It's been said that TIME is what prevents everything from happening all at once. If so, I think I just saw time jump into his car and two-wheel it around the corner and out of our life.
For eight years we've anticipated, contemplated, talked about and poked at remodeling our house. Eight years to plan, eight years to decide, eight years to prepare. Suddenly it's here, and are we ready? Heck no. But we will be; we have to be. Because come the first week of January they'll be scraping and chipping and jack-hammering the daylights out of a good portion of our house, and whatever isn't in a box and somewhere else by then will be covered in bits of ceiling and pieces of flooring and powder-coated in white- which is a nice touch for a Christmas tree, but not for the entire rest of your earthly possessions.
We bought a load of boxes to pack things in, but it's pretty clear we'll need more. Like I said in an earlier blog, you can collect a chunk of stuff in 29 years. I've been working my way through the "office" this week. The quotation marks around "office" are code for a room full of crap, if you'll pardon the scatological reference. This week in the office it's been adios old Southern Livings, with your tired styles from the late 20th century; adieu Taste of Homes, I don't have room to store you, time to look at you, or energy to cook you; and arrivederci old dried-up magic markers and faded construction paper, it's time you go to craft supply heaven.
How convenient if all I had to do between now and the New Year was to calmly go through each room at a casual pace, with time enough to linger over every little nostalgic nugget from the past. But time- you know, the one whose job it was to keep life manageable- just headed south to visit his relativities, and it doesn't take an Einstein to observe that in the DeLany universe everything can indeed happen at once. For even as we made plans for our house, the economy was quietly spiraling downward, causing the university where I work to change insurance companies in order to save money, thus obliging us to reconsider the timing of a certain someone's janky knee's replacement. Translation? In the next few weeks we will travel out of state for Thanksgiving, box all our earthly possissions, complete a number of pre-remodeling projects, replace John's 3rd body part in two years, and shop for and celebrate Christmas before relocating to our daughter's house for a yet to be determined amount of time. I have to admit I'm a little nervous. Alright, I'm a lot nervous.
Back home we'd say it's like trying to put 10 lbs. of sausage in a 5 lb. bag. However, a physicist might refer to it as the "butterfly effect." Butterfly effect- that has a nice, peaceful ring to it, now doesn't it?
Actually, the term "butterfly effect" came from a paper given by Edward Lorenz in 1972 to the American Association for the Advancement of Science entitled Predictability: Does the Flap of a Butterfly's wings in Brazil set off a Tornado in Texas? In other words, can a small, inconsequential event in one place start a chain of events that lead to a full-scale catastrophe somewhere else? From the looks of things at my house, I'd say yes. Evidently my failure to choose a "putting place" for one or two inconsequential household items like a flashlight battery or a can of Deep Woods OFF! when we moved in nine years ago began a chain reaction of untidiness culminating in the mess which I am now maniacally attempting to pack into cardboard boxes. Theorists might call it the "butterfly effect," but back home we'd call it all my chickens coming home to roost.
As the good Lord was fond of saying, "Let he who has ears hear."
November 21, 2008
November 5, 2008
life
For anyone who doesn't believe life is a meaty-finger-jabbing smirky guy who loves perpetrating twisted acts of irony on innocent people, "getaloadadis."
"Whatdaya! Whatdaya! Do I look lika villain to youse?" life protests, lighting a fat cigar. "Is it my fault she sets herself up fordese tings? Take dat night last week- how could I resist? I mean, you gotta do what you gotta do."
So last Thursday night I'm in the laundry room with my mountain of reeking sheets, pillowcases, blankets, mattress pads, and other "kitty litter." "Just how much will this large capacity washing machine hold?" I wonder, adding another large scoop of detergent to a tub brimming with cat-soaked sheets and blankets.
Minutes pass, then I lift the lid to make sure all is well. "Why does this blanket keep twisting around the sheets like that? They'll never get clean this way," I mutter.
Turning the machine off, I wrestle with the queen-size blanket and queen-size sheets which have become hopelessly tangled together and have, in the heat of battle, wrapped themselves tightly around the agitator. Clinging on for dear life, they fight me tooth and toenail as I struggle, head inside the washer and arms wet to the shoulders, to pry them loose. So tight is the blanket's death grip on the sheet that big, bulbous, air-filled sheet bubbles protrude from it in various places like blue cotton goiters. Panting, I struggle on.
"Yes!" I exclaim triumphantly, finally holding aloft a soapy, saturated blanket which by now weighs a good 10 pounds. However, my triumph quickly turns to panic as I realize I have nowhere to put this slimy, dripping mess. On the floor? No, it's already morphed into a giant puddle from the enormous amount of water now running down my arms and legs. Into the dryer? Drat! Still full of yesterday's clean socks and underwear. I knew I should have folded them last night! The laundry basket? I hurl it in that direction. Even though the basket is virtually a collection of holes held together by a little plastic, it's all I've got.
Slip-sliding back to the Maytag, I prepare to finish washing the soapy sheets. The blanket will have to wait its turn.
"Thunk." I push in the knob to restart the wash cycle.
Silence.
"Thunk, thunk." I pull the knob out and push it in again.
Silence.
"Splosh." I attempt to rearrange the wet sheets in hopes that this is the problem.
"Thunk." Me trying the knob again.
"Thunk, thunk."
"Thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk!"
As I drive to the Luxury Wash laundromat late that night, a 33-gallon trash bag full of soggy bedding in my trunk, two questions keep running through my mind: why does life sound like a Bronx thug and why has he got it in for me?
"Whatdaya! Whatdaya! Do I look lika villain to youse?" life protests, lighting a fat cigar. "Is it my fault she sets herself up fordese tings? Take dat night last week- how could I resist? I mean, you gotta do what you gotta do."
So last Thursday night I'm in the laundry room with my mountain of reeking sheets, pillowcases, blankets, mattress pads, and other "kitty litter." "Just how much will this large capacity washing machine hold?" I wonder, adding another large scoop of detergent to a tub brimming with cat-soaked sheets and blankets.
Minutes pass, then I lift the lid to make sure all is well. "Why does this blanket keep twisting around the sheets like that? They'll never get clean this way," I mutter.
Turning the machine off, I wrestle with the queen-size blanket and queen-size sheets which have become hopelessly tangled together and have, in the heat of battle, wrapped themselves tightly around the agitator. Clinging on for dear life, they fight me tooth and toenail as I struggle, head inside the washer and arms wet to the shoulders, to pry them loose. So tight is the blanket's death grip on the sheet that big, bulbous, air-filled sheet bubbles protrude from it in various places like blue cotton goiters. Panting, I struggle on.
"Yes!" I exclaim triumphantly, finally holding aloft a soapy, saturated blanket which by now weighs a good 10 pounds. However, my triumph quickly turns to panic as I realize I have nowhere to put this slimy, dripping mess. On the floor? No, it's already morphed into a giant puddle from the enormous amount of water now running down my arms and legs. Into the dryer? Drat! Still full of yesterday's clean socks and underwear. I knew I should have folded them last night! The laundry basket? I hurl it in that direction. Even though the basket is virtually a collection of holes held together by a little plastic, it's all I've got.
Slip-sliding back to the Maytag, I prepare to finish washing the soapy sheets. The blanket will have to wait its turn.
"Thunk." I push in the knob to restart the wash cycle.
Silence.
"Thunk, thunk." I pull the knob out and push it in again.
Silence.
"Splosh." I attempt to rearrange the wet sheets in hopes that this is the problem.
"Thunk." Me trying the knob again.
"Thunk, thunk."
"Thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk-thunk!"
As I drive to the Luxury Wash laundromat late that night, a 33-gallon trash bag full of soggy bedding in my trunk, two questions keep running through my mind: why does life sound like a Bronx thug and why has he got it in for me?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)