Unemployment

Called the funeral home twice; even stopped by there on the way home from the shop this afternoon.  Each time I called, I was told someone would check on the death certificates and "cremains" and get back to me.  When I stopped by, no one answered the doorbell.  The firm has more than one location, so I'm going to try to be charitable and think that they were at their other location and/or conducting a funeral somewhere, so they didn't have a chance to let me know if my husband, aka a box of crushed bone particles, is ready for pickup.  (Not sure I want to do this, not until Seamus has finished the urn.  Well, I don't want to do this at all.)

I applied online for unemployment benefits today (but had to do it at work, because you need to use Internet Explorer if you want to apply online with the Illinois Department of Employment Security, or "IDES," and here at home we long since broke free of the shackles of Microsoft and switched to Macs).  Given the way the business has been going, this was going to happen someday, whether Jerry was alive or not, but doing it two weeks after he died just adds to the general feeling of Things Falling Apart.  There's actually still at least one more job still to be done by Wood Bros. - I think it's a wall unit for a return customer (one that hasn't picked a color yet, just to carry the tradition of frustrating customers to the bitter, and I mean bitter, end).  But given that there's no salary involved, applying for unemployment makes sense.  Another month or two of health insurance, and then I'll have to figure that question out as well.  Meanwhile, we'll do a last ditch mailing to see if anyone wants to buy Wood Bros.  I wish.

In the scheme of things, I'm lucky, though - lucky in the financial sense, in that I have time to breathe before looking around and trying to find a new job - I paid off the mortgage on the house last fall, when Jerry and I thought about how much more interest I'd be paying if I didn't, plus the fact that we kept ending up taking the standard deduction on our taxes anyway, so there was no tax benefit to paying mortgage interest.  So I don't have mortgage payments to worry about.  And while the real estate taxes are annoyingly high, the next tranche isn't due until September.  Of course, it's looking like a bunch of home repair stuff is going to have to be done by people I'll have to hire and pay, which is why I hope the life insurance policy pans out - it would be nice to have that cushion.

"Cushion" - a word Jerry pronounced in a very distinctive way.  In all the years I spent listening to him talk, I never did stop hearing his accent ("Accent?  What accent?" he'd say, with a twinkle in his eye).  Those of you who knew him know what I mean.  Those who were unlucky enough not to, let's just say this was a man who definitely came from the Chicago suburbs.  I'm keeping a list of Jerry's pronunciations, as well as his silly word-mangling, which I loved (never say a word as it's written when you could just as easily reverse some of the letters or add some to have more fun - the company that rents us the DVDs is invariably "Fletnix," for example, or there's that sandwich shop chain, "Snubway").  Every time I remember one, I write it down, against the day when I may forget them.  I don't want to forget.

I had to call DirecTV back again - I thought trimming a few fir tree branches near the satellite dish had fixed the problem with the signal, but it hasn't.  It's possible the large trees in the front yard have grown enough to block the dish's line to the satellite, in which case, if a technician can't adjust the dish and find open sky, I'll just have to cancel the service.  But someone will come out on Saturday and give it a shot, without charge.  And since I'm not actually paying for the service at the moment (cf. earlier blog post...), I'm not bothered about it too much.  What making the appointment just now did remind me, though, was that the 4th of July is this weekend - I keep remembering that and then forgetting it again.  I can't tell if time is crawling or speeding by.  Whatever it's doing, I don't like it, not at all.  If only I could process grief while unconscious: I'd try to find a way to be unconscious for a few years, get this horror farther behind me, and then come back when I can cope better.  There are widows and widowers on the bulletin board I read, those who are, in the lingo, "farther out," who assure the rest of us that it does get more doable, this surviving thing.  So they claim.

I was sitting at Jerry's desk at work this morning, about to tackle the task of trying to find the life insurance policy in his files and piles - oh, Jerry, love of my life, organization was not your strong suit - when I noticed that his work boots were still lined up on the floor by the desk, sitting there covered in years' worth of lacquer and dust.  And there was a post-it note on a credenza top that read, in his handwriting, "Back in 20 minutes."  I don't know why some things make me cry now and some things that have equal claim to don't.

I have this horrible feeling that in some ways I'm thinking I just have to get through to Lookout Mountain.  As if Lookout Mountain's going to get here, and somehow after that it'll all be all right - which can only mean that I'm thinking somehow Jerry will be back here after Lookout Mountain, maybe he'll show up at Lookout Mountain.  Which also can only mean that life after Lookout Mountain is going to be even harder that it already is.