August 14 Editorial

Sometimes I feel like my life is a comedy of tragedies. We’re a fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants couple. By that, I mean not organized. So you can understand my dilemma when trying to dig myself out of the chaotic hole I have created through the moving process. Just when I think I have it under control, I realize I couldn’t be more wrong.
For the last week, my husband and I had been wearing workout/yard-work clothes while moving in heat that would’ve made even Satan sweat. I hadn’t worn make up in 8 days, and was showering with Dawn dish detergent because I didn’t have a clue where I had packed our shower essentials. By Sunday, I looked in the mirror and realized that I had gone from a decent looking girl to a homely troll who needed a hairbrush….desperately.
The final blow came on Monday.
My husband, who works in a hospital, was getting ready to go back to work. “Have you seen any scrubs,” he asked. “I can’t even find my shoes, so I’m going to say ‘no’,” I replied, annoyed. I mean, couldn’t he see that I was drowning in boxes that contained things like both bras and garden hoses? I was seriously questioning the state of my sanity while packing, but I find its best not to beat myself up about it.
No big deal I thought to myself…most of the laundry is clean, although it is residing unfolded in baskets in our room, since we never seem to get around to putting laundry away here. Sure enough, I rustled up some clean, albeit wrinkled, scrubs. I threw them in the dryer in hopes that he wouldn’t look like a walking disaster at work. Sure enough, he didn’t even notice. He also didn’t notice the thongs stuck to his back due to static cling as he walked out the door, but thankfully I was there to snatch them off as he flung the door closed.
Later that night, I attempted to once again put my life back into some kind of order. I opened a box that consisted of underwear and dog leashes, deciding that running them through a wash cycle probably wasn’t a bad idea. I turned on the washer and headed back through the kitchen to grab the laundry basket when my ADHD kicked in and my attention turned to putting away groceries from the pantry. An hour later, I made a trip back out to the laundry room and within seconds all hell had broken loose inside.
First, let me give you a little background. My dog is - to put it delicately - simple-minded. Although we had moved with him before, I had forgotten that he isn’t well-equipped with coping mechanisms of any kind. For days he had held it together, with the grace of a cat, but now he had let his inner moron come out….and it wasn’t good.
I could tell he was anxious when I started unpacking because he becomes extremely melodramatic when faced with even a trivial amount of uncertainty. He started following me everywhere, pausing every so often to flop to the ground in an exaggeratedly morose fashion, because maybe that would make me realize how selfish I was being by continuing to place things in new spots around the house despite his obvious emotional discomfort.
I had spent just mere minutes in the laundry room, and when I returned to the kitchen, I noticed something hanging from his mouth. I walked closer and realized it was a long string. I opened his mouth and pulled out what appeared to be a sliver of fabric. Then I noticed his gums were bleeding.
I began to freak out, wondering what could’ve happened in those five minutes, but he seemed eerily calm. Almost like he was relieved. I noticed a couple of similar strings on the floor leading to the guest bedroom. I followed the “trail” and flipped the light switch. The disaster I encountered blew my mind.
The only room that I had officially unpacked, the guest room, was destroyed.
I had spent months searching for the perfect comforter to compliment the expensive silk upholstered headboard I had finally talked my husband into letting me order. Not only had I found it, I loved it. So much so, that upon getting the keys to the new house in my hand, I rushed over to set it up. It was perfect.
My sweet little “angel” had, in an instant, ripped it to shreds. The headboard had a hole about two feet wide down to the wood frame, and all that remained of the comforter was a pile of ruffled cotton stuffing. In a moment of blind rage I sprinted to catch him, but thanks to a doggie door, he was spared. It’s amazing how fast I can run when I’m angry.
I sat myself down on the couch, had a good cry and a glass of wine, and realized that while I loved that bed, my fluffy buddy was more important. He had been quietly sitting beside me in hopes of earning my forgiveness for about an hour when I reached down to pet him. I was still mad, but in the grand scheme of things, stuff is just stuff. It can always be replaced.
Now on to my next task….finding a way to explain the massacre to my husband.
So long, beautiful guest room. If only someone would’ve been able to enjoy you. It looks like I’m back to sale shopping, working extra, and begging and pleading for a few months to put that room back together.
That dog better be glad that I love him.