Welcome to my running commentary on life.

Welcome to my running commentary on life.

Friday, August 12, 2011

Windows to the soul

All I wanted to do today was wash my windows. When your windows are clean, your whole house is cleaner, the lighting changes and the world looks better. It’s a simple thing, but it does so much for one’s personal outlook.

It’s not an easy task, but not particularly difficult either. You have to open the window, take out the screen, take out both storms, close the window, wash the inside of the panes, go outside and wash the other side. Then you have to brush the dust from the screen, wash the storms and reassemble. It’s a fairly simple process—unless there are obstacles.

Couches are obstacles. My couch is over-sized with a solid wood and steel frame. I had it special ordered that way. In other words, it weighs a ton. It sits caddy-corner, with space behind it for a large fichus tree and a small trunk.

To get to the window—the last of the three I was washing—behind it, I decided it would be easier to just straddle the back of the couch, rather than move it. Well, that's the window that won't stay up on its own, so it was tricky to get the storms out. The thing has a tendency to just drop closed with no prompting from me. It’s possessed.

When it closed on my arm, I had the loose storm in my hand and almost dropped it out the window. I put my foot down behind the couch for stability, right on a piece of broken glass. How the hell did that get here? Who, in this house, would dare to break a glass and not clean it up—especially behind the couch?

I fell back against the fichus, uprooted it, had to move the couch to get it out. The floor under the couch was covered in household debris, so I had to vacuum. Then the tree had to be taken out the front door to be repotted. The trail of potting soil had to be cleaned, so the vacuum was brought out again. But I’m getting ahead of myself.

After the jagged shard of glass cut into my foot, I enlisted the assistance of my reluctant husband who was hiding from the scene. He was carefully ensconced in his man-cave, watching “Enemy of the State” and rooting for the bad guys. After all, the bad guys are the true underdogs in these silly movies, right? They never win.

I lovingly called out to him for help by announcing he’d better get his backside in here before I decided to beat the windows out with a hammer. He stomped to the living room door and demanded to know what I wanted. That’s when I suggested his father might not have been of the human species and that he needed to fornicate with himself. I’m not a very pleasant person when irritated.

He would probably have answered me in kind except that he noticed the blood on the white couch, the two screaming girlies adding to my annoyance, the puppy chewing on the shoe that had fallen off my foot, and the look on my face. He went for the first aid kit.

What I needed was for him to lift the window ensnaring my arm, the one precariously holding to the dangling storm window, which grew heavier with each passing moment. I didn’t care about the throbbing pain in my foot. I wanted to save the expensive window before it hit the ground below and shattered.

I voiced this sentiment to him in very colorful terms that had my daughter and her little friend blushing and covering their mouths in shock. As I yelled the words through the house, he was rummaging around for a Band-Aid. Seriously?

In a fit of anger, I found the strength to yank the window up with one hand, pulled a muscle in my neck and managed to lower the storm down to the ground. By the time he came back, I had the upper pane out and was leaning out to put it on the ground as well.

Then he saw his fichus. He had that tree for more years than he’s had a wife. He accused me of stepping on it, of breaking it. First, the thing is taller than me. If I had stepped on it, it would have torn my foot a new one. Second, if he was so concerned about it, he would have taken care of it. Instead, the thing was so dry the roots broke free and the dirt crumbled away.

So, the couch had to be moved. I reached for the bandage in his hand. He jerked his hand back and told me he would do it. Yeah, I know how gentle he is. Didn’t seem like such a good idea to me, but I just wanted to get the mess cleaned up, so I let him. After cursing at him for mashing the adhesive onto my wound, I shoved the couch out.

Yuck.

Maybe I should move it out more often. There was a collection of cracker crumbs, pet hair, bits of candy, coins, pieces of toys, and other debris I won’t even try to identify. To say I was disgusted would be an understatement.

Once the mess was vacuumed away, the plant had to be moved. Thank heavens for large planters with casters. The problem was the tree was listing dangerously and every time I tried to move it, dirt fell from the pot. There was nothing for it but to get it out of the house, so I slung soil across the carpeting and out the door.

That’s when the flower pot was broken. It used to sit on my front stoop with pretty pink flowers of different varieties in it. Now it adorns the bottom of the garbage can out back.

I cursed so badly the neighborhood dogs were shocked into silence.

After cleaning up the mess and repotting the fichus—using all the potting soil I had on hand—I moved the planter back inside. It’s now installed in the dining room where it has a better chance of getting proper water to ensure it heals. (Hopefully, Fuzzball the crazy feline won’t try to climb it again and thereby finish destroying it, but you can never tell what the cat will do when the dog takes after him.)

I was exhausted. My foot hurt, my head throbbed from the squabbling of the little girls. As I walked back to the living room to vacuum up the potting soil, I stepped on the cat and tripped over the pup. What I need are more distractions.

Leaving the cowering dog and sulking kitty, I finished sweeping up the mess, washed the windows and put it all back together.

Putting it together was almost as much fun as taking it apart. The husband was hiding again, the window sash fell on my arm again and this time the girls had enough sense to be elsewhere.

Unfortunately, “elsewhere” was the front of the house—with the garden hose. They were taking turns spraying each other and everything else in a 15 foot radius. Now, just why they decided to stretch the hose all the way to the driveway at the front of the house is one of those mysteries that makes parents shake their heads in wonder. We have nearly an acre of ground, but they decided to play there. With the water hose. Right in front of the windows I had just washed—while my arm was trapped in the side window.

Did you know there are some species in the animal kingdom who actually eat their own young? Those are the smart ones.

Not only were the kids splashing water all over my formerly clean windows, but the windows were down on my car.

Need I say more? Should I describe the carnage?

Vodka is a wonderful thing. It soothes the soul, calms the mind, and saves lives. The kiddies are lucky I have a good supply on hand.

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