Monday, March 17, 2008

no blogging until you've finished your peas

Couldn't blog this weekend; I had chores.

Spent part of Saturday and most of Sunday pulling the landfill
(computer room) apart and putting it (mostly) back together. If wires and cables were money... Anyway, the junk I didn't throw away is piled up on the dining room table and in the, well shit, I don't know what to call it, I guess it's the den but that sounds too plaid herculon for my tastes.

I am such a collector of crap. Of course, it's not crap to me. It's material for projects, things that surround me with happy ideas for future creativity. But it's also too much. Too fucking much. I need clear spaces and breathing room. So I am fighting against my nature and doing the purge.

The biggest challenge is momentum. Which is why boxes and bags have become an anathema to me. Anything dumped in a cardboard box and moved out of my visual path is dead to me. I am not going to open it up just to sort through and organize. I shouldn't even have closet doors. The existence of a closed box of chaos simply doesn't nag at me. They scream to be dealt with for most of my family members but I can't hear them at all.

Speaking of not being able to hear things
I learned early in adulthood that I don't do well with pets. Particularly quiet pets. If I have to tend to something, it had better know how to make some noise when it needs food and water. My ex-husband had a penchant for getting pets and then, going out of town. The hermit crabs were a case in point. I can't recall if we named them Larry, Moe & Curly but that's how I remember them. And that's about the sum total of my affection for them, too. Hermit crabs are not easy to warm up to. And they are awfully quiet. I walked past them a few days after Dave had gone and thought, Jesuschrist those damn things stink like fish. At which point it dawned on me that I had forgotten something. Like teaching them to tap on the glass every night to remind me to, you know, feed and water them.


The three dead crab stooges initiated the guilt list of pets in my life. (No, I didn't kill all of them, assholes. Well, I did kill a couple hundred sea monkies, I'll admit. And euthanized a paralyzed parakeet, Bert–or maybe it was Ernie, who entered his eternal rest in a carbon monoxide fog, but that was an avian mercy killing, people.) The rest of the animals and plants (goddammit, plants are really quiet) that I have reluctantly allowed to share my domain were under the strict purview of the softhearted family member who wanted them. Or they just didn't make it.

More later, about the creatures in my life.

4 comments:

Menchuvian Candidate said...

*****most boring, self-involved, comment of all time deleted here after multiple attempts at revision to conceal its complete lack of merit*****

Hi!

Epiphenita said...

Hi right back. You don't write boring but I must admit I've done the same thing. Writing often has a life of its own. This was one of those silly posts that meandered to my lousy pet karma without any intention on my part and I just tried to stay out of the way.

Dr. Ding said...

Menchuvian Candidate: I am a total fan of any comments you make, boring, self-involved, non-meritorious and otherwise. Altho I'm with epiphenita...you don't write boring.

epiphenita: and as for you, little missy -- I will forever see you as The Sea Monkey Murderess. O the delicious shame of it all, a scarlet Monkey 'pon your bosom, I say!

As ever, I delight in your pet-neglecting madness.

Jenny, the Bloggess said...

I totally killed a hamster once. Accidentally...not on purpose like a practicing serial killer.

25 years later and I still feel guilty.

RIP, Peachy.