T-minus two days until Hawaii, and I’m getting truly excited. These past few days spent goldbricking around the house have been excellent, and have half-scared me by giving me a glimpse of what my life might be like without work. Doing nothing has merits, for a time, but even I begin to feel a mite guilty as one purposefully uneventful day blends into the next – so much so that I don’t even know, or care, what day it is. Now, that’s lazy…
I did, however, do a bit more than usual today. Well, sabbatical-usual, that is… and, only slightly more, at that. Got a bug and tidied Keaton’s room. It’s one of those rooms that folks rarely see, unless we escort them back there for a reason, so I don’t freak out about it being too untidy. And, Lord knows that, unless I’m the one tidying, it’s going to be a heap haphazard enough to make a hurricane jealous – with my wife. That room, and our master bedroom, are the ones in which I’m able to “tolerate” the most clutter. I still hate it with every fiber of my being, but I can at least keep my “areas” clear enough to keep my rage suppressed. Somedays I just lost it, though, and that’s when I tear through in a frustrated sweat, going a hundred miles an hour. I know this to be something my father “passed on” to me. I can recall when he’d reach the frustrated point where he’d sweep through the room, tossing anything he didn’t thing belonged there into the trash, or piling it in a heap on my bed. I used to hate it, then; now I find it completely gratifying, if rather ineffective. Anyway, that’s what I did today in Keaton’s room. A reverse whirlwind, cleaning with gusto, cleaning with a purpose.
Well, I had intended to post this entry last night – but before the preceding fourteen words, the previous two paragraphs where all I had, and the motivation dried up there. I stayed up late reading anyway, till sometime past 1am, when I finally decided I’d better hit the hay. So it’s Thursday morning now, we’re up watching TiVo’d episodes of the Backyardigans and Sesame Street – well, Keaton is, partway, at least… she’s never been a big TV person (good for her, I suppose). Regardless of all that – it’s the day before we leave for Hawaii. I’m sure there’ll be lots of planning and plotting and packing, and perhaps all sorts of other alliterative P-words too – you never know. Sharaun is freaking out a bit, true to form, asking me to do illogical things like call the concierge at the hotel ahead of time to find out where the closest grocery store is – as if having this piece of knowledge in advance will net us some material benefit. “We can ask when we get there,” I say. Women. Who’ll ever understand them?
Continuing my story of having dinner with our elders the other night: We were seated at the table and the conversation had, once again, turned to WWII (likely because I always subconsciously drive it there – did you know the target-audience of the History Channel is 80% male?). At some point in the conversation, our friend remembered a limerick the kids used to say at the time: “Frankie’s in the White House, eating pork and beans; Eleanor’s in the bathtub, shooting submarines.” She blushed and giggled like a little girl after saying it. Shooting submarines in the bathtub… that’s a scatological reference, right? Something having to do with torpedoes and pooping in the tub? Hilarious… especially from someone nearly ninety years old. OK, that counts as a paragraph, right? More than anything I wanted to get that quote on my blog in hopes of pulling in obscure Google searches (I coudn’t find it verbatim in reference to the Roosevelts, although it’s prevalent in what must be its original form about a judge and his wife).
Until next time, from somewhere on the beach and hopefully a few drinks in the black. Later.