I do buy shampoo.

Today Helen called. One piece of her agenda was to mention something she had noticed recently. Jeff’s hair is not always washed adequately. I know, I said. I’ve been aware. Sometimes he wears the same t-shirt for what seems like a week at a time. I already know that attention to grooming is a skill that tends to dwindle in people with Jeff’s condition, but...um...I wasn’t ready for it yet? I am grateful to Helen for sharing her impressions with me. Sometimes I don’t quite want to believe myself when my own observations point to signs I’m not, as I said, ready for yet. He can wash, and that, I allow, is a good thing. How well he will take to me prompting him on one more subject--that I can’t predict. Yikes-a-hootie, as someone I know says.

We took the Odyssey to get a tire replaced today. I followed Jeff in my Soobie. He appropriately assessed and skirted the 9 a.m. elementary school traffic choke, but pulled into Goodyear instead of Mr. Tire. I pulled alongside him. “Did you mean to come here?” I asked. No, he had not. He couldn’t remember how to get to Mr. Tire. He followed me out the back entrance from Goodyear, around the traffic circle, and into Mr. Tire’s lot. 2 blocks in all.

Later, we had a flare-up of the usual discussion. “What am I supposed to do, now that I’m retired? What do you think about buying a house to renovate?” I pulled out my one-trick pony. All the unvarnished woodwork, all the unpainted walls--see them? Just waiting for you? Jeff did see them. He decided to start by getting a piece of plywood he could wrap with oak to build a short door for the short closet in our bedroom. I am good with that idea, because it doesn’t involve applying sharp tools to anything that’s already in place. He set out in his Odyssey with its new tire and proper alignment. He couldn’t find any of the 3 area Home Depots and came home. He says he will go to Johnson Lumber tomorrow.

Jeff has been on his full complement of meds since last February. I know they work for a time, then they stop. I don’t know when they will start stopping, but I’m beginning to wonder.

I’m already bad at enforcing hygiene practices with the intractable adolescent boy who lives here. Who thought it would be a good idea to give me this job? So, more opportunities to play “control freak.” It is impossible to explain that I neither enjoy nor wish to control anybody. That the flip side of the 45 is negligence. I would say I already list a little too far in that direction.

Can we fix it? Yes we can.

Gripe du jour: Why are there 3 random pairs of scissors hanging around when I don’t need them, and not a one to be found in any logical location when I do?

Meanwhile, Olivia and I have both earned extra stripes for our Rosie the Riveter badges. Last week practically-useless electrician #2 verified the wiring from the thermostat to the relay box to radiant heat pump #3 (installed, but as of yet inactive,) but declared that is was not within his purview to troubleshoot further. So I felt good and stuck. I visited Radiantec’s website where they promise they’ll stand behind you forever and ever, then gave them a call. Help, says I, whatintheheck to I do next?

Inasmuch as I was able to follow Darryl-the-tech’s instructions, I am proud. Undo pump #1. Hook #3’s wiring to that spot in the relay box. (Surprise--pump #3 whirred into action for the first time ever. Darryl thought it wouldn’t.) Ok, so it’s not the pump. Switch the little boxy relay plug-in thingies around. (No dice.) “Jump” the thermostat input thingy by inserting stripped wire (e.g. paper clips) in the holes. (Surprise again--the constant flickering of indicator light #3 stopped dead to nothing. Darryl thought it would light and stay lit.) So, the relay for pump #3 is just bad and we need a new box. $192 later this thing should be fixed. I will earn another stripe by hooking up the wires correctly. Not once did I have to say what the heck you talking about Darryl? Because I had studied the system. And, remarkably, I’m getting the hang of it. And why practically-useless electrician #2 had not bothered to check to see if the pump works, I’ll never know, because I’ll never call him again.

Then, Olivia came home with two flat rear tires. We jacked, we de-lugged, and we put the spare on the flattest one. Olivia did it, with me as coach, and should be able to do it again when the need arises. As Mr. Tire has now outfitted us with an entirely new set, I trust the need won’t arise any time soon.

We drive Jeff around with us and ask him questions which he very often knows the answer to...it’s just that for him knowing and doing are in two different parts of the brain which are quite unequal in neuronal supply. It has been quite a freaky thing to go from just-not-worrying-about-that-stuff (because I had a handyman onboard,) to needing to comprehend the ins and outs of an entire, somewhat obscure and specialized, house. Sometimes life is just about fixing stuff.

Sometimes I look around, and I think can someone who knows what’s going on and how things work just help me with this? And I know that I’m in that position you’re in when you realize that you’re on your own and your daddy can’t save you anymore so you’re just going to have to figure out how the hell to work it out. So far I have. So far.

declutterator

I’m cleaning out drawers. Drawers and closets and medicine cabinets. All those places where you find tiny butterfly hair clips that your daughters didn’t like very much even when they were 10, and carry out menus from places that closed 2 years ago, and packets labeled “Your Bicycle Papers.” (Who goes back and reads documentation about a bike? Who?) I’ve already done the basement, which was the worst of it. It’s pared down to objects whose existence I can justify without having to think very hard. My side of the basement, that is. Jeff’s side...well, that is for a phase of life I haven’t gotten to yet.

We’ve just cleared out my mother-in-law’s apartment (well, at least I helped,) and--though it’s interesting to see the things she found worth hanging onto--I’m determined that my children will have a very boring time picking up after me. I don’t know whether that’s good or bad, but--more importantly, and more immediately--when and if I ever move, it’ll just be a matter of throwing a few things (really. a few.) into boxes, and leaving the furniture for the moving people to deal with.

But there’s a lot. Despite my having launched major decluttering initiatives on several occasions over the past decade, there’s always more than you think. I have a digital post-it note on my MacBook desktop where I can check off the clutter repositories as I address them. Very satisfying to see the little check-marks line up. Even though I only have one, so far. There will be more soon. Don’t worry.