Sambone, a filing cabinet and bloody fingers
GRIN # 379
How’d ya like that rainy Sunday, yesterday?
Typically, I like to spend a day like that reading the paper and lounging but for some inexplicable reason (probably because Jerry was off the bike) we set out to do “house” things–all those things you talk about doing but never do. Tyler was at a friend’s house; so this was almost a date. I know. It does sound sad.
First on the agenda was to go look at a bathroom vanity I liked that I found on Craigslist. Jerry was trying to be nice about it, but I could tell he didn’t want to go.
“What’s wrong with the one we have?”
If it’s not covered in asbestos or fire ants, Jerry thinks the item in question is fine for at least another forty or fifty years. Especially if my only complaint about it is that it’s old or out of style.
But the vanity wasn’t going to work so we went to the Ale House to have lunch and regroup, which I could tell Jerry liked a lot better than looking at stuff he didn’t need.
Sambone is an old corn plant that for many years I have been trying to kill. It was Jerry’s first plant of his bachelorhood and, weirdly, he named it. It puts out the most horrible-smelling bloom once a year and it grows at about a 45-degree angle, probably because it needs to be replanted. I’ve tried to relegate Sambone to the screened porch, but Jerry will say, “We can’t do that. The freezing temperatures would kill Sambone.”
But Sambone is like a cockroach; he ain’t going nowhere.
So it was off to Home Depot. I managed to squeeze in a new pot for one of my fave plants in the bedroom, which made me feel a little better about having to save Sambone’s life.
That done, it was still only about 3pm. Jerry came up with the idea for me to clean out the gargantuan file cabinet in his bike room that has 12 years worth of my freelance story files in it. I’d been promising to do that too, but the task just seemed overwhelming.
But it was that kind of day. And, frankly, I don’t think anyone is ever going to want my “papers.” I’m not a Kennedy or Charles Kuralt, so I started chucking.
Jerry loaded them up and drove them off. Since the filing cabinet weighs about a ton, he was going to find a moving company to move it.
“Good idea,” I said.
Except this morning, I found out it’ s my job to find the moving company.
“No fair!” I said. “I emptied everything.”
“But I carried everything down,” he countered.
“You should see my fingers. They’re bloody from paper cuts.”
“I’ll send you a picture.”
He did. And that is sooooo ketchup from his Chick-fil-A combo.