No.
Historically, much more mundane events have led to a Big Flash. An apple falling on a head, for example, or a rotund body lowering itself into a bath and causing water to rise. Such humdrum events led to great leaps in scientific thought, but this week's terrifying little experience will not, I'm afraid, affect anyone other than my own little family unit here. So maybe it wasn't a eureka moment after all, maybe it was just an epiphany. Or maybe it wasn't an epiphany, maybe it was just a little reality jolt. Hmmm, maybe I should just shut up and tell you what happened.
I guess I need to backtrack a bit.
Two weeks ago, I went to see my principal about the possibility of working part-time next year. I was very up front and professional with him. I told him I was unorganized. I told him I had two kids now. I told him I couldn't handle 18 hour days filled with nothing but work work work work work. I told him I would go insane. I said I'd rather be poor than a tired, ragged hag. Then I cried.
My principal was very kind. "Why Whippersnapper," he said, "You don't have to be unorganized. Your life can run smoothly, even if you're working full-time. Don't you know that all you need is a bulletin board?"
Heh?
He explained. Seems that him and the Mrs. ( a pair of freakishly organized robots whose personalities are so tightly and precisely wound up you could bounce quarters off them) were also feeling things were a little chaotic, and so they bought a bulletin board. Apparently, it totally helped straighten out their lives and now everything runs with military precision. Everything, everything, everything they do is organized on it. Kids! Work! Cleaning schedule! Bowel movements! Fellatio! Everything! Scheduled! On! That! Mother! Stuffing! Board!!!
"And the best part is," he said, "We always leave Saturday afternoons free. It's very important to leave some room for spontaneity, you know."
Riiiight. Save some room for spontaneity.
To make a long story short he told me he would not consider giving me part-time, and that I should go get a bulletin board. Driving home, I considered this. We certainly have bulletin boards; why, Mr. IQ has at least three that I know of rotting down in that basement of ours. I imagined digging one out and propping it up on his mountains of crap with a strict but perky note tacked to it: TIDY UP NOW, IQ! Would it really work?
Ha ha ha. NO OF COURSE IT WOULDN'T BLOODY WELL WORK.
Segue into this week.
Mr. IQ and I, as you all know, are both slobs, and the consequences of this have proven frankly frightening from an aesthetic point of view. Being a girl slob, though, I have some standards, and my standards are, keep the living room, bedrooms and bathroom superficially clean at all costs. So when Mr. IQ's stack of important papers had sat on the living room chair for too long, I did what any good little non-perfectionist housekeeper would do. I shimmied the seat cushion out from under them, and gently placed it on top. DaDa, all tidy! DaDa, out of sight! DaDa, totally, totally, TOTALLY out of mind. I immediately forgot they were there. So when he spent the weekend looking for his stuff, I couldn't help him. That's why he was grumpy on Sunday morning, incidentally. He had a paper due the next day, and couldn't find his notes for it. Because I had covered them with a seat cushion. Arghh. I'll spare you the details, but when we found them, the scene wasn't pretty. It had me thinking about my principal and his family a lot. Maybe they really do have it all figured out after all. Perhaps, thanks to the bulletin board, their lives are just a clear, smooth sailing ride with days filled with sunshine and lollipops and smiling faces. If so, I was jealous of them.
Thus began a week where everything just fell apart.
First: A water pipe (or something) burst in the basement, flooding the thing. Because I am an optimist who is not terribly rooted in reality, I decided this could be a good thing. Even if it cost us thousands of dollars, all the crap Mr. IQ has down there would obviously have to go, and as far as I'm concerned, it would be worth any price just to get that space cleared up.
Then: All our east-facing windows started to leak water. Drip drip drip drip drip noises filled the house 24/7. Of course, these windows are in the two disaster rooms, the office and the box-filled TV room. Drip drip drip drip. Oh, I sure can understand why Chinese Water Torture works, the sound alone would drive you nuts. Drip drip drip drip drip drip. Again, I hoped all the books were being destroyed, even if replacing the drywall ended up costing us thousands. Really, that's what I thought.
So: There I was, a slob, true, but a girl slob, sitting in a house with a basement filled with rotting wet things, and two rooms where the drywall was slowly being destroyed by dripping water. I felt miserable. I went into the box-filled TV room and was standing there thinking, "Just rent a U-Haul while he's out and GET RID OF IT ALL. IT HAS TO GO!!" when suddenly a big pile of heavy, book-filled boxes collapsed and landed within two feet of Baby Fangs. Really. If it had landed on her, she would be dead right now. Really. Really. Now, I'm not the kind of person who shows off about her kids, but Baby Fangs really is a perfect baby. She never cries. Never. But when the avalanche of book boxes landed at her feet, she screamed like someone had stuck a knife in her eye. And I cried too. Because I just can't stand this anymore. All this stuff everywhere, little bits of paper I'm not allowed to throw out, little "treasures" that are really nothing but junk, and books: Books, books, books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books book boobs books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books books everywhere I go. The areas containing his stuff are, frankly, dirty. And now they are wet too. The combination has sent me over the edge.
Obviously something has to happen. The near-death of Baby Fangs has brought this home to me LOUD AND CLEAR. As far as I can see, there are three things I can do:
1. Leave him. But I can't. I finally have him bringing me coffee in bed every morning, and I just can't start all over again and train another one. It takes too long. I'm too old.
2. Lie and say I'm not coming back until he clears everything out and move into my parents' for a few weeks. But I can't do this either. It would mean living with my parents for a few weeks. I love my parents, but honestly, I think I'd rather move into a tent under an inner-city bridge than stay at their place for an extended period. NOT AN OPTION.
3. Get him to change. Obviously, we can't live the bulletin board life, but surely there is a happy medium we can find and be happy about? His daughter was almost killed this week, for crying out loud. And I'm unhappy. Surely he can see there are more important things in the world than owning stuff. Surely now he can see we've reached the tipping point, both literally and figuratively.
***
And then, in the middle of a terrible week, I find that Pamela has nominated me for a February Perfect Post award. Wow. Talk about the gray clouds parting! Thank-you! That, and the following song helped get me through this week. Thank God for perky music and swell blog friends. I tell you. Without them, honestly, I'd be locked up in the crazy house right now. I really think I would be.
Later: Oh, just the luck I'm having, the video I'm trying to post isn't appearing. I'll try to get it on later, I guess. Grrrrrr.
7 comments:
would he notice if you called
1-800-GOT-JUNK and had them cart it all away?
and the principal sounds pyscho.
E-bay or bust.
Glad your back and BABY Fangs is well and not ... uh.... flat stanley.
Poor baby!
YOU should be writing for the Globe and Mail. There are thousands of people who would enjoy your column. In fact, I'm off to position two stacks of boxes of hard-cover books on either side of Margaret Wente's SUV door so that ... just kidding. Well no, the feeling is genuine but I'm actually not willing to go to prison to improve the readability of the G&M.
I've bookmarked your blog.
We have a bulletin board, and about a thousand things tacked to it that keep falling off because you can't tack stuff through an inch of paper and expect it to stick. Perhaps the principal forgot to mention that the bulletin board system only works if you occasionally remove the grocery list from last November and sign-up sheet for the field trip that happened last year.
I've been bad and thought I could get away with only reading your most recent blog. Now I feel compelled to read everything you've written! Damn you whippersnapper and your talented writing skills! :)
I agree with debeauxos. You should try freelancing.
You should go on WifeSwap with your principal's wife. That would make for some interesting TV!
You forgot option 4: "subterfuge and deceit." Every day, throw away one book. Or, if you're feeling brazen, throw away a box of books every Monday morning. Start with books and/or boxes that haven't been touched in months, maybe years. Slowly work your way up to the more recent stuff, but starting with the old stuff reduces the chance that you'll be caught before disposing of enough junk to make a noticeable difference.
And, by all means, if asked about missing books, lie, lie and lie some more. NEVER underestimate the value of being able to lie with a straight face.
We have a rule that if you have something, anything, that hasn't been touched in two years, it must be sold or thrown out with the garbage. We don't actually follow that rule but it makes us feel like everything is under control.
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