Party Time?

Sounds like quite a gala is coming together this weekend at the Urban Homestead. Hubs invited a cousin who lives nearby and he has often talked about but I still have not met in 37 years. He got a commitment from his bro and wife, but I remain skeptical on their arrival. 37 years of "Let's Do Lunch" outside the parent sponsored events is ALLOT of precedence. Still. . . Stranger things have happened. With both parents gone, there has been a big shift in the family dynamics. Even busy people change. For sure, I am in the mood for a party. The isolation is still quite intense up here.

The past two days have been wonderfully productive, albeit, still quite lonely. I made good progress on the big barn floor. Me and floors. . . I do tend to go OCD over them. I've been known to choose the floor over an excess of big, comfy chairs. I quite literally feel more grounded on the floor than floating above it, padded to isolation. I especially love dirt floors. The big barn is all dirt floor and allot of it. At this stage I feel less like an archeologist digging up ancient artifacts and more like a geologist studying formations in the mixed elements. Hey. . . A girl's gotta have her dreams.

My real reason for being glad I stayed is still beyond safe words. My established role within the Urban Homestead has some diseased aspects I feel an urgent need to remedy. Our current event planning tradition is one of them. For starters, I ain't no socialite by nature. The MIL was nothing short of amazing in her event planning skills and an ambitious social climber. From impoverished dairy maid to Houston upper crust in a single lifetime. As her prowess waned, the FIL's employee planned events received the respect of business as usual the MIL established in the decades prior. He sure needed allot of employees to prove that his wife "never worked a day in her life." I am better with a crescant wrench. Guessing what other people want? Only if there are literal nuts and bolts attached. Can't I just ask what you want? I'm sorry, Love, I can't bring your grandparents back from the grave to tell you what you want. Your car sounds like it has front end problems, though. Okay, okay. Putting on pumps and pearls now. . .

ES has yet to find balance in his communications. He swings between the extremes of, "Read my closed door!" to hyper-expressing so many concepts in continous streams that it is more documentary than conversation. He covers so many topics in the monologues that my graphic thoughts remember them as gigantic tangles of yarn tossed into random piles. Nope. Not even gonna try to sort 'em. Not mine to sort, anyway. Insert Rodney Crowell song here. "Just keep on talking, baby, I like the sound. It goes so good with the rain falling down."

In the days before SO's birthday, he was in, "Read my closed door" mode. Zero response to questions. Until the actual day. . . Where's the Event Planner!?!? Why isn't this done already? What do you mean you are still 3 hours away?

At last text, ES was still quite furious over my lack of compliance. I am tempted to say that failing that compliance is reason enough to be glad I stayed. Sorry I misread your closed door, Son.

Dunno. . . Sorting. . . Hoping for a party.