General Contractor

Vito is my general contractor. He's the one I had dreams about last night. In the dream, I stood in the door of our house and said, "I've hit the wall, Vito. I can't take it anymore, Vito." But in the morning, I didn't say much at all. I suppose it's not all the different from having a crush on a boy in sixth grade. In your dream, you tell him you love him. He lays a big wide kiss on your lips (No tongue. No tongue. EW!) It's a very special moment. But in reality, in those bright tiled halls of middle school, you don't say a word.
I don't have a crush on Vito. I have a ruined house. But just for now. So you can't pity me. How could you? What a luxury to be able to make your house the way you want it to be? What a trip! So what if you asperate dust and have no living space for a while. The bottom line remains: this is temporary.

A woman down the street asked if we could entertain her son for lunch tomorrow. Then she told me that he is gifted. "He gets that from his father," the woman said. Then she said, "Not that I'm a slouch..." And I wondered why we feel the need to say that. I wonder if she would need to say that if she worked outside of the house. I'm guessing not. As I walked into the house I wondered what she would think if she knew where I went to college. (I went to a very fancypants college). She'd think I was smart (and privileged and clever and then she explained that her son was also autistic. Borderline. A little of this. A little of that. Not the same as other kids). So I went to Fancypants U. But I'm not gifted. Hell. I'm not even smart. How can that be? The distance between smart and successful so wide a chasm? The definition of successful so small. So easily absorbed.

Downstairs they are drilling. Vito is asking, "do you really need to to that?" Vito is asking if he could please be the one who does the cutting, because he is the one who, ultimately, has to clean it all up. "Poor Vito" he says to the electrician. "Vito has to clean up after whatever it is you do." Like Dobby, he speaks in the third person. Like Elmo. Like Cicero. You never know what you'll get.

Rain, today. cold cold rain.

Tomorrow is Thursday. Thanksgiving. November 22. My brother's birthday. Except. He's dead. How do you celebrate that?