Furniture Serendipity
- At November 05, 2015
- By Roxanne Snopek
- In Life, Roxanne Writes On
- 0
So you know how you go to the mall for shoes sometimes and end up buying a couch? Well that happened to us recently. To be fair, we’d been toying with the idea for a long time. A long time. Because you know, there’s always a better use for the money, right? Anyway, it all started in the Bay, when hubby went to the bathroom.
I’m in line to buy a housecoat to replace the one that got amniotic fluid on it when I was in labor with baby #3. (She’s in second year university now. Don’t worry, I washed the housecoat.) Hubby texts me. Meet me in furniture. Ah yes. You have to go through the furniture department to get to the washrooms.
Be right there I respond. Shouldn’t be long; there are only two women in front of me. The first one has three bras from three different tables and one second AFTER the cashier completes the sale, exclaims, “Hey. They’re supposed to be on sale.”
“Sorry,” says the cashier. “The ones ending in .98 are excluded.”
“That can’t be right,” says the woman and proceeds to usher the cashier to the various tables, arguing with her about it. This goes back and forth for awhile.
You coming? texts hubby. I want to show you something.
Seen it I respond.
No, not that. It’s a couch.
The woman with the bras is considering whether or not the $2.50 is going to make or break the deal. She goes with break and stalks off, affronted.
“Wait!” calls the cashier. “I need your credit card to void the purchase!”
A chase ensues.
A few minutes I text.
Hurry he responds.
They get rid of the bra-less wonder, finally, and what do you know. The next one is using a gift card that may or may not have expired.
On my way I tell him. The tide turns. The gift card works. My housecoat is on sale. All is well in my world.
We cross paths on the escalator, he coming down to find me, me going up to meet him. He leaps the divide and drags me over to this enormous Natuzzi sectional.
“Sit,” he says. “Isn’t it comfortable?”
“You win the lottery?” I ask, running my hands over the buttery-soft leather.
It’s solid, big and gorgeous, just the kind we’ve been drooling over forever – and way, waaayyy more than I want to spend. Ever. For that money, it should have wheels.
“Look,” he tells me, pointing to the tag. “Half price.”
Okay, I’m impressed. But it’s still more than I want to spend. But he has a triumphant, hopeful expression on his face. He takes me over to another sectional. It’s disassembled, so it looks a bit sad, but it’s exactly the same as the one I just sat on.
“What?” I said. “It’s the same one. Still too expensive.”
He points to a teeny, tiny scuff mark. “See that? Twenty percent off the sale price. The sale price!”
Whoa.
We go home, take some measurements, think about how to rejig the room. And yup, two days later, it came home. We spent the day moving stuff, reorganizing and cleaning. My back hurt but you know what? I got to alternate hot and cold packs while sitting on an awesome new couch!
What do you think?
Day #1 of 100 Days of Happiness
The brilliant author Nancy Robards Thompson recently issued a #100DaysofHappiness challenge and I’m taking her up on it. If you’ve been following me for a while, you might recall my 100 Days of Bikram Yoga challenge, where I not only did 100 straight days of Bikram yoga, but I blogged about it most days as well. 100 day challenges apparently work for me.
So here’s my entry for Day 1.
As some of you know, our youngest daughter left for university this past weekend, leaving me a little… forlorn. Motherhood has been my primary identity for well, most of my adult life. Natural childbirth, breastfeeding, homeschooling, the works. Attachment, baby. All the way. Plus, I’m a Scorpio. We grab on. Tight. (Mama Doesn’t Share Food!!)
Which was all great. Until now when my primary task IS to let go.
Some things were easier when our girls were smaller. For instance, we could tuck them into bed, set the alarm and know they were safe. Some things were almost unbearably sweet: the fresh-from-the-bath smell when tucking them into bed. The full-belly laughter. The innocent, wide-open trust in their eyes. The hand-holding.
But there was lots to counteract that easy sweetness: screaming fits, hours-long bedtime rituals where I just wanted to spray them with Nap-Time (come on, you’ve thought about it too!) not to mention the power-struggle between 30 pounds of arched-back fury and a non-negotiable car-seat. In the dreaded mommy-van.
As our daughters have grown into independence, I’ve morphed as well. But this milestone, last chick launched, is forcing me to evaluate my life and goals. The Next Stage of my life is here. How do I want to play it? (And for the last time, Honey. Naked Wednesday is NOT a thing.)
So this is my Day 1 of Happiness: I’ve got a wide-open world ahead of me, with three fantastic adult children and a husband who loves me even when I get broody and existential. I’ve got a career I love, with readers who remind me that exploring the landscape of relationships through fiction is important. I’ve got excellent friends who also love me, despite my neuroses, or what I call The Adventures of Roxanne’s Brain.
Change can be hard. But life is very, very good.
On Pets, Love and Loss
- At January 06, 2015
- By Roxanne Snopek
- In Roxanne Writes On
- 4
I’m happy to report that my poor doggy is feeling better. He’s trying to hide it, though. He’s deeply conflicted and seems to want to pretend he’s not here, as any attention from us ends up (in his mind) with a needle, a pill being shoved down his throat or a finger poking his behind. He seems to forget about those eggs I scrambled for him yesterday.
He’s not entirely rational.
However, since he’s now going up and downstairs at his usual pace (I had to carry him for awhile. Yes, it was pathetic.) and willing to snooze in his usual post by the window (I’ve got the bedroom door closed, so he can’t get to his Crate of Denial), I believe things are on the up-and-up. Now, if only we can get him eating actual dog food again.
I’ve had to start facing the difficult fact that, at age 11, Myshkin is well into his senior years. A Miniature Poodle, he’s sturdy and strong, a great example of the breed. He’s also super masculine, nothing frou-frou about him. (Except the neuroses, but I’m not one to judge.) I always told Dear Hubby that it was his job to make sure Myshi lives forever, or at least until 20. Toothless, blind, wheelchair, diapers, I don’t care.
It’s not so funny anymore. And I don’t want him to be toothless, blind, in a wheelchair and wearing diapers. No one wants that. I won’t let him live in misery. I don’t even want to think about that. Not yet.
Three years ago, we lost three of our four cats within a four-month span. It was horrible. I haven’t written about it because, well, it was horrible. Mylos, our 14-year old orange tabby male shorthair, had been diabetic for several years, though we managed to get him into remission twice. He was a wonderful, cooperative old boy, but once he developed painful complications, we had to make the decision.
Tabitha, our oldest daughter’s 16-year old silver-grey tabby female shorthair, lived with kidney failure for a long time, despite being difficult to treat. Graceful, with an incredibly luxurious coat, she was a dignified, rail-thin old lady, who would have simply faded away. We tortured ourselves about her; she wasn’t in pain, exactly, but eventually we had to make the humane choice.
Sophie, my favorite (Not really. But sort of.) was our middle daughter’s bombshell calico/tortoiseshell longhair. Healthy, perky, sociable, her death was the worst. One day, with no warning, she became unable to walk. X-rays revealed an enormous abdominal mass, impossible to remove surgically. As the youngest (we think, she came to us as a young adult) we were completely unprepared, and the loss hit hard.
Now we have Bryan (he came with the name), our youngest daughter’s big, tough orange tabby who doesn’t miss the rest of them at all, and is pleased to have us all to himself. At 14, his health is pretty good, but still. He’s 14.
It’s a fact of my personality that I tend to hold onto things. You know, old magazines, children, grudges, stuff like that. It’s not easy for me to let go, even when it would be better for all if I did. I blame my Scorpioness. Also, my brain.
And I hate that in this stage of my life, loss could strike at any time. And not just my pets. I’m thinking of putting my mother in bubble-wrap and giving my dad an “I’m Fine is Probably a Lie” forehead tattoo. I’m just glad they’re near enough for me to intervene when they decide to fall off sidewalks and explode their organs. I’ll refrain from including photos. But I’ve got them, parents. Remember that.
Love is sharpened by the awareness of loss. I hate that, but I must accept it.
Now it’s time to check my dog’s bum. Thank you for your time.