The phrase of the week : “Busier’n’a three-peckered billy goat in a French whorehouse.”. I dunno how and when that particular phrase colonized my brain, but I’ve been dropping it constantly, to the occasional amusement and slightly more frequent consternation of the ‘How ya goin?’ brigade.
The house is in a complete shambles and that feels really strange. After a couple of uninterrupted years of relatively quiet, predictable domestic bliss, the feelings evoked by the chaos of moving are decidedly odd . Strange people in and out of the house, meals thrown together out of whatever’s around (the mock-Irish stew I cooked up for dinner was pretty fine, actually), the zooming around in a fashion not unlike the above-mentioned domestic animal, the 3 million details, the downright surly people that answer the phones and provide ‘customer service’ on this Big Dry Island….it all makes me feel pleasantly enervated, full of anticipation, and recalls a little bit the time in Cancun with Craig and his tribe, when there were a couple major things to take care of (food, schooling, etc for the kids) and pretty much everything was a lip-of-the-screaming abyss maelstrom of giddy randomness and substance abuse. Not that it was that much fun, most of the time, at least when I was sober, but I look back on it as an education about how one’s life can be completely out of control but still feel right.
Anyway, I kinda feel that now. Coupled with the tendency to worry overmuch about minutiae that the last two years at OmniHyperGlobalMegaNet have taught me, and the domestic life has bedded down.