Welcome to my running commentary on life.

Welcome to my running commentary on life.

Monday, October 10, 2011

The Blessings of Life


7/3/10

It was a good week.  Hell, it was a grand week.  All things considered, it ended on a very high note.

At the end of last week, I thought things were pretty crappy.  I was facing a Saturday morning spent in overtime, followed by an afternoon of long-overdue washing in the musty, humid confines of our friendly neighborhood laundromat. 

My washer is dying.  My dryer isn’t in much better shape.  The house needs work—lots of work—and book sales ain’t what I wish they would be.  After spending $1200.00 to keep my lemon of a Saturn on the road, I’ve been running a bit short in the cash department. 

Summer expenses are the worst.  You shell out money for entertainment in the long summer days.  You pay for fancy summer schools to keep the kids’ minds engaged.  Then there’s air conditioning for those sweltering days and supplies to keep the sun from frying your skin and the bugs from eating you alive.  Vacations—even those spent at home—take a bite out of the pocket book.  And let’s not forget yard beautification!  It costs a pretty penny not to be the one house in the hood people cluck their tongues at.  Sigh.  Summer is expensive and the income remains the same as any other time of year. 

Ah, but I digress (like always).  It was Saturday and not starting out to be the weekend of my dreams.  So off to work I went, to spend some quality time trapped inside my stall at the cube farm.  Gratifying though it was to see I wasn’t alone in the world of financial crunch, I would happily have given anything to be anywhere else.  As I looked out over the sea of equally dismal faces, I wondered what these people would be doing if not stuck to an over-cooled office on such a fine, sunny day.  Would there have been pool parties, trips to parks with kids in need of parental attention, cookouts and picnics?  What price do we pay when we sacrifice our lives to the almighty dollar?

I stayed as long as I could stand—three and a half hours.  I promised to stay longer, but there comes a point when too much is enough.  I left.

The laundromat was fun.  I loaded two large carts with all the dirty clothes and bedding I had in the car and wheeled it all inside.  There was a lot of wash.  To say no one besides the driver would fit in my vehicle would be an understatement.  As it was, I had to shift with the load while I drove.

Once inside the stink of the place, feeling the sweat of other patrons hanging in the air and surrounded by the chemical stench of detergents and fabric softeners, and the aforementioned sweat, I wondered if the wash could wait another week.  As this thought was wending its way through my brain, one of the hampers tumbled off the cart and spilled forth on the floor.  No, it couldn’t wait.

I loaded up three four-load machines, two double-load machines and three single loaders.  After kissing goodbye to $25.00, I sat down to wait for the wash cycles to finish.  It was at this time I looked around at the other hapless patrons.  One thing I noticed was how shabbily everyone was dressed.  Yep, it was laundry day.  They were down to rags that were two sizes too small—a lamentable sight.  Apparently there is no dress code at the coin wash and I was over-dressed in my business casual. 

One woman kept yelling at her tweenies, while her husband/significant other rolled his eyes in frustration.  An older, tidy gentleman carefully guarded his two washers, stepping between them and anyone who dared wander too close.  A woman with the shape of a beach ball—with tiny head and short limbs—was intent upon telling me all about her horrendous health issues, going into vivid detail about the manner in which her many cysts were lanced.  A strange looking man was busily spraying every inch of every stitch of clothing he had with “Shout”.  Very odd.  My favorite, though, was the man with the braids in his long gray beard.  I’m just sure there’s a story there.

On the TV was some low-budget horror flick with bad acting and terrible animatronics.  The spectators were cheering for the monsters and laughing at the unbelievable panic of the nameless actors.  Ah, entertainment. 

When the washers finished, I began the arduous task of removing a couple hundred pounds of wet blankets, towels and clothing from my many washers.  The clientele of a laundromat is very territorial.  When I filled ten dryers along one long wall and staked out two tables for myself, I received quite a few nasty glances.  Tough ta-tas, ladies and gentlemen.  I got a lot to do and less time to do it in.

It’s been a long time since I’d been in a coin wash.  Did you know that you only get eleven minutes per quarter in a dryer these days?  I don’t know about anyone else, but I’ve never been able to get anything dry in eleven minutes and I was running out of coins fast, so off to the change machine I went.

I passed by the guy guarding his washers and made the mistake of stepping too close.  He almost ran me down getting to them before I could steal his jockeys.  After waiting in line for the man ahead of me to scoop his change out, I slipped a twenty in the slot and heard that lovely clang of eighty quarters slamming into a metal tray.  “Jackpot!” I yelled and began snatching at the coins as if I’d hit it big in Vegas.  The manager was not amused.  I was by her expression though.

On my way back to the dryers, I noticed Shout-man was still hard at work spraying his trousers.  For a moment I thought of telling him about a new invention called laundry detergent, that you could just pour a measure in and, Voila! your clothes come out clean.  But then I thought maybe it was a kinky fetish of his.  One mustn’t interfere with another’s personal gratification.  I shrugged and went on.

Cyst-woman filled the last two dryers on the end of the row where I worked, taking the table next to mine.  Oh, goody.  A couple more hours of tales of gore and mayhem.  Joy. 

Another woman had come in with seven kids and several loads of wet laundry in tow.  She gave me a scathing look when she saw all the dryers I fed with coins.  The kids commenced to screaming and running the minute they came in until the biggest knocked me down.  Now, this boy was a huge kid, bigger than his rather large mother—but when she saw what happened, she laid into him until he squawked for mercy.  The shivering child found a chair in the corner where he sat quietly for the rest of my stay.  Cyst-woman began mumbling something about minorities who didn’t know how to control their children and I turned up the heat on the dryers.  Come on, clothes!  Cook up already.

I folded, put things on hangers and fed more coins into machines.  The older man, with his few items now neatly folded and tucked under his arm, made a point of approaching me.  He wished me a pleasant day before leaving and pointedly ignored everyone else.  How very peculiar.  Shout-man continued to spray his shirts.

Cyst-woman had finished the descriptions of her underarm cysts and boils and moved on to her copious amounts of stomach mucous.  I began making deals with the dryers.  “If you work a little faster, I’ll hook you up with that smart-looking washer over there.  You know she wants you.”  “Okay, look, just get the clothes dry fast and I’ll see you get a long vacation on the Island of Misfit Toys.  Help me out a little, will ya?”

Finally!  It seemed to take forever (four and a half hours actually), and I’d already made several trips to my car with loads of clean things, but it was all finished.  Big Mama smiled at me and apologized again for her clumsy son.  Cyst-woman seemed rather dejected that I was leaving.  Shout-man finally started his washers.  Braided-beard had a twinkle in his eye as he grinned and waved.  I still think there’s a story there.

Home again after a very long day, I carried the first basket of items in and set it down on the carpeting.  Something was different.  With a frown on my face, I looked carefully about the place.  Had hell frozen?  Was I losing my mind?  Was I hallucinating? 

The house was clean.  Not just tidied a bit, but really clean.  The furniture gleamed, the carpet had luster and the kitchen was spotless.  Even the kitchen floor sparkled from a fresh scrubbing.  Halleluiah!  I didn’t know what had happened, but I thanked the goddess of all celestial housekeeping for her kind intervention and went in search of my husband.  Every room I passed was tidy, beds made, things put away. 

When I found him, he said something to me that I’ll never forget:  “You worked hard today.  I don’t want you to do anything but relax.”

My response?   “Who are you messing around with and how did you get her to clean the house?”

Yes, I’m sarcastic and rude, but give me a break.  This was completely out of character for him.  He’s not above helping me on house-keeping day, but he so rarely ever takes the initiative, I couldn’t help being a little suspicious. 

Then I decided it didn’t matter.  If he was screwing around, he was forgiven.  Gentlemen, let me clue you in on something about women.  When our homes are in order, all is right with the world.  We become very happy creatures.  I came home to a clean house.  That’s all that mattered.  And he got a big hug, a big smile and a very sloppy thank you kiss from a very grateful wife. 

After everything, the weekend was going to be all right.  And it had stopped raining.  The constant monsoon that was our Illinois spring had finally trickled to a halt. 

Sunday dawned sunny and hot.  The air was so thick you needed a machete to cut off a chunk to breathe, but I wasn’t about to let that stop me.  The yard needed a lot of attention.  All the rain had done wonders for the flower beds and tomatoes, but the weeds were taking over.  I had to use a digging fork to pull them all out.  Then my daughter helped me move the piles of refuse to the compost heap—a mound that doubled in size as we worked.  Together we planted the cannas my beloved Aunt Alice so loved and installed the water fountain my mother had given me for Christmas. 

My house was clean, my yard was in better order.  Things were looking up.  Still, one thing bothered me.  The skeleton of my ruined gazebo stood over the barren patio I’d built with my own hands.  It’s such a sad sight.  Knowing I wouldn’t be able to replace what Ma Nature tore asunder really irks me.  I loved writing out there.

Ah, but that’s why I was putting in the extra hours, right?  It was to pay for those extras we just can’t afford at present.  Times are hard all over and I should be grateful I have a job to put the time into.  Still, it would be many weeks of overtime before I could buy a new one.  It wasn’t going to happen this year.

But my house was clean.  When I woke Monday morning, it was still clean.  Oh, how I love a clean house, waking up and walking across the smooth carpeting, fixing breakfast in a neat, tidy kitchen.  I was in a good mood when I drove my child to school.  It was the same when I left work that evening.  Tuesday found me again in a good frame of mind even though I worked late and Wednesday morning when I got up, I found a few things out of place.  No problem.  In ten minutes I had the place neat as pin again.

Wednesday at work was a bit rough and very long.  It seemed everyone I talked to was in a foul temper and bent on taking it out on me.  Life at a call center is a pain in the ass sometimes.  But I was determined to keep everything positive.  I drove home slowly, taking time to unwind—after working extra hours—with the windows wide open and the wind in my hair. 

Pulling to a stop at the edge of the driveway, I got out of the car to get the mail.  There was an envelope from my father.  I thought, this can’t be good, and took a deep breath before opening it.  There were two small pieces of paper inside.  The first was a note.  “Spend this however you want.  With love, Dad.”  That’s all it said.

The second was a check—a very large check. 

My hand went to my mouth.  My butt went to the concrete.  The man who lived across the street came running.

He demanded to know if I was all right.  I said, “My dad is dying.”

“What?”

I handed him the note.  He looked more than a little perplexed as he helped me to my feet.  “My dad isn’t wealthy,” I told him, “and it’s not like him to do something like this.  He must be terribly ill.”

Once in the house, I started dialing the phone while handing the message to my husband.  The line rang as I handed him the check.  He dropped back into a chair and started grinning.  I got my dad’s machine and disconnected.  Once I got my mom on the phone, I asked her if she knew where Dad was and if he was all right.  She started laughing and asked if I’d got the check from him.

He had conferred with her before giving the gift.  It seems he felt his kids needed a little something to smile about and had written a check to each of us—just because.  By the time I finally got Dad on the phone, I was near tears.  I could buy a new washer, get the floor in my kitchen replaced, rebuild the deck, buy a new gazebo and still have enough to make reparations to my dwindling savings. 

My house was clean and no more OT!  Freedom! 

I called my sister and asked if she’d opened her mail.  She informed me she’d been too busy having fun with the neighbors.  “Open it,” I told her.  She launched into a tale of her evening’s fun and I interrupted.  “Open the *bleeping* mail!”

A moment later she was sobbing.  “He’s leaving us,” she said.  “Something’s wrong and he’s not telling us.”  All I could do was laugh.  It was the same reaction I’d had.  “He shouldn’t be doing this,” she insisted.  “We don’t need it.  He needs to keep his money.”

It must be nice, I thought.  No, I don’t really need it either.  The money crunch for us will be over by the end of this month, but it’s a very welcome gift.  Knowing how my father is with money makes it all the sweeter.  It’s not that he’s not generous.  If I really needed money, he’d write me a check in the bat of an eyelash with no questions asked, but he went without a lot as a kid and the lessons of childhood tend to stick for a lifetime.  He is a very frugal man.

Driving to work Thursday was a fun adventure.  With the princess in the back seat chattering away and feeding off my mood, and the radio playing a favorite tune, we made our way through town.  The stop-and-go traffic didn’t bother me.  Even my old nemesis in his pearl-white Cadillac Escalade couldn’t rile me.  I made a point of driving along side him.  As usual, he was juggling his coffee, his cell and his paperwork.  Today it even appeared he had his laptop open in the passenger seat, watching the screen instead of the road. 

With a wicked grin, I gave the horn a little toot.  His coffee hit the windshield and the cell phone hit the floorboard.  As he wrestled for control of the steering wheel and turned to give me a deadly glare, I smiled and waved—not the usual one-finger salute of most mornings, but a genuinely friendly wave.  I think he was a bit shocked because he took on that deer-in-the-headlights expression and offered a hesitant wave of his own. 

The princess laughed.  It’s good to hear her laughter.  The poor kid has been feeling the strain of our tension over the past few weeks.  Today, she’s feeling much lighter and much happier.  Work was actually fun with a few troublesome members of the team gone a day early for the holiday.  My mood of joy continues, a feeling I tried to pass on to everyone I met.  The long weekend awaits and much happy work is ahead at home.

So, to that end, the new Fortress of Solitude is in a carton in my garage—ready to be assembled.  I’m in search of contractor to fix the water damage to my house.  Tomorrow we’ll be shopping for a new washer.  And soon I’ll have the husband swinging a hammer on the new deck.  Life is sweet.  It’s truly amazing what a couple of thoughtful gestures can do for a person’s outlook.