Insults, Injury and the Status Quo

New Year Resolutions. I don't do them. In fact, I resolve very little, be it a page turn of the calendar or otherwise.  

Self-serving disclaimer to follow: I like to think my observational skills are such that, as necessity dictates, I can and will make changes to ensure life improves. Usually, for my offspring more than for myself. I'm rather content in my thirty-odd years of practically drama-free living. As the lead researcher of my own complex character existentialism, I see very little that needs changing (other than the sheets...) and understand, warmly embrace even, my own dependence upon variable-free day-to-day living, and I believe that ultimately results in a fairly constant state of peaceful existence.

However, if the winter onslaught of January and February wasn't enough, the past 72 hours have unfolded themselves, nearly hour by hour, as something of an epiphany for me. And, it seems, not only hour by hour but page turn by page turn, this stoic lead character (I think we'd all agree "heroine" is a bit of a stretch) has slowly come to realize that change, whether welcome or not, will indeed come knocking. And one may choose to open the door, and warmly embrace the arrival of the impromptu house guest. Or, turn the bolt lock with a snap, turn a nose to the air and turn a cold shoulder to the inevitable.

Through the process of this week's preliminary studies, I believe the latter to be detrimental. Seems my penchant for the passe precludes progress. As is evidenced by the following summary of the aforementioned 72-hour cathartic period.

Sunday, my darling, darling nomad of a spouse leaves for work.

Wednesday afternoon, the water meter reader arrives. Child is sleeping. Existentialist is hard at work, answering emails and pondering the frequency of the appearance of pink rings in the toilet bowls. Doorbell rings. (Think campy horror flick. Ding. Doooooooooong. Complete with warped and warbled sound effects. Danger, Will Robinson. Danger.)

"Ma'am? (Ugh. "Ma'am". Basically, a passive insult. Nothing good ever follows a "Ma'am?" It's like when your mom calls, and greets you with "Honey? You got a second?" Ding. Doooooooooong.) "Are you aware you've got a water leak out here leading from the main line?" Internal dialogue: "Why Yes! Dear, sir. Isn't it a thing of beauty? Bubbling up like a fresh natural spring. Peaceful. Wouldn't you agree?"


In reality, this conversation ends with a field trip out to the water box, with a detailed explanation consisting of the following phrases: "200% of your normal usage", "definitely your responsibility to fix", "plumber will need to bust up this sidewalk", "water will be out for days", "may want to contact the city", "you're screwed", "gather up your children and head out", "cash in your 401k", "get your living will in order".

Thursday phone calls ("We've traced the call... it's coming from inside the house.") from both our Home Warranty Company as well as our Homeowner's Insurance Company confirm that such a trifle matter is not covered by any of our policies.

Thursday evening, nomad wanders back to the tribe. Four year old receives an unfortunate and forceful blow to the brow with a metal doorknob. (Palpable irony.) After parental deliberation on severity of said injury, our foursome loads up and heads to the ER. (This experience deserves the solemnity of its own post. I will therefore withhold detailed commentary.) A leisurely four hours later -- wiled away with an oft-replayed downloaded episode of "Yo Gabba Gabba! on the nomad's phone, Ray Charles's Hit the Road, Jack, numbing cream and three sutures -- we head home.

Friday morning, five year old shuffles into nomad and existentialist's room, ablaze with fever and upset stomach, unsure she'll make it to the toilet. Internal dialogue: "Holy Hand Grenade. We have no water. Vomiting kid. No water." Ding. Doooooooooong.

Just as I'm heading to the front door with a screw driver and pliers to forcefully remove the doorbell (what I had at that time concluded as the source of all evil), the Masters of Disaster -- 24-Hour Emergency Plumbing Service arrive. After sucking down the smoke of three cigarettes, while bluntly prodding the sod in question, Mr. Disaster Master confirms, "It's not good."

Currently, we are awaiting a jackhammer to arrive to destroy the sidewalk covering the problem pipe, in so doing, significantly contributing to our neighbors' ever-growing distaste for us. I have decided to not only keep the doorbell functioning, but unlock the front door, open it wide, and freely accept any and all possible arrivals for the unforeseeable future. It is obvious to me, with head in the sand, I've ignorantly evaded change far too long. It has found me. Tracked me down like a thief in the night. Has me zeroed in, and will unrelentingly plop itself upon my front stoop until it believes I have succumbed to my fair share of drama-filled, variable-driven, lifestyle-altering change.

Ding. Doooooooooong.

"Why come on in! Yes. Yes! Of course, have a seat. I'd offer you a glass of water, but I'm fresh out."