It's the Way That You Do It

I'm sick of the moving boxes, gift boxes, ornament boxes, financial papers, wrapping paper, tissue paper, paper wadding, gift tags, store tags, jade leaves, recycling, regular garbage and presents Miss Sasha sent for the whole family. A chicken is roasting in the oven. Clean laundry hangs from every door, knob and curtain rod. Larry, the little black cat bent on stealing your soul, was disturbed from his cozy afternoon nap long enough for me to vacuum up dust bunnies and grit. The floor from the living room, through the hallway and into the kitchen no longer feels like a sandy stretch of boardwalk. Siobhan called me too early.

Siobhan: Did I wake you?
Tata: Yes. It's 9:40.
Siobhan: 9:50.
Tata: Buh-bye!

Left to my own devices, I sleep better after the sun comes up. On weekends, insomnia's less annoying if I manage little naps before 11. Ugh. I lie down on the couch and drift off a bit. Laundry. Laundry. Laundry. I'm running through a castle filled with small red and white pompoms or maybe they're Mini Baby Bell cheeses and I'm late for the fondue but the laundry is still dry and and I think three people were there with long dark hair and damn it, I'm mostly awake and those are the Supremes. You can't hurry love! No, you just have to wait! I get up and wheel the washing machine to the sink.

Last week, Grandpa called to thank me for sending him cookies, and to ask where I'd bought his calendar last year. I wasn't sure but promised to find him another. Wednesday, I shopped online, not paying the closest attention, and I bought a calendar refill, rather than the actual calendar. I realized my mistake immediately and wrote back to the vendor. Four hours later, customer service responded that the order had already gone out, and my only hope was to get the package refused. The prospect of getting someone at his apartment building to refuse a package sent to a nearly blind, nearly deaf, 93-year-old war veteran was...well, that ain't gonna happen.

Of course, yesterday I got an email that my order had shipped, so fuck them. I'll never do business with them again. Meanwhile, my grandpa still needs a calendar. In other shipping news, Miss Sasha and Mr. Sasha sent out two large packages filled with Christmas presents for the family. One large box came to me. The other took an exciting tour of warehouses in Edison before returning to Florida, where it was repackaged and...no one knows. Friday, I returned home to find a box so large I wasn't sure it'd fit through my door. After lots of Seuss-like shoving, pushing and pulling, the box ended up in the hallway, where it stayed until this morning, when I couldn't stand its hulking presence another minute. I hacked it open and found another box. When I hacked that open and pulled out the contents my apartment looked like it'd snowed packing paper and styrofoam bits and the poor little village was engulfed by the avalache, help, help, let loose those dogs with booze drums! And me, without my lederhosen!

After I could find the floor again and vacuumed it, I turned my attention to the ceiling and hung up more ornamental balls in the kitchen. Then I re-potted the plants Paulie gave me and played with mud. And cleaned up water. And made more mud. Nothing could be sillier than believing my housework might interest another human being, so I don't. Yet here we are. It's not the housework. I'm slowly making the modest, little apartment look like the whole magical world looks in my head. Sort of. Without livestock, I may resort to Chia Pets.