The Husband Weighs In: Magma, I'm Home

Husband guest-blogging here.

 

Just got new job.Gonna have at least one 12-hour day a week, probably two. Biggest concern? Wife's cranium.

 

It is routine for the first one home from work to encounter paper plates of dessiccated cat food on the floor, a lamp knocked over by a wide turn in the electric wheelchair, half-empty cans of dog food entertaining flies in the kitchen, CNN blaring on tv and 96.7 ("The way--uuh-aaave") on the radio.

 

All quickly remediable, but tedious and not fun to come home to after slaying the red-eyed dragon that is the westbound 10.  This is especially true for my wife, as these are mother-in-law quirks we're talking about.

My wife's private space was reduced to one bedroom when we moved in, and I fear she might blow like Kilauea one of these days. Gotta get her out of this place, if it's the last thing we ever do. But the stars are not yet aligned, and the fact is everyone is trying their best to make it work -- orange cat, other cat, mom's cat, Stinky, Superdog, my best half, the old bat and me.

 

Will my new hours stir up the magma? I hope not.

To Be Honest Witch You

Life deals plenty of place markers. When I was first married I took great care to select keepers. That, in retrospect is a challenging task when you are in your twenties. Really, the adult hologram looks at that first wedding and sighs. Yes, I know they were meaningful to me when I was twenty-five. Not so now. I look at photographs and count seven people who are still alive and actively part of my life. I am a big town girl who lived in more than one country. I've lived with a different reference point.

So now I am chagrined about the headspace that Carlotta and Alex siphon from my brain? These are Jack's two caregivers. They are both hardworking women. Carlotta has the weekend shift. She has never been a minute late to her afternoon shift. I trust that she will care the best way she can for my mother-in-law and that should suffice. But, I fret.

Part of her pattern with Jack means that she shares weekend dinners with us. Thankfully, husband and I always have an away Saturday dinner plan and so she and Jack cook up some fast food adventure. Come Sunday it is a different story.

Left to my own I would be happy to cull the fridge, make a lovely Sunday repast of leftover
parts made into salads, pate and delicasies. But, I halt when I hear, "to be honest witch you" ... "I don't eat fish" ... "I don't eat pork"...to be honest witch you...."

Cassie skulks in the morning when we are gone, at 11:45 am to deliver her services mid -week, and weekday evenings around 8 pm when she finishes her shift at the fancy house in the Palisades. She also is remarkably responsible with time. She hates me. The situation should be explained some day when she and I are both earning over 200 k. Meanwhile, suffice to say she is a bitch. A bitch who strikes me as singularly motivated by the dream of a Bakersfield tract house. To be honest witch you.