So The Man says to me, “did you figure out what we’re doing about carpet yet?” and I reply, uh, no… remember, we don’t know when we’re closing??? And he says, “Well, figure it out. Find something, make arrangements.” I’m skeptical, and ask, do you want to make a hot date to carpet shop with me this weekend? And he replies an astonishing, “no, Just find something, take care of it.”
It’s like a hallelujah chorus in my brain, full-on Choir of Angels striking that Triumphant Chord.
And then, just like an IKEA glass handled by a drunken housewife, the reverie is shattered with his next comment, “but remember, it needs to be cheap.”
Well, hell’s bells.
once upon a time, I sold carpet. I could tell a branded fiber from its poor country cousin with my eyes closed. I could sniff out fiber content out like a connoisseur sniffs out quality. I could, blindfolded, no hands, no breathing, tell face weight and pile height as a county-fair trick, “fool the guesser.”
Okay, notsomuch. But I can, just like any human being with fingers, toes, and eyes, tell a good quality carpet from a crap one, and my time in The Biz made me a bit wise to Tricks Played by Salespeople.
So there I was, much to my surprise, at a wholesale outlet,(I tend to disdain Those Places–God help me if this disdain goes well-founded at the end of it all) letting my fingers do the walking (so to speak) and I found a few worthy samples to bring home. To my surprise, the one I found the best value (Dupont Tactesse, textured plush, decent face weight and twist, not to high pile) was in our price range –though I didn’t think the bronzy-brown color would fly with the folks at home. Third and final surprise –my fave was also theirs. The Kid reveled at how good it felt on bare feet, even coaxing The Man from his spot in bed watching TV to give it a test toe-squish. He reveled at how the color looked like it’d probably hide dirty dog feet. I reveled at my good fortune– a good carpet, good price, full family agreement? Again, the choir struck up The Chord.
And so I was in the kitchen, looking at paint samples, checking the color against approximated tile, feeling pretty –dare I say it — happy , when the folder from Sainted Agent Rita caught my eye from it’s spot on the table– not where it had been when I left the house. “Did you talk to Rita today?” I asked. “Yep.” He said. “So?” I prompted. “what.” he responded. “what’d she say?” I said with the patience of a mom of a seven year-old.
“Oh. We got papers for another extension.”
Again, the crashing IKEA glass, happy bubble popped. I saw the fax, with extension dated by or before next Friday, and my gut dropped a little. While he’s been gearing up, getting all kinds of manic-energetic, “what’d-you-do- today, let’s-paint-some-more, hey-I-brought-you-more-boxes,-honey” I’m getting outright tired. Insomnia is becoming my new middle name. I am sick of boxes piled four high and six deep. I’m sick of forearm cramps on my painting arm (swear to God, by the end of this month my right forearm is going to look like that of a teenaged boy who just Discovered Himself.) I’m sick of wandering around-the-town in paint clothes with holes (today I sported a lovely pair of sweats with a butt-pocket hole. Cute.) I am sick of telling The Kid, “I Don’t Know” when she asks when we’ll be in “The Cat-pee Smelling House” and I amd just… well, Hell. It’s all the same song, seventeenth verse, by now.
But here’s a new refrain: I think it’s all wearing on the puppies now, too. Tank’s been carrying around his wubbie Winnie-the-Pook puppet that Bill chewed the eyes out of a year ago, (Bill was sad not to find stuffing and let it go, and Tank discovered it) and following me more closely than usual. He has a worried look in his eyes. Bill tries to play it off, and be all “yeah, well, whatever –oh, hey! Look! It’s my private holy bits! MMMMMM, nom, nom, slurp.” –but I can tell he’s getting a bit weirded out, too — he’s slept with The Kid every night (tonight they’re in crates so as not to become grey-green dogs from The Kid’s freshly painted walls)
I can hear their conversations, though they think I can’t understand them.
Tank: “So, you think they’re gonna leave us? What’s happening? Why are they taking all the stuff and putting it away? Are they going camping again? WHAT’S HAPPENING????”
Bill: “Dude. Chill. I dunno, it’s like, well, whatever Nommmnommslurpmmmmmm, oh yeah.”
“But, well, why did they pack my ear wash? And remember the kid wanted to brush me because I had dirt and they packed my brush, and you’re kinda’ rank, dude, don’t mean to offend, but…ya know… –And She didn’t even bathe you yet.”
slurping briefly stops, Bill looks at Tank, a moment of pain, worry, and fear in his eyes. “Dude. Just shut the fuck up, okay? Whatever. It’ll all be fine.” Bill walks away, to find Her.
Even Flash the sequel/Fluffy the gerbil is aware something is up (and the reason for tonight’s insomnia, actually ) –I moved him/her and his/her shelf-y stand thing, into the hallway, so I could paint, and he/she was in his/her high-tower ball and he/she just kept looking at me. All day. His/her beady little eyes followed me, I swear. And then tonight, I heard him/her muttering to him/herself, “those bastards, think they can do this to me, well….” digdigdigdig, scratch scratch. Scuffle scuffle. Thunk, dig, scratch, thunk. “…I’ll show them, bust outta’ here, get some buddies…” thunk, scratch, digdigdigdig…
why yes, I am going stark raving barmy. Sleep *will* come soon for me, and then tomorrow night I will have a much needed evening with the girls and then on Saturday I will take a mental health day at the ocean, to hang with a different group of girls. because I need me some estrogen time, some un-painty, un-holey-clothes-y giggles and laughs where the conversation is not kitchens and boxes and delays and the wine is flowing.
oh, yes.
Up the Hill 
ann said,
July 16, 2009 at 2:19 pm
I hope you’re in your new house soon…damned delays. If it’ll help I can go, err, you know “visit” these people for you — you know kind of show ’em how to get the gettin on, (wink, wink) just, um…say the word. Or flick the side of your nose. You know, give the old, uh, signal-like.
jcbetty said,
July 16, 2009 at 2:27 pm
how about the wink/chin-twitch to the right/look quickly to the left signal? (or are you just jonesin’ for a trip to Denver to the VA peeps, followed by a trip to Spokane, where the title stuff will be, then possibly to California, god knows where, to where the seller-bank is?