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Mister Surname greeted me at the homestead yesterday afternoon. He capped on me about his whatever-you-want-to-call-that for the entire afternoon and evening. For sure, none of my names for it passed executive review this time, either. My fears of entrapment are through the roof. Missus Surname retirement in progress, other options currently unavailable. Ply justifications of preference here. Hubs became eligible for retirement in December 2015. He is still "Opening Dialogue" about the all important dates and numbers attached. I feel like we have been having the same conversation for a year and a half. Not very long in the life of a busy company man, but generations worth in the waiting room of a busy man's life. The numbers attached have changed slightly, but the supporting dialogue sounds the same. The disparity between a corporate retirement and a housewife retirement remains vast and undefined. I am not aware of any specialists who can counsel us through that gap. The financial planning hubs obsesses over remains the easy part in my books. They are easier when I am the one running the numbers, but. . . Hubs is looking like the most controlling accountant on the planet right now. He will *gladly* write the checks and show me the numbers, when he has the time and I have jumped whatever hoops he has for me to jump this week. Zero direct access. Nothing in writing. Believe me, sweet thing, I will respect you in the morning. Your honey doer is on the job.

Hubs took to calling Eldest Son and his Significant Other, "The Retirees." Works for me. One name is as good as another. Eldest Son hovered in his expectant silence as Hubs and I did our Egg Shell Waltz. Dunno where his S.O. was. She waltzed through with a strained welcome back hug before disappearing again. Dunno. Don't much care. Not mine to sort. The thought of another 24/7 week in their oppresively quiet retirement villa with all doors closed while my busy executive is off executing sounds as fun as a bee mobbing.

Nor do I understand the Co-owner agreement. The other branch of his family tree as obscure as ever. The boss of that branch has tinted hair and wears a bra, but the fashion accessories are the most real diff I see. Meet the new boss. Same as the old boss with painted eyes and youthfully tinted hair. The not-working half of that branch has only been retired for a few years, but the visible Huntington's symptoms enhance the Missus Surname similarities to the hilt. I often wonder if hubs needs reminding that his dependant isnae burdened with the Huntington's Gene. Perhaps I should send a doctor-signed memo through the case manager's at the insurance network he administrates for his impressive salary.

Hubs mumbled a while on his someday plans on the inherited, co-owned property. Let me know when Someday arrives, my busy bee. I might be in your someday room, waiting with baited breath.

My flight instincts are still roaring. Anywhere but here. . .