It’s been humid this week. But that’s ok, because it’s also been extremely hot. The only relief is to get even more damp by jumping in the 72-degree ocean. Not a bad solution at the end of a long sweaty day, except that nothing dries. Nothing. No matter what. You can hang a slightly soggy used towel over the deck rail, IN THE SUN, and six hours later it’s still wet. Full-page paper receipts that come straight from the printer, crisp and fresh with new ink displaying how broke we now are, turn limp and flaccid the instant I step outside.
Our hotel room afforded the three of us a brief oasis of perspiration-free living on Thursday night. If it weren’t for the fact that our bank accounts are completely devoid of money, I would have sprung for another night. That brings us to Friday. The long awaited HELOC closing at Greenwood Credit Union. With 91 High Street paid off, we thought it would be a great idea to make it not paid off anymore. After signing no less than 73 sheets of still dry paper, we collected our copies and watched them wilt on their journey from the bank to our car.
Our document wasn’t the only thing drooping. During our closing we learned that we wouldn’t have access to these funds for a while. The loan needed to record and a home equity line of credit takes a while to set up. Meanwhile, we needed to pay for countertops, floors, appliances, a roof, and a seemingly endless list of new odds and ends to complete jobs. The one bright spot in all of this is Dave our floor guy. We love him, but we’re now into day five of his three-day-job, and he’s talking about at least three more. We’re living in construction chaos, but the longer this takes the better chance I’ll have of being able to cut him a check.
I don’t live well amongst the chaos. I’m not smart enough to be disorganized and function in clutter. I crave order and cleanliness in my physical world to offset the pandemonium and disarray of my mental one. Upon returning to our expanding piles of clothes, stacks of furniture, missing counters, and taped off floors, I completely lost my mind.
I couldn’t take it anymore. It wasn’t the long hot day or the fact that my bank account is bereft of funds. It wasn’t Providence traffic on summer Friday afternoon or the tatted up pierced out inept Dunkin Donuts guy that can’t get an order straight. It might have been the fact that we had to stop at Home Depot, again…only to learn from the sinister orange apron people that they discontinued the black metal balusters I used for our deck rail and only needed 8 more of, but it wasn’t. I couldn’t find my nail clipper. In fact, I couldn’t find anything.
Dripping wet, standing in the upstairs of my house turned sauna, and desperately seeking air circulation, I came unhinged. I needed my checkbook to find my bank routing number. I needed to take my shoes off, but I didn’t know where my flip-flops were. I needed to peel off my clothes, but my quick dry ski team workout shirt was missing. I wanted my sunglasses but they were somewhere buried and probably destroyed. And god damn it, I needed to cut my f*cking fingernails!
Diana has seen this before. Many times. When the disorder overcomes my ability to think, the only cure is to carve out a small spartan space and attempt to make some sort of progress in hopes of creating order. Knowing full well her fate, Diana took one look at me after my tirade and said, “Tell you what, why don’t you get yourself organized and I’ll hit up the grocery store for something to grill tonight?” The question was rhetorical, and within an hour I had found my flip-flops, my shirt, my checkbook, and my fingernail clippers.
Saturday was supposed to be a half-day of work for us, but our 2 pm stoppage goal quickly became 5:30. There’s just too much to do. Thunderstorms rolled in last night bringing heavy rain, but cooler dry air in its wake. We promised Kéa a work free Sunday. As I write this story while enjoying a hot coffee on our new deck, the girls are packing up for the Ocean Mist, Go-Karts, and a Narragansett Town Beach sunset surf session. We have a good day planned. Now if I can just find the keys to the Mercedes…
91 WHY Street 