Cleanliness is next to...

My friend L called to check on me. Six times. Which is how I figured out in a definitive kind of way that my blogs had taken on a bit of a spiraling aspect. A bilious hue, if you will. She called my cell phone, and then my land line. “What are you doing?” I was sorting my sock drawer, naturally, because I had finished moving the furniture, including the sofa, which was only stuck for a very very short time at the foot of the stairs before my daughter and her 9 year old friend managed to help me heave-ho it over the railing to the living room and drag it out to the front porch. The wedging of my pinky was brief and piercing, but my pinkies have been bent for a long time now, on account of arthritis, so it doesn’t really matter. When John comes home, he’s not going to say, “my god what happened to your pinky? Wasn’t it straight before?” He may, on the other hand, inquire after the love seat that once sat in our bedroom. In the spot the love seat left bare? Socks, dust, and receipts.

I explained to L that sorting my underwear drawer was an exercise in godliness. “You get to live!” I declared to a white sport sock whose pair had been found under a sofa cushion. “But you... hole-ridden crispy heeled fool... to. the. black. bag!” I picked up receipts from items purchased on business trips taken over the past decade and put them in the blue bag while I answered L’s questions. Did I have a keel? No. Not so much. Was I getting work done? Well, it depends upon how narrowly you define “work.” I counted raffle tickets for the school halloween event. Does that count? She thought maybe it ought to count. So should the email I wrote to a magazine asking (1) Did you like my story and (2) Can I come meet with you? “Brilliant! L said. ”Surely they can’t say no to both!“ Also, sorting counts. She said it was a very very good thing that I was tidying up, because we have to believe that we have control over something.

My lack of control has become so thorough that it extends to chocolate and eggs. “I. must. eat. chocolate...“ is hardly a novel refrain. But, ”What the heck, I might as well have a couple fried eggs in the middle of the day...“ is pushing it. I mean. Eggs? A few years back I went through a dark dark time. I swaggered toward a wine bottle at 10 am, stepped back, and called my therapist. Apparently, those were the good old days. I don’t think even my therapist wants to know that I’m giving in to the siren cry of a runny yolk.

L is laughing. She has the kind of laugh that makes you feel like you ought to make money every time you open your mouth. Because you are so funny. really. a stitch. she loves you. she means it. you know it. you are a dynamo. (And that’s just L. Your socks think you’re a god).

L said I sounded better than she expected. She said all of us going through The Struggle had to focus on the cup being half full. Which made me laugh, on account of my cup having a hole in the side. But that’s just me. Not my dog. My dog? She has a love seat just the right size on the front porch. She’s too old to get down from it on her own, which means once she’s up, she’s up, and nobody bogs her down with a leash. Odds are, the mice are going to think that outdoor love seat is a pretty good turn, too.

Hopefully I’ll have a job by spring, and will never have to know exactly how they show their appreciation.