A Random Image

Jett Superior laid this on you on || May 6, 2009 || 11:59 pm


Our house is all sorts of fractal and crazy. I remember doing the very first walk-through, back when it looked like an honest-to-God garbage dump: Maxim and I would turn a corner to be confronted with yet another surprise which came in the form of rooms being fashioned in the unlikeliest of places. Picture the Frankenstein monster as a house; now picture said Frankenstein monster as being charming and welcoming and fashionably-eclectic rather than crazy-eclectic. Not scary, just different, and different in a way that actually works.

But there are little details that are just slightly off, as well, reminding you that you are indeedly standing in the middle of the House Crafted Of Many Ideas.

For instance: There were windows not only to the outside, but between rooms as well. The master bedroom (which could be modestly described as ‘fucking massive, dude’), for instance, was connected to no less than four other rooms by windows. We yanked out the one between our and Mathias’ room, because it was seated in one of only two walls that was not brick. A very generous walk-in closet was crafted lovingly there, but there still existed windows between our room and the main bath (I know, creepy, right?) and what now serve as our music and art studios.

The windows between our room and the studios have fixed, four-foot-long window boxes, you people. Window boxes! On the inside of the house! So I got this Elaborate Idea –since we don’t want to destroy the existing brick, which really is gorgeous– of eventually converting those particular windows into screened light panels and using the boxes directly in front of them as active gardens.

But time rocked on and those damned boxes were driving me crazy, sitting there all empty and forlorn. Other projects cried out for funds. So I went to our local home decor wholesaler and used my handy-dandy business license (Yes! I have one of those!) to purchase some faux greenery. I wanted to create something unique and funky there, the precursor to the unique funkiness that would eventually be permanent, live and thriving under my custom-cool lighting apperati.

I got these things, I dunno, that looked like some sort of flat-leaved succulent; they were colored a dusky green, shot through with an undertone of deep red. Eight of them per box, that’s what was required. I weaved a vine around each box, tucking it in here and there and I was satisfied with the result. It was certainly better than those starkly bare rectangles accusing me and doing their level best to cast some dour energy into the room.


Now look, I’ve no green thumb. I admit that outright. For whatever reason God had handy at the time, the part of the genetic birthright concerned with the helping of fauna-type things thrive that Gwendolyn should have passed down was lost on me; I think that’s totally unfair since I got her myopic, slightly astigmatic eyes, but WHATEVER.

(The woman can simply utter the word ‘green’, I swear, and lush plumes of foliage roll out ahead of her like Nature’s Red Carpet or sommat.)

But seriously now, seriously, I never thought it was within my power to kill fake plants. Realistic-looking, space-age-materials-crafted, decidedly NON-living plants.

As God (and Maxim and Tess) is my witness, I looked up one day to notice that the plants, to a stalk, were a hideous browny-red color and looking decidedly Not Alive. There was not a trace of green to be found on them. They looked horrifically, truly dead. They accused me with all the power of each and every plant that I’d killed –despite my very best efforts to the contrary– over the course of my lifetime.

“Holy shit,” I said to Tess, upon bringing her to the house to survey this most recent bout of ludicrousness, “holy shee-yut, who else do you know that has ever murdered a plant that’s not even alive to start with, HUH?”

Of course I was appalled, but I’d say that one is worthy of inclusion on the list of my roughest transgressions: KILLS ALL PLANT LIFE (even the poser variety!) AND IS POWERLESS TO STOP HERSELF.

So I made a mental note to self: “Return space-age-materials faux plants. Seek refund. Spend in as-yet-undetermined manner.” Eventually I got around to doing it. Of course I had no receipt. Who in the world ever expects to return a fucking fakety-fake ole plant? For ham and hell, why would I keep such a receipt? Whyyyyy?

I threw myself on the mercy of the store manager, calling her first to warn her that some loon had fucking killed some fucking pretend-alive-looking fucking plants, fuckfuck! I mean, seriously, if I’d seen someone coming with two garbage bags stuffed full of cracked-out looking fake greens without some prior explanation, I might be taken aback in a way that translated to, “You goofy freakjob, I can’t give a refund what is tantamount to a reward for slaughtering all the innocent greenery you wagged out of this store eight months ago!”

She was very gracious, telling me to bring my sans-receipt purchase directly to her for inspection. “I’m sure we can work something out,” she said brightly. I want to sing her praises, but I don’t want to compromise her identity to someone who may or may not yell at her for providing the Elusive Customer Service we all search so desperately for these days.

Two clerks saw the plants first. They were agog, and I wish I had possessed the presence of mind to snap a photo of said agogness while it was occurring. They called Gracious Mgr Laydeh, who scratched her head in befuddlement before setting about Making Things Happen. I had overlooked the removal of a bar code from a couple of stems, oh hallelujah. This provided necessary proof of the fauxplantlife’s value, which turned out to be in the neighborhood of two bills. This was to be issued as store credit (no. receipt.), and I wandered aisles a little forlorn, not finding anything that hit me between the eyes and demanded to be wagged home post-haste.

UNTIL I FOUND THE PATIO CHAIRS OF AWESOME, that is. On sale, they were! Beautiful, so beautiful were these pieces of comfort crafted from metal. Metal chairs that are comfortable? I found them, oh I founnnnd them! So I snapped a picture and, as with all substantial purchases, decided to not be impulsive. I showed the reference picture I’d taken to Maxim and then I slept on it.


Well you just know I went back the next afternoon, Superior children all in tow, to buy me some chairs and maybe smile the top of my head off a little.

You see, I’ve been waiting patiently to find and assemble all the elements to make the patio area outside of my bedroom door just exactly right. These chairs represented the first such purchase and this new beginning excited me, no matter how kinda goofy and trivial it might be. I have this picture of my alldone outside lounging-slash-socializing space; it incorporates stillness and sweetness and sandal-clad feet and drinking straight from the wine bottle while there are important things like humming and laughter taking shape. And maybe card games.

So please, gentle and darling Muffinass, forgive me my sappy dorkitude over finding four chairs that got me all revved because they felt like they were what I sought before I’d even had a clear picture of what that was framed up in my head meat.

We got them purchased, we got them loaded, we headed for the house; we arrived to find that there was no way the new patio chairs were going to the patio area. They went under the carport instead. More practical matters loomed. We also couldn’t really get to the patio at that juncture.


A tree humped my house!
:: a tree humped my house! ::

....unfortunately, there was penetration.
:: ….unfortunately, there was penetration. ::

It was the brightest of all possible spring days, mild and wonderful, nary a breath of breeze. I guess the gigunda old tree just got tired and went for a laydown, pulling itself up by the roots to cover most of the side yard and a goodly portion of the house.

We coasted up the driveway, beholding the spectacle, and I –peering over the huge round frames of my favorite sunglasses– was bemused (believe it or not) and heard shortly thereafter to say, “Well, at least it didn’t cave the sumbitch in.”

Scout, the first one in and up the stairs, came back hastily. Appearing calm enough, she said, “Um. Hey. There appears to be a pretty large limb all up in the roof’s grille. It’s poked through the atrium ceiling.”

It rained that night, and despite an emergency treectomy (involving six burly fellas, a coupla skinny ones and also a whole danged crane!) and professionally-applied tarpaulin (…there are whole companies devoted to such! I never knew!), the damage doubled in roughly a couple of hours. Sigh. Such is life.

I just wish we’d have had some type of insidery foreknowledge of this exactly one year ago; it was then that we sprung our carefully-gathered savings on a brand new roof for the joint.

In conclusion,

“There is a theory which states that if ever anybody discovers exactly what the Universe is for and why it is here, it will instantly disappear and be replaced by something even more bizarre and inexplicable.

“There is another theory which states that this has already happened.”

// Douglas Adams

3 worked it out »

  1. THE PATIO CHAIRS OF AWESOME. Gold. I know just the feeling.

    As for the unconsensual tree violation… flippin’ tragedy. Not cool at all. How’s the repairs going to shape up? You have my deepestrooted sympathies.

  2. Coelecanth 5.7.2009

    Mother Nature can be at times a bitch, hell, she’s a stone-cold killer truth be told, but taking revenge for the slaughter of FAKE plants? This, I cannot believe.

    God that sucks Jett. I have to say though, that I admire your aplomb. On seeing such on my house I would have taught the children some new words, well, confirmed anyway that daddy does indeed know THOSE words.

    If I lived near you I’d come over, wring my hands, and bumble around getting in the way all in the guise of helping. Good thing I live on the other side of the world, huh? :)

  3. Jettomatika 5.12.2009

    Roof all fixed! Tree still in yard. >:o(

    Firewoods, anyone?


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