The living room in our previous Los Angeles rental was small, it made our loveseat feel like an SUV in a parking space designated for compact cars. We moved into a new rental this past June. For only $300 more a month, we had a living room three times the size of the former one with floor-to-ceiling windows and views of the city. In the new space, sitting on that loveseat felt like sitting in an empty movie theater. Despite the splurge—when living in Los Angeles is already a splurge for us Colorado folk—my husband Mark and I decided we needed to purchase a bigger couch. It was the first time I special ordered a piece of furniture. I deliberated for a month, then spent 10-12 weeks checking my email for updates.
When the couch arrived it was truly special, all 123 inches of its plush pillows and linen slipcovers were special. Heck, Mark and I could lay on opposite sides of it and link up our ankles in the middle! Our coffee table, on the other hand, was two feet in diameter, like a period at the end of a 123 inch sentence. While the couch would be content to accommodate a dozen kindergartners, the coffee table cowered at a couple of La Croixs.
A 9 x 12 foot rug marked the vast empty space between the couch and the opposing wall with the television. Sometimes I looked at that space and imagined doing morning sun salutations, the ones I never do but always think would be great to start doing. Mostly, I looked at that space and saw emptiness. A void that needed to be filled. A void that could be filled, with just the right coffee table!
Each time I shopped for the next thing we “needed” there was this sense that I could settle in as soon as it arrived. Once the couch gets here, this place will feel like home. Once the table gets here, I can relax—the move will finally be over, the “living here” will begin. In most contexts, I advocate for the journey over the destination, but with this move, I just wanted to be done. Or did I?
Meanwhile, our border collie, Benny, was showing increasing signs of aging. He has neuropathy in his hind legs and it’s gotten so bad that he can barely hover in poop pose long enough to finish pooping. It’s a literal crap shoot (more like a crap SCOOT) every time he poops: will he be able to squat long enough or will he end up sitting in a fresh pile of his own excrement? For a former athlete like Benny, this geriatric display of defecation is not just problematic, it’s deeply sad.
These days Benny is also doing a lot of pacing, even in the middle of the night. Excessive pacing isn’t necessarily problematic, but with the weakness in his back legs, hardwood and tile flooring have become hazards; he often slips and falls. Sometimes he attempts to turn—he can only walk a straight line for so long— but his back legs won’t move with the rest of him and he tips over. Ever the optimist, the sweet old boy will often collapse and then decide he’s landed in a perfectly good spot for a nap. To increase traction for him, we tried getting him booties—he was not a fan. We even tried buying what is essentially grip tape, like my son used to put on his skateboards, but for dog paws. He was also not a fan.
We tried to minimize our carbon footprint and the expense of a new coffee table with Facebook Marketplace. After weeks of searching, it was a bust. At one point we rented a Uhaul, drove to pick up a coffee table from a stranger’s apartment in Santa Monica only to load it in the truck and realize it had dog piss all over it. I admitted defeat and ordered a new coffee table online. I “put it in my cart”, entered my information into all the fields, and then clicked “purchase”. The next screen read: “Thank you for your order. This product is backordered. Estimated delivery is [over two months away].” Argh!!
At the time, I truly believed I was only looking to fill a physical void. It’s not like my morning mantra was: the more I have the better I feel. I know the rewards of newness are short-lived, a fleeting dopamine dump, much like social media recognition. I know I have enough, plenty! And yet I can’t ignore the metaphor. Something inside me resonated with the easy fix. Somewhere inside me there were a handful of stubborn molecules that bought into the notion that the table would arrive and I’d feel more whole.
I also didn’t really believe a final moving box or final day or final delivery would mark the end of our move and beginning of whatever was next. Try as I might, I knew life wasn’t neatly packaged that way. I know that destinations are man made (human made?) much like the lines on a political map. We put them there, give them meaning, but they’re not really there. What’s more likely, is that those same delusional molecules that thought I could fill a void with a table, also benefited from pairing a tidy end to the move with a tidy beginning to the next phase of my life. Day and night I’d been stewing in the same thoughts: What do I do with this empty nest? Am I writing, if so what? Am I teaching, if so what? What is my plan? Figure out a plan. Do something! So long as the move continued to drag on, I could justify the inertia I was experiencing elsewhere.
The table finally arrived. It was delivered in two parts: the solid wood tabletop and the wood frame that it rests on. I didn’t pay the extra $150 dollars for the delivery guys to put it together. Attaching the top to the bottom seemed like a straightforward proposition. The standard delivery fee included unpacking the products and placing them in the room of my choice. Simple. The gentlemen thoughtfully set two strips of styrofoam packing material onto the rug and then set the tabletop over them. The following day, when Mark put the table together, he learned that the bottom of those styrofoam strips were covered in glue. They were now a permanent part of our rug.
I straddled each strip, trying to make them less permanent, exercising the kind of care I would use to remove a Bandaid from a child’s boo boo. No amount of care helped and at last I had to strong arm those suckers until they gave way. The glue didn’t separate from the rug, the styrofoam separated from the glue, leaving two lumpy, sticky ski tracks in their place. Like a large eleven, so big they could advertise an $11,000,000 lotto jackpot on an interstate billboard. So big you could stick LEDs on them and find the nearest exit—though it may be behind you. If I had a giant spatula I’d try to scrape them like fond off a frying pan, but it would hardly be worth it. The rug was ruined. We finally had a coffee table, but in the transaction we’d lost a rug.
Tonight, approximately five months since we moved in, we’re watching Fences with Denzel and Viola, a play written by August Wilson and adapted for the screen. The movie had been on Mark’s watchlist for some time. We’re sitting on the couch, both of us snuggled together on one end, our new coffee table perfectly situated in the center of the room. On the opposite side of the table, out of view, two huge strips of glue run parallel to the wall. Benny is pacing again. This time in front of the television. And we can hear his feet as they stick to the rug. It sounds like some kid in the 80’s fidgeting with the velcro on his new Reeboks. So there’s Viola, wiping tear-snot from her lip, and Denzel mid self-important diatribe, and we hear, crrrrit, crrrrit, crrrrit, crrrrit, as Benny moseys over the tracks of a trail clearly constructed with his frail body in mind. And then back the other way, crrrrit, crrrrit, crrrrit, crrrrit. He’s oblivious to the sound. He lost his hearing years ago, no longer rushing to the door when we get home or barking at every pedestrian on the street. Mark and I start shaking our heads and giggling. The kind of laughing you do into your chest with one hand over your brow. Five minutes later, when Benny has finished another lap around the house, he saunters along the glue trail again, crrrrit, crrrrit, crrrrit, crrrrit. It’s ridiculous. And we laugh, yet again, this time as Denzel delivers a monologue about the three days he wrestled with death.
Benny’s pacing continues for the duration of the two hour and nineteen minute movie, offering more opportunities for intermittent laughter at inappropriate times. Most notably, when Viola informs a groggy Denzel that his mistress died giving birth to his child—fuckin’ hysterical. And I am reminded that unlike many people right now, I have all I need, including time. That nothing makes a house a home like indelible memories—and in this instance, indelible glue stains. And especially laughter. Crrrrit, crrrrit, crrrrit, crrrrit.
Great reminders when getting caught up in stuff. Giggling as we have downsized, “need” some new furniture and/or shopping on FB marketplace to be responsible. Keeping it real. Thank you! 🙏🏼
I so get it…. our furry loved ones are part of the family forever💛
I hate when they get older too!
I made video for my Marlo T. It’s on YouTube if you go to Maddie 1937.
I didn’t know what else to do and then the video happened. Hope you get a chance to view.