Jungalow

Well. . . From bungalow to jungalow?

Hubs helped with painting the ceiling of the repurposed garage yesterday. I still fail miserably at not envying the ease with which he reaches a ceiling. I indulged in a few grumbles down that line as I moved my cumbersome ladder from corner to corner while he danced across the floor flat-footed. Which name shall I use on you this time? ? ? You already know I'm well-stocked.

Over the course of painting the ceiling, Hubs decided to try moving the digital jungle which is still earning him a respectable paycheck and employee benefits to the newly available space. For the nearly four decades he has lived with rearranging compulsion, he has been mostly tolerant and sometimes even helpful. I'm pretty sure one of our first domestic tit-for-tat skirmishes some 30 something years ago started with, "I ain't a-movin' that laundry pile myself, but if *you* must, *you* must." I suspect that same laundry pile would be on that same floor if I hadn't fucked with it. He's come a long way on rearranging his own laundry piles, but he still seems to like keeping the base structure constant. That would be the very quality which has made him the most healing medicine of my broken life, but I still have days I'd like to shoot him for it. Some weeks more than others. . .

This will be the first time I recall him having a rearranging urge of his own. My wife-sense believes he decidedly tolerates changes but seldom desires change for his own benefit. It was a shock to that wife-sense when he began to speak of ^it^. Who are you and what have you done with my husband?

I'm not at all sure what this day will bring and that feels okay. Maybe. . . My hyper-vigilance is pacing ^its^ cage.