I liked my last template, but it just wasn’t roomy enough. In the left hand column of this template you will find two RSS feeds. One which shows a current excerpt from O’Ceallaigh and The Quill (those of you who read part one of OC’s learning to ride a bike will be glad to know part two is up) and the other which shows the current verse up on, Bits of Me in Poetry. Unfortunately, the poetry feed doesn’t transfer in poetry form.
For those of you who are disconcerted by all my template switching, I’ll find something I am comfortable with and stay there. Maybe. Once far back in my distant past I used to rearrange my living room furniture every two to three weeks. I worked a job that kept me home near the phone and I had nothing better to do with my time and energy than to devise ways to torure the man I was then married to by hiding his recliner (in plain sight).
Christmas Day during a rare Portland, Oregon cold snap, the pipes in the housing complex we worked for froze and burst. My (now ex-) husband, Michael, left the house before the sun came up and didn’t return until well after it set. He came through the door cold, wet, starving, and wearing clothes so frozen that when he took his pants off — in the entry hall since he could see I’d cleaned the house — they stood by themselves.
As he disrobed I ladled a big bowl full of stew and set a plate of homemade bread with butter on the stand beside his recliner, then I grabbed his robe, which I had kept hanging over a heat vent and took it to him. I motioned to the living room and told him to sit and eat, I would get him something to drink. He asked for hot chocolate with a shot of Bailey’s.
As I stepped into the kitchen, he crossed the floor to where his recliner used to be and sat. He hit the floor with a thud and lay there looking up at the ceiling. I asked if he was alright. He queried, “Where’s my chair?” I told him he’d walked around it to get to that particular spot on the floor. He just closed his eyes.
I went into the kitchen to make the hot chocolate. When I returned to the living room Michael was sitting in his chair and most of his food was gone. As he handed me his bowl and asked for seconds he said, “Eight weeks.”
I said, “Huh?” He said, motioning around the living room with his spoon, “The furniture stays like this for eight weeks. And even then you don’t get to move it without telling me the day before.”
Later, after a shower, another mug of hot chocolate and a bit of Johnny Carson, Michael turned off the TV. I was curled up on the couch reading. I looked up at him. He said, “I’m tired. When I get in the bedroom am I going to have to search for the bed, too?”
Our bedroom was 12′ squared and our bed was queen sized. There was no way I could have put it anywhere he couldn’t find it, but I had turned it from the North wall to the South, so I told him yes. He left the room cussing about inconsiderate, contrary women.