farm handy. His relationship with the resident bachelors is as obscure as any bachelor relationship ever created, but his work was good. He is a heavy metal band bachelor, but he also has a daughter he would like to know better who lives closer to here than Music City. I was kinda sad to see him and his fledgling efforts to be a father wash away with evers of the whats of ES's ex-S.O.'s exodus. I still donae know, nor much care what the yaddahs of those blahs were/are. I have enough on my plate without peripheral middle-aged complications that arenae mine to sort.

It is hard to be certain from my boss's wife position in the fringes of that mess, but I believe the former farm handy worked pretty hard to hold on to his place in this operation. Hubs has been letting him feed and keep up with the city bees since the still undefined June fiasco. As we discussed the safer logistics of childcare, etc., I asked several times why he didn't let the man take down the supers and bring them up here. I translated his wordy answers as, "Control Issues" and let ^it^ drop. Earlier this week, Hubs shocked me by saying this man would be here today for lessons on how to accomplish that task. Wow. Is somebody tugging on Superman's cape? Can he get the bachelor thing piles out of the music room while he is here? We are officially out of storage space in the honey barn where they are currently cluttering the pathways.

Now to see if I have cleared that body of clutter from my thoughts far enough to set ^it^ aside to stay focused on the parts that *are* mine to sort. Testing, one, two, three. . .

And still I am haunted by the question of which of my sons died first. Praying my ABC's. . . Please send back the letters that I need.