KARMA - FRIEND AND FOE

Karma, oh, Karma: You're such a wicked witch.
When you bite me in the ass, I scream, "You're such a bitch!"
Then I think, "Oh, Karma, you really have such nerve..."
Even though when Karma bites, I probably deserve.
There are times in life that if we're honest and we're lucky,
We will watch as Karma slaps a person who is sucky:
A person who's dishonest; a person who is cheating;
A person whose black heart would be much better off not beating;
A person at your work or home or about whom you have heard;
A person who tells only lies with every spoken word.
So when you feel defeated, like the whole world's let you down,
Remember that bitch, Karma, is the greatest show in town.

LONG LIVE CLEAN SKIVVIES

My washer and dryer are gone.  Sold.  See ya later.  I am sorry to see them go because both the washer and dryer, at three years old, are in excellent shape.  But, as anyone who has moved will understand, shit's gotta go.

The problem with selling the washer and dryer so fast is that now I must go to the laudromat until I move into my new place in a several weeks.  I could go to the really nice one in the next town over, or I could go to the crappy one closer to my house, the one of my younger, freer days, a place older than dirt itself.  I suspect this laundromat existed before washing machines were even invented, that's how old this place is.

As soon as I arrive, I start having deja vu.  Once my friends and I all started moving out of our parents' homes, this place became the local late-teen/early-twenties hang out.  Skivvies got washed while beers were consumed (the grocery mart was right next door).  The place looks exactly as I remember it.  Some of the washing machines are new -- some are not -- but all of the dryers are exactly the same some thirty years later.

The most reliable thing about this place is that nothing works.  Well, not exactly nothing, but damn near.  Luckily, I have quarters with me, laundry soap with me, and dryer sheets with me, because the coin changer doesn't work, and the soap dispenser doesn't work.  Score one for me!  I start walking around the washers and, out of the thirteen machines, two are unplugged, two have signs on them, and two more are simply shut off.  That means seven are left working: four giant ones, one medium machine, and two small ones.

The small washers look like larger washers until I put my clothes inside.  My small load of dirty clothes completely packs the drum.  I don't care.  I do not give one flying crap that I can spend an extra quarter and have a bigger washer; it's the principle of the thing.  I stuff those clothes in there like it's nobody's business, and, since I am the only one at the laundromat at 3:30 in the afternoon on a Thursday, it apparently isn't anyone's business but mine.

Twenty-seven minutes later, my clean clothes come out of the washer, and I find a clean and decent dryer that doesn't look like it will catch fire while drying my clothes.  I set it for hot, and I set it for twenty-one minutes at seven minutes per quarter.  Most of the stuff dries after I make sure that the dryer doesn't re-set itself to medium instead of hot temperature, a sure ploy to get more money out of unsuspecting patrons.  (Did I mention I've been here before?)

I hope I can survive the next six weeks of going to the laundromat, and I certainly hope that I spend more time at the big, clean laundromat in the next town.  However, at least I have experience on how to outsmart the machines at this local neighborhood dive.  In the meantime, long live clean skivvies -- even if it's hell to get them washed, dried, and folded for less than a king's ransom in quarters.

ODE ON A WINE SPILL

Goddamn shit sonofabitch!

I do not know which swear is which

Damnit, the wine glass does spill.

(Now I'm in need of refill.)

Cava all over the floor,

Running down cabinet door,

Making a mess that is bad;

Making me feel really sad.

I am so pissed off that I flip it

The bird but I'd just rather sip it.

Oh, plastic wine glass, you've failed me!

Your cava spill almost derailed me.

It's okay, no need for BOLO:

I'll refill a bigger cup SOLO.

FURNITURE, HAMMERS, AND MOVING DEAD BODIES

I'm moving.  Yes, it is official.  The best part about moving this time is ... uhhhh ... is there a best part about moving?  There are definitely pluses.  For example:

• All of my grown children have moved out, so I'm only moving my stuff (and a teeny bit of their leftovers).
• I started the purging process two years ago and realized during the epic Merrimack Valley Gas Crisis when the work crews invaded my home that I don't have much more crap to toss out.
• After my last kiddo vacated the premises in the spring, I did a huge reorganization (and more purging) of the bedrooms, so a lot of my minutiae is actually in decent order.
• I don't need that much from my kitchen to survive the next seven or so weeks, so I start packing fragile stuff (which takes forever) first.  (Isn't this why paper plates were invented?)
• I keep out a set or two of sheets and a few blankets, but all the rest can be packed up in boxes.
• I'm moving close by and have given myself six days for the entire move, so the pressure is low.
• I hired movers to do the heavy lifting.

That last point is key.  I don't mind moving, but I'm too old and far, far too beautiful for moving myself.  Oh, sure, it's going to be much easier to move small bureau drawers than it is to pack my clothes and then unpack them again just to put all my clothes right back into the drawers.  I'll move the drawers and the movers can lift the draw-less (and now considerably lighter) dressers.  I'll do the same with nightstands and desk drawers.  

It's easier for me.  

Carrying things like the sleeper-loveseat that weighs more than a small island?  Yeah ... no.  Making my friends and relatives carry futons and boxes and a kitchen table?  Forget that!  My friends can carry the coolers (if they so desire to be present at all), the full coolers, and help themselves as they go.

I do have a couple of big, heavy pieces of furniture that need to be tossed:  under-bed storage pedestals that used to be in my boys' room.  These two laminated particle-board drawer units weigh about three tons each.  Okay, not that much, but I've moved them several times all by myself across carpets, and they are about as easy to move as dead bodies.

So, today is the day those pedestal storage units must be dismantled.  My intention is to take them apart carefully, attach all the hardware (safely stored in baggies) to each main piece by using duct tape with signs that say "FREE TWIN BED STORAGE PEDESTALS" in case anyone really wants or needs them.  That is my intent.  Originally.

I am ridiculously gentle with the first pedestal, turning it onto its side, getting a good look at the screws and the under-assembly.  I start to loosen one screw and, remarkably, it's not too difficult.  Hopeful and full of care, I go for the next screw and bracket.

Nothing.  

I grab some gloves to add torque and really give it a whirl.  Still, nothing.  I don't really want to put WD-40 all over the frame because that will make a huge mess.  So, I get out the drill.  I probably should've done this at the beginning.  I can simply reverse the drill bit that has the screwdriver attachment.  Everything is charged and ready to go, so this ought to be a breeze, right?

Nope.

The damn screw won't budge.  I try a different screw but encounter the same result.  I head back to the hand-held screwdriver again.  Maybe I'm stupid and I'm doing something wrong.  I mean, the drill can only go forward or backward; how hard can this possibly be?

Nope, nothing, and never.  This is my screw-removal track record after screw number one.

Thirty minutes later I decide that there is no way, no how that I am going to salvage these bed pedestals, and quite frankly I don't give a flying shit anymore because the damn things are twenty-frigging-years old, and who wants them anyway, and tough shit if the trash people think it's construction trash and leave it all behind because I am done, done, DONE screwing around with these screwy screws and screw this and screw my life.

Out comes the hammer.

Now, I am not super strong, but I have lifted weights, done some cardio-kickboxing, and practiced judo for about five years.  I know the science of applying strength when and where need be by using whatever geometric laws and laws of physics are immediately available.  But, I'll admit that even I am surprised by the ferocity and ease at which I dismantle the two bed pedestals using a hammer and the brute force of my frustration.  Including the thirty minutes of struggle with bed pedestal number one, I have both pedestals completely apart and in pieces within an hour.  I have all the sharp hardware removed or hammered down shortly thereafter.  The longest process turns out to be duct-taping anything dangerous or pointed that might freak out the trash collectors.

I drag all of the parts, including the big wooden intact pieces, down the stairs and right out the front door.  I sort the contents of the six drawers into plastic bins and then line the empty drawers right up with the other destroyed wood and hardware that used to house them.  

The only fall-out from the whole process is the fact that particle board breaks down into, well, particles, so I have large chunks, smaller smatterings, and a lot of particle board shavings all over the room when I'm done.  Thank God for vacuums, though, because minutes later, with the exception of the pedestal base imprints on the carpet, there is no indication whatsoever that mayhem has happened on the premises.  Moving the bed frames may be as heavy and awkward as moving dead bodies, but, like the wicked person I am, no trace has been left behind.  Let that be a lesson to my enemies.  Yeah, I think I'll put that hammer away now.

ON THE MOVE

By the time I post this and people are reading this, I will be wrapping up my final fun summer misadventure on the road.  At the beginning of the summer, I said to myself, "Self, you should finally finish getting your house in order and getting yourself ready to start looking into downsizing!"  To be honest, I've been downsizing a lot over the last year and a half, and I have been so efficient at it that during the gas crisis, my basement was clear enough for an entire work crew to invade and still have room to move around.

The rest of the house ... needs some work.

But, summer arrived, and instead of putting time into the house, I started on a series of travels, mostly solo, to see and do and listen and feel and photograph and experience.  And I am loving every last possible second that I can wring out of August.  I tell Self (and Self agrees with me) that I can organize later, in the autumn, in the winter.  I can continue looking for a smaller place in the spring.  After all, the townhouse next door isn't quite ready; how soon will the landlords really need me out?

Those of you who have followed my years of blogging can testify, though, that nothing for me ever goes the way it's supposed to go.  Oh, sure, I have had the most awesome summer in years.  It has been a fabulous time!  I didn't get as far as I wanted (no long-distance trek to Pennsylvania or North Carolina), but I certainly went farther than I thought I would in June.

And then ... a text arrives randomly on my phone:  "You need to see this apartment."

Oh, no.  I'm not ready to move.  Not yet.  Next spring.  I've ignored this house all summer.  I'm disorganized.  I ... I ... I ... I text back.  "Sure.  Let me look."

Self says I should stay put for now.  I honestly don't know why I'm doing this crazy thing.  There are terrible, massive, tornado-spawning storms happening all day, and I'm not sure I'll make it between storm fronts to even see the place.  The landlord tried to call me in the middle of a nearby lightning strike, and my phone misses the call.  So many, many things seem to be trying to prevent me from getting to the place and taking the tour.

Well, I am not inside that apartment two feet when I declare to Self, "Shut up, Self.  I'm moving."  And, just like that, regardless of the semi-Brady Bunch kitchen set up (I'll pretend to be Alice every time I cook in the wall-mounted stove), I make my moves to be the best candidate for the apartment.  It's a cool old place with a curved staircase leading to two bedrooms upstairs, a decorative fireplace that used to work at one time, and small chandeliers in strange places.  It has outdoor space in the front on a porch and in the back with a small yard.  It has plenty of off-street parking, and it's closer to town than I already am, which is ridiculously close.

Best of all, I don't have to shovel out my car.  That's right; the parking lot gets plowed after snowstorms.  I don't know what I will do without endless shoveling to get in and out of my driveway that's on the receiving end of all of the snowdrifts on the street.  I don't know what I'll do without raking the constant flow of whirlygigs and leaves from the neighbor's trees, or seeing my car damaged by all the limbs that fall or the worms that poop.

It's going to be hard to leave the place I've called home for fifteen years and the neighborhood in which I've lived for twenty five years.  But kids, I'm on the move in a few weeks, a different kind of moving than I've been doing all summer, moving that will also be settling down for a while (I hope).

A bunch of small adventures to one big huge one this fall.  Stay tuned.  Self and I are on the road again.  It's been a while, but we're up to the challenge.