a cease fire . . .

So, yesterday, I'm in the bedroom, putting clothes away when Bob tells me he thinks our house is haunted. Oh really, I say, wondering what prompted this. I mean, his meds haven't been increased that much . . . "Well, I got up in the middle of the night to get something to drink, and flipped the blanket on the bed over to the side, like I always do, so when I get back I can just reach over and pull it back over me," he begins explaining. Always the thinker, aren't you, honey? Sorry, I can't help it. "Anyway," he continues, shooting me that classic Bob full-of-distain look, "when I got back to bed, the blanket was flipped back onto my side, and the ceiling fan was on high. I never have it on high." I look at him. That is true. He is the Ceiling Fan Master, for sure—that baby has never seen high as long as we've lived in this house. Weird, I have to agree. As if we don't have enough to worry about. Now poltergeists. Well, as long as it/they just stick to blanket flipping and ceiling fan monkey-biz, and pick up after it/themselves when it's/they're done poltergeisting for the night, I guess I'm okay with it/them hangin' around. Maybe I could teach it/them to mow the lawn.

I just realized the other day, that we haven't had a hospital stint at the U in three full weeks. That's a record, peeps. Bob hasn't been out of the hospital for that long at one time since mid-March. A cease-fire, of sorts. A blessing and a curse, really. Plus side is, not much is going on, down side is, not much is going on. I don't know how Bob's doctors expect him to live like this, bedridden, for five weeks. . . well, four, actually, since he will be hospitalized for a week prior to surgery. But, still . . .I teeter on that fine line between standing back and being supportive of Bob's wishes, and hurtling myself over the edge, with my phone and e-mail campaigns, teary rants in the exam room . . . a part of me says use this time wisely, to nourish Bob, help him rest, also get him out of bed as much as possible, watch some movies, take some drives, nourish his body, his soul, his mind . . . use this time as an opportunity to help Bob become as strong as he possibly can be for the success of the surgery. Then, the evil twin inside me rears her ugly head and screams, "Fuck all that shit! This has dragged on long enough! Please . . . "

I'll be honest, I'm torn over our options. Bob's options, actually. Literally and figuratively, torn in two. Surgery or not. It's like having to chose between purgatory and hell. We have no fucking idea what the surgery outcome will be, because the doctors don't even know, yet we're told it's the only curative option, to remove the tumor, which will give Bob a semblance of a normal life back. There are times, totally out of the blue, when I'm walking the dogs, or meandering the aisles in Target, or out mowing the lawn, that the sheer, utter enormity of the decision comes crushing down upon me, wringing the breath right out of me, tearing me in two, and it's all I can to to breathe . . .

Then, there are times when I almost love the life I'm living right now, being home all day with Bob, making crazy-great meals for us, going to the farmer's market, "keeping house," walking the doggies, fixing him a bowl of ice cream with Ensure, mowing the lawn, doing things Bob used to do. . . I am honored and blessed, to have this opportunity to be with him, by his side, doing whatever I can to help him, support him, fight for him with whatever I have, however I can. Right now, there is no other place I'd rather be . . .

So, my newly acquired summer skills now include lighting the grill. Big deal, you think. But you've never lit our grill. See, the igniter switchy-thingy doesn't work, thus, it has to be lit with a big long match stuck into a hole from which propane fumes spew. A nice recipe for disaster, no? Yes.

Grill-lighting, along with snow-blowing and dog-shit detail, has always been Bob's job. Now, it's mine. If he asks me to climb up on the roof and wash the skylights, that's it. I'm done. Outta here. A girl's gotta draw the line somewhere. Okay, to be honest, I have yet to actually light said grill, because the few times I've actually used it this summer (drastically down from previous summers, if you can believe that . . .), I try to time it when Bob is fresh from a nap and is up and moving around—"Oh, you're awake?" I pounce, voice dripping with sweet innocence. "Could you pretty please light the grill for me? Pleeeeeeaaaase?" {eyelash batting inserted here} It's worked a few times in the past, but I'm pretty sure the last time he did it, it was truly The. Last. Time. He was plain and simply annoyed, shuffling out to the grill, matches in hand, muttering that he's shown me how to do it countless times and we just won't be grilling if I can't figure this out by now . . . okay, okay, I got it—close grill top. Turn knob to "ignite." Turn on propane tank. Insert long match into black hole. Squeeze eyes shut, tuck head between legs, and pray like hell. If you see a big mushroom cloud in the eastern horizon, toward Wisconsin, you might want to call over here, see if we're okay . . .

Tonight's dinner was sauteed (not grilled) chicken with asparagus, zucchini, red onion, mushroom, garlic and fresh basil with brown rice. Grated some dee-lish hard cheeses from Surdyk's atop the concoction, a few twists of black pepper, and ta-da! I forgot to take a pic of this one, sorry. But it was fab, believe you me. To die for. Once again, a concoction procured from my li'l pea-brain, trying to use up the last of the veggies for the week. Heading to the farmer's market in St. Paul in the morning, with my sister, Jill and her cutie-pie, Amelia-Bedelia. to stock up on provisions for the week.

( . . . star light, star bright . . . can you see the teeny, tiny pin-point of a star in this picture I took while walking the R-man? Looks like a burned out pixel on your screen . . . )

Took Rocco on a twilight walk tonight, just as the sun was sliding under its earth-blanket for the night. We were dive-bombed by bats galore, so many you think we'd be void of mosquitos around here, but they haven't even made a dent in the skeeter population. I do have a great, all-natural bug repellant (did I mention this before? Seems like I did . . .oh, yeah, when I forgot to do the bottoms of my feet a week or so ago . . .), so they're not intolerable tonight. Actually, tonight is cool enough, in my outdoor office, that I actually had to put a sweatshirt on. Maybe that has had an effect on the skeeters. Whatever, I love it . . . got the tiki torches lit, sitting at my patio table-desk, laptop in front of me, random bug landing on the screen now and then, listening to the fireworks going off around us (yes, fireworks. We're near 'sconsin, y'know, where every day is 4th of July. . . ) I think I'll sleep out on the screened deck tonight. . .

Yes, I could get used to this life. If only it weren't for the very big, ugly reason I'm here in the first place.