|My dining room; if you look hard, you can see a table|
I lay there and thought about it and decided that of course I want to avoid the world—specifically the house—I’m living in, because it’s chaos.
Jordan and I have three challenges—downsizing, hail damage, and a weekend garage sale. She does the lion’s share of the work but goes home at night to a relatively organized home and goes to work. She’s not with this mess 24/7. When that realization came to me, I got out of bed and went about my day, but it was a hectic day.
Lewis, the contractor, came to look at the claims adjustor’s report; the restoration company delivered 47 cartons (the inventory says 37) of supposedly salvaged books—we will have to examine all of them. Jordan said she’d do it tomorrow, and I hooted. It will take weeks! I made appointments with AT&T—the U-Verse box is out due to water damage—and with an exterminator because the claims adjustor said we have rat (live, not dead) the size of a small dog in the attic. My day was full of busy stuff like that.
Last night Jordan went through lots of cupboards pulling out things for the garage sale, so they are now on every available surface in the house. Plus things from her house are scattered all over, in bags, in the dining room, my bedroom. And then there are those cartons of books in my dining room. It’s a freakin’ disaster.
|My guest room; no, the antique trike is not for sale|
Using my cane, I wend my way through boxes and piles. This afternoon I sorted two bags of books and determined that most can go to Saturday’s garage sale. That’s another thing—I hate garage sales and hide in the house during them. This is a project for Jordan and neighbor Jay—I suspect Christian is fervently hoping that Jacob has a Sat. morning baseball game.
And remodeling speculation and anticipation goes on. Lewis delivered an estimate yesterday and it is high, as I expected, but we found some places where we could cut corners. He’s waiting for an okay from all my children before he spends the money for a city permit.
Lesson I’ve learned from this: when I was 40 and 50 I served dinner to 20, more or less, every Sunday night; in my sixties, I entertained frequently, with elaborate dinners like coquilles St. Jacques; I’m now in my late 70s and I can’t do it anymore and shouldn’t beat myself up for not doing it. Nor should I nurture my guilt over feeling tired. I am tired. Chaos wears you out. I’m going to bed early, with the sure knowledge I got a lot done today.