January 3, 2008:
New Year Blahs
Usually the new year makes me all giddy and lights a fire under my ass, but so far 2008 is only making me feel sullen and discontented. Maybe it’s my boring Überlist. Maybe it’s this headache. Maybe it’s my period. But blah. Blaaahhhhhh!
I don’t think my ye olde uberlist is going to be able to stand as it is. It’s the opposite of inspiring. Clean this, organize that. Yuck. Yes, every fucking closet around here is all Fibber MaGee and Molly-style, but good gravy. What kind of maniac looks forward to a year of cleaning out closets? If I were the sort who liked cleaning closets, then there would be at least one closet in the building that wasn’t ripe for avalanche.
The shittiest part of living the life of the exploding closet is that you can never find the thing you know you have. (The surprise joy of living the life of the exploding closet is the delight at magically and deftly locating certain items in defiance of the chaos.) Tonight the thing that I can not find that I know I have is a pipe snake. I can not find my snake. I’ve tried the obvious places. I’ve tried the unlikely places. I emptied out a whole closet, bumbling around in the dark of a burned-out light bulb, because I knew the snake was in that closet. Why not replace the light bulb first, you ask, as long as I’m emptying out the closet? Because that is not my way, grasshopper. Mine is the path of pointless frustration. I’m more of a curse-the-darkness gal, although that’s never how I think of myself.
The reason I need my elusive snake is because we have a clog. We have a clog that should be a piece of cake. The pipe with the clog doesn’t disappear into a wall somewhere, and from there into the yard. It just goes into the floor, then travels about 10 feet, where it drains into the sump pit. But somewhere in that short little span, there is something that all the fearsome plunging we could muster would not loose. The clogged pipe connects to another pipe (not clogged) that comes from a drain outside to collect the runoff from the French drain. Because everything was draining fine this morning, my suspicion is that something like, oh, I don’t know, a small squirrel or a shrew or something else small and burrowy, adventured into the outside drain this afternoon, took a wrong turn, and found himself stuck (and shortly thereafter, found himself drowned, as well). Hm. This new theory makes me want to go plunge more, as any kind of drain-o, or even the missing snake, would surely make a pretty awful mess, while plunging would just jettison the creature into the pit, where it could be neatly scooped away before decomposing.
But that’s easier said than done, as there are, seriously, six sinks on that line. Two are far enough away not to be so much in play, but the big triple sink and adjoining hand sink are all connected. So one person has to plunge while the other holds down two of the stoppers that pop right back out if they’re not held down. And of course we both get doused with murky water every couple seconds. It’s charming. The best part is when it squirts into your face. And really, it’s a lost cause, because there’s also this valve thingy, which is obviously very important, but also vents air, which inhibits a really kickass, forceful plunge. Yes, I said kickass. So what?
All this fruitless plunging and searching is contributing to my foul mood.
For the last couple of days, I’ve been suffering from that childhood nerd syndrome of nagging feelings of social and intellectual inadequacy. I envy those people who absorb compliments unquestioningly and incorporate them into their self-images instead of feeling confused by or suspicious or undeserving of them. Bleh. I hate people (in this case, me) who need constant reassurance–and I kind of hate reassurance, too–it doesn’t reassure me of anything, except that I’m obviously embarrassingly needy. I realize it’s probably hormones (um, yesterday I cried at When Billie Beat Bobby, even with all the awful wigs, and at a tivoed episode of Charm School). But knowing that doesn’t cure the crappy crybaby angst that’s overshadowing my typical annoyingly cheerful New Year exuberance.
Anyway, the mystery clog and my missing snake and the late hour are just magnifying my malaise about 2008 in general and my lackluster uberlist in particular. I’ve got to fix this clog situation tonight or I’ll be depressed again tomorrow. I also need to exercise and balance my checkbook and photograph my linen mystery object and receive a big pile of money from a long-lost billionaire uncle. Long-lost billionaire uncle, if you’re reading this: there’s no time like the present (and no present like a big pile of money).
