Oh the blooming bliss of Chronic Fatigue married to bones lazy. Through heavily lidded eyes, I waddle through the suffocating debris of sweet idle forgetfulness.
Obnoxiously nagging bills pile up all a-scatter until fourth notices and intimidating threats of legal action finally force my wandering attention to confront and center.
I cannot agreeably accept the mailman’s daily offerings. I have a gaping box, bedside, that eagerly awaits bills, letters, flyers, ads, magazines and junk mail, ad infinitum. I scramble through the omnishambles once or twice monthly, depending on my foggy state of semi-consciousness.
When the telephone shrieks, it is often found under the bed, seldom on its charger. Today, after an hour of searching, the telephone was blessedly found on the floor, hidden in plain sight.
I need something to charge my batteries. I am an obsessive multi-tasking stacker. Books, magazines, computer, mixed nuts and dried mango slices are the most locatable.
Medications are extremely well-ordered because my mental fog is pierced by those eager pill poppers requiring faithful dispensing. Actually, I feel quite terrific when the week’s meds are tidily distributed in all their little plastic containers.
When somewhat forced to confront the tornado beside my bed, I go to extremes to ensure that everything is returned to its place, perfectly visible and available for immediate use. Yeah.
Snuffy’s dog treats are the easiest to find – big yellow bag of Beggin’ Strips, and the all but idolized red sack of Pupperoni. Snuffy faithfully reminds me he cannot live without a treat, laying heavily on my breast and slowly slopping my face and chin with doggy drool extraordinaire.
A half-gallon juice jar filled with tap water resides in a cubbyhole, at arm’s reach. I seldom touch it and have to refrain from all other liquids in order to please my doctor who treats me for “Renal Insufficiency.” But I hate to drink lukewarm water sitting for days because I am too lazy to fill the bottle. Not to mention that when I drink water, I have to use the bathroom, which necessitates my hauling my lazy bulk from its comfortable cocoon in my bed. This takes a great deal of effort to accomplish as my lazy bones start from my cranium to my toes.
My seventy-two year old sister lovingly offers to help me. She adamantly refuses to go to the bathroom for me. Sweetly gathering loose flying papers, electronics missing batteries, clothes in various stages of wearableness – she hopelessly, helplessly piles them on the loveseat.
This little loveseat sits before a garage-style organizer rack holding books we seldom read, creating a colorful backstop for the towering infernal.
We replaced Mike’s adjustable bed with a hospital bed. Mike was in dire distress, frequently sliding off the mattress. We replaced the original mattress with a foam body-contouring style that was so super-soft
Mike couldn’t leverage himself to rise from it.
We bought a beautiful coil twin mattress online, very firm, praying this one would be the answer to every objection.
It kept sliding off the bed-frame.
Clamping together almost all of Mike’ suspenders, we managed to create an extremely lumpy “tie down” around his mattress, awkwardly anchoring it to my foam mattress.
Almost forgot – we did get a doohickey thing to create a king-size bed from two twins. It refused to cooperate with my shaky hands and foul temper.
The hospital bed’s miserably soft. To enable Mike to sit, I push him with the end of a full roll of double rubber-banded paper towels.
Our nephew concocted a droll “pusher” from a mop handle and a stuffed plush moose clamped together. I tried it, loved the thought, but it’s so heavy and awkward I resorted again to the paper towels.
Anyone want a moose-on-a-pole?
Unwanted mattresses crowd our front porch. The original twin bed, which had been stacked to the rafters with my sister’s offerings, is now residing in our garage.
Maybe we should take all those mattresses and stack them on the bed in the garage . . .
Better yet, take the three broken microwaves, the broken television, bed and mattresses to the curb, praying someone else might foolishly desire to create their own “Tower of Babel?”
The stacks of everything that needed to be placed where they belong, has been taken from the useless bed and added to that poor little “overstuffed” loveseat.
We tiptoe by it carefully, fearing to cause an omnishambling avalanche.
I should write a book on creatively creating clutter . . .
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