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King of the Wild Brassiere

My family has officially moved from Residence 1 (“Real Grass, Real Unicorns!”) to Residence 2 (“Real High in the Air!”). Many accompanying headaches were apparently had, and I feel removed from everything in an vaguely anxious, upset way, much like I did when I found out, from a distance, that my dog had died. Although then I cried more and was talked into buying a pair of shoes that didn’t fit by an insistent clerk.

Even after my family gave away/sold a lot of our furniture and possessions, what remained filled all available floor space in the new apartment AND THEN had to form a second layer on top of the first. It’s like archaeology in there! I guess they’re going to have to be creative so as not to resort to stacking sofas, or putting bookshelves in the bathrooms.

What’s really amazing to me is that they won’t have stairs. My house was always distinguished by its many staircases, carpeted a strange color somewhere between “sunset” and “salmon.” The dog (before she died) used to slide down on her butt because she had worms, I think? I never entirely understood but it was funny to watch. My friends and I during our “wacky” phases used to slide down them in laundry baskets. Stairs! are very important in separating people, such as those who prepared dinner and those who are invited to eat it; bellowing “DINNNNNERRRRR!” in a one-floor space isn’t going to produce the same satisfying flurry of staircase-related activity.

I’m trying to withhold judgement, though, of course, inasmuch as that’s possible for me. My mother’s been working almost nonstop on the new habitat, so hard that if there were a Nobel prize for that sort of thing she’d at least be a Finalist. I continue to send good wishes in her general direction and hope that they pierce the fog of her exhaustion.

And I continue to distract myself. As you may or may not be aware, Salon has started letting people post “letters to the editor” at the end of any article, because what the overeducated, overarticulate, overprivileged readers of Salon really need is a Voice. The results are frequently hilarious, especially in reponse to Cary Tennis’s advice column. I have found that burying myself in these avalanches of letters works like almost nothing else to help me forget my own anxieties and upsettednesses. Family leaving childhood home? Possible promotion dangling overhead? At least I’m not in love with an exception prostitute or deeply NOT in love with my husband’s offspring.

Mr. Ben, by the way, is singing in the background to the tune of Davey Crockett: “Baby, baby boyfriend, king of the wild brassiere …” Welcome to the weekend. Ahhhhhh.