A rational debate on the theory linking quantum singularities and debris fields

Every now and then Husbands' work takes him away for a week or so. It is during these times alone that I reflect upon the life we share together.  I have wandered through our home, gazing at the spaces where he is not, suddenly aware of the rooms around me, his larger than life his presence no longer filling the house to bursting and I have had a revelation. 

He and I really are incredibly messy people.

A brief inventory of the desk at which I sit has turned up three coffee cups, a spoon, a broken camera, earphones, a zipper,  $0.37 in Croatian coins, a giant pair of novelty sunglasses, miscellaneous patches from various uniforms, a pile of bills marked "WTF!?" and an Ontario license plate currently serving as our mouse pad. 

I like a bit of clutter about, it makes a house feel lived in.  It's always a charming surprise to sit down in a chair and discover a great article in a magazine 4 months old.  Or the car keys. I have books in every room of the house because I like to read as I go about my morning routine.  Husband has multiple projects in various stages of completion scattered here and there because he is brilliant but has the attention span of a gnat.  These are the signs of life which our house displays, the things which cry "Busy minds live here, watch where you sit!"

I think we have elevated clutter to an art form.  There seems to be a heapiness, a largness of piling-upness.  A groaning of counters and kitchen tables.  For example the number of absolutely unrelated items which currently inhabit my bathroom counter is quite breathtaking. None of the items have any business on a bathroom counter or, in one fantastically inappropriate case, outside of a BMW K-Model motorcycle transmission.

To those of you out there in Reader Land who are screaming at your computer screens "For the love of all that is sane and Holy, tidy up before your house collapses, creating black hole and sucking us all to our doom!" I say, relax.  Life is messy.  And black holes are still only theoretical, so there.

Turn off your iPod when you come to my counter. Period.

I was not always a floating head behind a reception desk.  


I used to be a real person.  


My job was to instruct young people with special needs, particularly in the area of social skills.  It was fun and rewarding work, especially when you consider that for the most part kids with special needs have beautiful manners.  I was never greeted more sincerely or offered as much earnest help with my day as I was by my students. I have always found it ironic that the folks who needed the most coaching were usually the people dropping the kids off for the class, not the kids themselves.

I don't mean to start frothing at the mouth here but I guess I am a little out of touch with reality.  

The next person who comes to my counter, barks out one word and then stares at their cell phone while I use my amazing mind reading powers to decipher what they want is going to get the worst thing I can possibly do to a total stranger: a hug.  It's every bit as socially unacceptable to hug a stranger as it is to request service from a person you are standing in front of but refusing to look at.  Yet somehow I think I'll be the one who will win the coveted 'Most Inappropriate in the Workplace' award. 

Weird.

So be warned, all you multi-taskers, all you texters and iPod listeners. Turn off the technology and acknowledge other human beings or face the consequences. 


I've got some love to spread around and you could be next.  

This Old House, The Story Continues

When we last left our hero, he was in the kitchen toying with a palm sander and certain death.  Let's tune in and survey the damage...

(Tour guide in hushed tones):
'As we enter the dwelling, ladies and gentlemen, I will ask that you refrain from using any flash photography.'

'You can see from the trail left in the dust that they lost the drop cloths again, leading one to wonder if there is some sort of black hole in the basement.'

'If you look to the right you will see the constellation Leo picked out in Poly Filla. It extends across the living room and up the hall stairs where it seems to turn into a map of Soho.'

'The debris pattern in the kitchen indicates that sanding and baking are not compatibly concurrent activities.'

'Step carefully in the crawl space and mind your heads.  As you will see there is a collection of hot water heaters down here which seem to indicate this culture worshipped giant hunks of useless metal too heavy for one arguing couple to lift and dispose of.'

'We would normally conclude the tour in the garage which holds a fascinating display of 12 derelict sewing machines however there is a giant spider covered in paint living in there and that's just icky.' 

'Interesting question, ma'am.  I don't believe the husband saw it coming.'

Hail Friday, Greatest of Days

Friday afternoons offer that best of all possible gifts which is hope.

      "I hope you have a good weekend!"

                               "Sure hope is doesn't rain!"
       
         "Hope the traffic isn't too bad!"

When the last of the ignore this until Monday tasks are tidied into a neat pile, Friday afternoon is the lid on the box of Schrodinger's Cat. Much as that postulated feline is neither alive nor dead until the lid is lifted, until that second hand rolls around and you fling open the escape hatch, the weekend ahead can be either good or bad. 

Endless games of cards with incomprehensible rules. A missed bus in the rain. Road trips. Street meat. The perfect bike ride. Vigorous apple slicing leading to a trip to emergency waiting room. Sambuca.  All of this and more awaits as Friday tick-tick-ticks away and the weekend becomes reality.  

Throw open the door. Peel back the lid. Be brave. For fair or foul, 'tis Friday and the world is the small locally harvested organic shellfish of your choice.  




   

A Prayer

O Closet, which art in my room, hallowed be thy contents. 
I have honoured you with fresh offerings from Karan and Klein in the hopes that you have not shrunk any of my clothes like you did last month.
Give me this day a fabulous look which will turn heads,
And forgive me for the corduroy, I knew not what I was doing.
Lead me not into polyester,
But deliver me from shoulder pads,
For Thine is the wisdom of hemlines and colour pairing.
Let my party dresses fit me,
Amen.

This Old House, Part Deux

Three years ago, in a moment of weakness, I Christmas-gifted Husband with a high speed power palm sander he'd been rubbing on himself each time we entered 'The Man Store' for a month previous.

I can't imagine what I was thinking.  Whatever it was, it certianly wasn't "Gosh, I hope he doesn't use this in the kitchen.  Without any prep.  While I'm baking."

It should have been.