The Plate Glass Window

Proof available, but still looking like more work than benefit in the research department. I believe will simply trust the memory that I was in the second half of 5th grade when my parents moved us to a bonafide suburban community. It was quite the shock to my feral senses. Where do I find my hidey holes and provisions in this proprietarial chaos? My edible plants are "weeds?" How is that even possible? I spent allot of uncounted hours wandering the uninviting concrete and asphalt, pausing to stare through plate glass windows in an effort to understand the laws of this human made wilderness. The commercial windows were the easiest to interpret. Just blend in with the crowds and go with the flows. 

The domestic plate glass windows had far less visual diversity, but I still havenae done well at interpreting those laws, nay even among the middle aged adults I gave birth too and raised myself, nor with the partner I raised them with. My clearest set of human rules is the set I learned in Boot Camp. My husband looked downright demasculated when I attempted to ply that set of rules in establishing our domestic boundaries. We have come a long way in that arena, but I still need the internal visual aids of trading my combat boots for spike heels to help me remember who I am talking to. I want to trust the memories that my young sons thrived on the military structure when they were little, but it sure produced allot of messy mixes as they grew into men. The middle aged rendition is. . . Kind and compassionate words needed. My effort to understand those rules still isnae going well. My feral coloquisms trigger tit-for-tat skirmishs far more often than they gain useful information. Defensive flight in progress. . . I amnae certain whom I am defending with those defensive flights. A smallish 64 year old woman against a strapping 34 year old man may sound like a joke, but I donae care to test the theory that being decades out of shape has eradicated enough of my combat training to keep eyeballs separate from gray matter. The emotional chaos which puts me in fear of such an extreme reaction isnae pain free, either.

I am grateful that Hubs decided to do his first official day as a "Remodiot" here on the investment property jobsite. "Remodiot" is Hubs's own contraction of, "Remote Idiot." It began as a derogatory term toward the unwelcome job duty of getting the company's remote workers on-line. It stuck inside the company halls and his personal circles. He is experiencing some weird psycho twists over *Becoming a Remodiot." So far he seems to be responding well to my chides of, "Damned Remodiots!" I think. Have I mentioned that the love of my life remains something of a mystery to me? It has been a warmly intense weekend sorting through all the couple blahs attached that singular yaddah. Without that sorting, I believe it entirely possible this morning would have found me on my way to the Yangtze River Valley. I've surfed it often enough to have some ports in mind. The browser window connecting me to that research is open behind this window. So many watersheds and so little time. It would take multiple lifetimes to see them all. As it is, I am still letting my thoughts wander to that intricate web of watersheds, but it feels more like research than psychotic flight.

Hubs connected to his corporate duties with the same punctuality which earned him his position this morning. My gut is knotted with anxiety over the obscure off-shoots of the precedent, but I believe it is responding well to anxiety management tools. My faith in that response is far from absolute, but . . . Stepping small and praying big. 

Sorting. . .

I've taken to storing my guitar in the big barn. Think I'll go ply some guit-chi to those gut knots.