Still getting used to the abstractions and disassociated parts of suburban living. I see things like the banner above and think: don't we all see this as somewhat unreal?

I have coupons from Jerry’s Grocery Store just for me! They came in the mail with my name on every coupon welcoming me to town! I am excited. They’re great coupons! A pound of bananas - free! A dozen farm-fresh eggs - free! Five dollars off my order! Of course, I can only use one at a time, but that’s okay! I like going to Jerry’s!

Here we go!

First thing I see is the bakery aisle, where there’s a loaf of white - a whole loaf - for $1.99. Great! We’re on our way to the $25 I need to spend to get those eggs. A bag of salad for $1.99 . . . ah, the Fish Component, since Thursday is fish night. There’s a bag of salmon burgers for ten dollars; that’s two meals. Juice, butter - good “European style” butter that doesn’t come from cows fed on Irish grass, but the man who designed the box had a bit of a brogue. A few more items and I’m over the threshold.

I like the store, a lot. It’s an entirely different paradigm. It’s out of my range of places I usually go, so I’m not retracing the same damned steps every damned day. I tell myself that Thursday is now Jerry’s Day.

Believe me: until you’re in my situation you don’t know the importance of routine and having a thing to do.

Also nice: human contact. Before the trip, Uncle-in-Law Gary Realtor came over to discuss houses, in case I want to buy some time in the future. Note: I want to buy, some time in the future. He had a sheaf of prospective bungalows in Minneapolis, and I think my reaction can be summarized as NO, and if you drill down, NO NO GOD NO. Why? Well, they’re hobbit-sized without the charm. The square footage was about 200 square feet over FredBase 1. Taxes? Grotesque. You just see yourself pitchforking out money for the privilege of having your car window broken every fortnight. The basements might be “finished” but they look like silverfish habitats. There’s a second floor! Yes, a finished attic where you cannot stand up, but must sit at a desk hunched like a Bartleby.

I’m not going back to Minneapolis.

I’m considering . . . this.

Yes, I’m considering moving to the inside of the Main Street feature. I think it’s an apt place for the last act.

We’ll see.

Today was better, in other words. Uncle Gary Realtor was mightily impressed with the Fred. We had fried chicken and discussed real estate and family matters. Most of the activity pushed aside the loss and the ache, but that flits up in the mind like a black butterfly, and you swat it away. You think of more pressing matters. Must get dental insurance! Must return faucet!

What faucet, you ask? Well, there were two leaks in the bathroom, and S., not wanting to burden the new owners with drips, wanted them fixed. I did what I could, but what I could do, alas, was nothing. The cartridges in the faucets were rusted solid. They worked, but could not be dislodged without professional labor. Expensive labor. One more expense at the last minute. One more thing to put on the balance sheet to split. Sigh. Petty. Necessary.

I went to Menard’s, where I bought the faucet. No receipt? No problem. I put my card into the machine to generate the receipt, handed over an unopened box. Said I’d like cash. Really? Cash? Oh no we don’t do that. We can put it back on the card. Fine. Then I drove to the gym, and because I now have world enough and time and gas is expensive I drove the speed limit. The ECON button was on for the first time. I thought: haircut. As long as it’s a cool-car day, he can sit for a while. Nice banter, although the stylist had a box with a bunch of neon stickers setting forth a series of political opinions that probably didn’t need to enter into the act of trimming the follicles of a stranger. Then the gym. Did everything plus the treadmill. Afterwards took Birch for a walk along the Edina Spine, as it’s probably not called.

Even though the area is all big-box and strip malls and such, it has a serpentine parkway that winds between the buildings.

Rushing water and strolling folk with dogs.

I have to keep reminding myself that this is all pretty good. The other day while walking Birch through the residential neighborhood I felt this sagging feeling of downwardness and dislocation - a year ago I was married and living in the home of my dreams in a neighborhood I loved, and then SHAZAM (She Had A Zesty Anti Me) I’m here, and it feels as if I am locked out of the good life. The house, the general sense of accomplished solidity and accumulation, gone. Lost.

But then I go to the roof, and remind myself that all is not, in fact, lost. I’ve made this place work. The rituals are sticking: breakfast at the dining table with baroque, the morning work, lunch at the counter, dinner at the table, the Moka espresso with dark chocolate afterwards. A trip up top to light the fire pit and watch the sunset then leave right away because fire makes the dog nervous.

He's dressed well for the morn.

I wonder what he does. He has the look of a crazed European intellectual who does not work at all.

I think John is discounting the immediate peril. The man is dressed as Napoleon; we all know that means he is insane.

What the hell does she put in that stuff? Comet cleanser?

Ah. Dated coffee. An early example of expiration dates, or "best by."

It's Chase and Sanborn.

Marriage saved! Yes, it's that simple!

People knew it from the radio show they sponsored, which ran for a very long time.

That's not what I'm drinking. I'm strictly a Bustelo man now.