Up to code

The pipes in my house are now up to code, and are getting a workout from first the washing machine and now the dishwasher (it takes days to fill the dishwasher enough to run when you're on your own and mostly microwaving, not cooking).  The plumbers were here until after 5, I think.  No idea what the final cost will be - they'll bill Steve and Steve will bill me.

Still to do: stairs to the porch, landscape timber, and removal of the panel between the two "rooms" in the basement.  But really, most stuff is done... and I have precious little excuse not to clean in the basement.  Then again, I've had precious little excuse not to clean everywhere in this house, and except for the bathroom, I haven't done it since Jerry died.  Which I guess is an understandable enough excuse.  I have to actually care first.  Maybe a Prozac-taking Karen will care what her house looks like.  To be seen, once the Prozac has had time to kick in.

I want to show Jerry all the up-to-code pipes, the fact that the washing machine hose now drains into a proper pipe rather than into the laundry tub.  I want to show him that the dirt foundation isn't tumbling onto the floor in that room anymore, that there's a solid concrete wall there now.

But it's pretty silly to say those things, because I want to share everything with him, just as I used to do.  I want to share my life with him, just as I used to do.  I want him back.  If he were here, tonight he'd be getting ready for the new season of the show he called "Fring" (hard g at the end).  We'd sit on the couch, holding hands, watching it - we always held hands when we watched television.  We also held hands every night as we fell asleep, until we were almost asleep, and then we'd kiss goodnight again, say "Sweet dreams," "Sleep well" (one of us would say one, the other would say the other), and each flip over.  Only to snuggle up (that would be "shnoogle" in Jerryspeak) again when the alarm clock began its Zen "bong" sounds at 5:15 a.m.

This is hell.