Two men arrived early yesterday morning to begin phase one of our home renovation. This is the start of something big, guys. Big and dirty. Big, dirty and expensive. People are going to tear into our house, make a lung-choking mess doing it, and try their best to force us to pack up and move in with our kids in the process. And we're going to pay them for it- a lot.
It wasn't like we didn't see this coming. We've been talking about it since that autumn day in 1999 when we first looked at the house. That would be the day I naively shook my head yes, let's buy the darn thing- dark-stained wood, outdated carpet, ugly wallpaper and all. Yes, I can repaint all 3,600 feet of it by myself, where's my brush? Yes, I can turn this 1970's behemoth into House Beautiful. Yes, I can do it!
As I said earlier, two men arrived yesterday morning to begin our remodeling project. As I was schlepping clothes, shoes, jewelry, luggage and other various and sundry objects from my closet to a semi-empty closet across the landing the night before, it dawned on me that this was the first of many such redistributions of 29 years' worth of accumulated "memories". And let me tell you this, some memories are just plain best forgotten. Forgotten as in flushed. Jettisoned. Filed in that big, mobile file cabinet that comes around every Monday morning except the ones that fall on Christmas. We are up to our ears in those kinds of memories... memories that no longer fit, memories that are missing vital parts, memories that used to go to something but I can't remember what. Memories that I thought for sure I'd have used by now but never have. Memories that I just can't seem to part with because they milk that last, infinitesimal drop of sentimentality out of me just as my hand is poised over the trash can. The Barbie doll with the cracked neck wants to be kept. And of course she will still need her pink Cadillac. And what about the perfectly good safari hat left over from the zoo birthday party 15 years ago? Someone might use it. And the puzzles, stuffed animals, discarded backpacks, old dance costumes, VHS tapes, previous bedspreads- what of them? That old lamp without a shade, my grandmother's aprons, a single mitten, the empty picture frame, my husband's lederhosen, lederhosen?- don't they have a say in their futures?
Stuff, my friends, can make a mell of a hess if allowed to hang around too long. Would I let someone live in my house for 5, 10, 15, or 20 years while contributing absolutely nothing and taking up all the room in my closets, bathrooms and cabinets just because I thought they were cute at one time (and no, girls, that is not about you)? I should hope I wouldn't! So why this irrational connection to an accumulation of things that no longer serve a purpose? It defies logic. But that sentimental nymph that sits on my shoulder whispering "keep it, keep it" in my ear has almost always had her way over Mr. Business on the other side. Until now. For there's a great cleaning out a comin' the likes of which has never been seen, at least not at this house. I shall smite this clutter with my mighty arm, and it shall be smote, and it shall remain smit. The smiting began last night as I threw away 27 old hangers, a ripped garment bag, and some outrageously tight capris that hung in my closet since 1998 when they actually fit.
And the evening and the morning were the first day.
September 24, 2008
September 8, 2008
buster
Did you say something? Sorry, I couldn't hear you. Maybe because I recently spent three hours in a car with a dog panting in my ear. Three solid hours of panting. And that was just the return trip; ditto for going. It could have been worse. I could have been the one in the back seat with him. Him is Buster. His close friends (all five of us) call him by an assortment of silly names like Bussie, Babeesh, Lil Brudder, or B-a-a-a-a-be. Our neighbors probably have a few select names for him as well, most likely related to his early morning fondness for pooping in any yard other than his own. My guess is you could call him anything that begins with the letter B and he'd probably come, or at least roll his round eyes in your direction, because I'm pretty sure he only recognizes the "buh" sound at the beginning of his name. But then Buster is better known in these parts for his devil-may-care charm and rakish good looks than for his keen intellect. That and his remarkable new-found ability for elite level cross-country panting.
Mr. Buster- America's gentleman, the Boston Terrier. Not one for putting on airs, when nature handed out the clothes to his mother's little pack of bitches and beaus, he opted for an unassuming tuxedo t-shirt rather than the formal black tie attire favored by the Westminster set. But phooey on those dog show snobs, with their "ideal" muzzle lengths, "preferred" toplines, and "required" markings. So what if a fellow is a little spotty, sway backed and flop-eared, or prefers to stand with his head down and feet "splayed." I've always liked my men with a few flaws. If I'd been looking for perfect, I might have questioned why his daddy and momma had conveniently gone for a little ride in the car with someone the very afternoon we drove out to the middle of nowhere to buy him. As it was, he had me from the minute he started chewing on my shoelaces and eating my brand new edition of Martha Stewart Living. And it's been nothing but love ever since. Mostly.
What' not to love about Buster? He does all the things we trained him to do, whether we meant to or not. He comes when he's called if he feels like it. He sits on the third or fourth command. He barks at joggers (who, let's face it, are basically asking for it; sometimes I even feel like barking at joggers.) He returns to his own yard every morning without fail after celebrating another day's successful constitutional on the next door neighbor's lawn with a lively performance of the "poopy dance." He positions himself exactly 3 ft. 8 in. away from the dining table, technically still within the beg zone but not so close as to be in the yell zone. And he can do things he wasn't taught- like gazing poignantly into your eyes for 10 or 15 minutes or however long it takes for you to realize he hasn't been fed yet, or twisting and rolling playfully on his back on the carpet until he gets all that loose hair and pet dander rubbed off. Clever boy. All this in addition to the fact that he can pant like a Big Dog.
Seriously though, but for the fact that he's only a foot tall and, well, a dog, Buster is the ideal man. He'll eat whatever you drop in front of him. Or behind him. You can yell at him and he won't remember it five minutes later. He doesn't know the difference between HGTV and NASCAR. He's always ready for fun, but will stop when you say no. If he hurts you it won't be on purpose, and if you'll let him he'll even lick the wound. Okay, forget that one, but it's true he is a special guy. Just ask the girls who love him.
Speaking of the girls who love him, ever since they've moved out of the house he's been sporting a long face; despite the fact that the AKC says his muzzle should be short and square. His wheezing road trip to the big city to deposit sister #2 in her new digs spelled the end of his good times. No more "pull sock" or long walks with the girls carrying those plastic bags while pretending not to see what he was doing in those swanky Brookhaven yards. No more kisses, Sun Chips, peanut butter, or stolen moments up on the bed. Too much silence, too many empty rooms, too much waiting for the sound of the key in the lock and the slam of the front door that says they're home. I know just how he feels. My face is long these days, too.
Come on, Buster, I think we could both use a walk.
Mr. Buster- America's gentleman, the Boston Terrier. Not one for putting on airs, when nature handed out the clothes to his mother's little pack of bitches and beaus, he opted for an unassuming tuxedo t-shirt rather than the formal black tie attire favored by the Westminster set. But phooey on those dog show snobs, with their "ideal" muzzle lengths, "preferred" toplines, and "required" markings. So what if a fellow is a little spotty, sway backed and flop-eared, or prefers to stand with his head down and feet "splayed." I've always liked my men with a few flaws. If I'd been looking for perfect, I might have questioned why his daddy and momma had conveniently gone for a little ride in the car with someone the very afternoon we drove out to the middle of nowhere to buy him. As it was, he had me from the minute he started chewing on my shoelaces and eating my brand new edition of Martha Stewart Living. And it's been nothing but love ever since. Mostly.
What' not to love about Buster? He does all the things we trained him to do, whether we meant to or not. He comes when he's called if he feels like it. He sits on the third or fourth command. He barks at joggers (who, let's face it, are basically asking for it; sometimes I even feel like barking at joggers.) He returns to his own yard every morning without fail after celebrating another day's successful constitutional on the next door neighbor's lawn with a lively performance of the "poopy dance." He positions himself exactly 3 ft. 8 in. away from the dining table, technically still within the beg zone but not so close as to be in the yell zone. And he can do things he wasn't taught- like gazing poignantly into your eyes for 10 or 15 minutes or however long it takes for you to realize he hasn't been fed yet, or twisting and rolling playfully on his back on the carpet until he gets all that loose hair and pet dander rubbed off. Clever boy. All this in addition to the fact that he can pant like a Big Dog.
Seriously though, but for the fact that he's only a foot tall and, well, a dog, Buster is the ideal man. He'll eat whatever you drop in front of him. Or behind him. You can yell at him and he won't remember it five minutes later. He doesn't know the difference between HGTV and NASCAR. He's always ready for fun, but will stop when you say no. If he hurts you it won't be on purpose, and if you'll let him he'll even lick the wound. Okay, forget that one, but it's true he is a special guy. Just ask the girls who love him.
Speaking of the girls who love him, ever since they've moved out of the house he's been sporting a long face; despite the fact that the AKC says his muzzle should be short and square. His wheezing road trip to the big city to deposit sister #2 in her new digs spelled the end of his good times. No more "pull sock" or long walks with the girls carrying those plastic bags while pretending not to see what he was doing in those swanky Brookhaven yards. No more kisses, Sun Chips, peanut butter, or stolen moments up on the bed. Too much silence, too many empty rooms, too much waiting for the sound of the key in the lock and the slam of the front door that says they're home. I know just how he feels. My face is long these days, too.
Come on, Buster, I think we could both use a walk.
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