Pride Before The Fall

I was feeling pretty good about myself yesterday...just before “The Fall".

The weather has gotten chilly, and to a girl who has gone soft in the milder climes of the Bay Area, that means I want to snuggle down and read a good book. Inspired by rain on Friday, I bought a new book, solely on the strength of its jacket art, called “Her Fearful Symmetry”, by Audrey Niffenegger the author of Time Traveler’s Wife (didn't read it, saw the movie- don't get Eric Bana). This weekend, I had a chance to sneak a peek at the opening pages and, as usual, my ability to judge a book by its cover is unerring. At first I thought that Ms. Niffenegger was British because her story begins in London and she writes phrases like “hooliganish glamour “ and spells the word ”marvellous” rather than “marvelous.” But she hales from Michigan. She is just a sneaky genius.

All my life, raised on the words of CS Lewis, Jane Austen and Charles Dickens, I wanted to spell the words colour, armour, and honour with their British spelling. (see I just did it) I wanted to be able to say indolent instead of lazy without feeling self-conscious. There is something about the cadence of a British writer that is lyrical and nearly over the top without trying to be something it isn't. P. D. James and John LeCarré are allowed to use words like “ingénue” complete with accent aigu and feminine agreement without feeling pretentious—after all, France is just a Chunnel away. Sigh, I’ve always wanted the tool belt of the British writer. Somehow, even when I use these implements in what seems like a natural, offhand sort of way, under the critical eye of my read back I think, “affectation much?” and viciously edit the brit out of my writing. You see, I dare not be associated, even loosely, even in my own mind, with that class of nincompoop American soccer commentator that says words like “pitch” and “boot” and “nil”, making me yell at the telly on a Sunday afternoon, “For the love of honey Phil Schoen, have some self-respect, you’re American. That’s what Ray Hudson is for.” My husband and his compatriots call this particular affliction “huachafa” and I would like to avoid that nasty little indictment if possible.

Envy, my name is Meghan. Ms Niffenegger has managed where I failed. By setting her book around High Gate Cemetery in London (where it seems, according to her biography, she once worked though she now lives in Chicago) the author has come up with a device by which she is allowed to use all those coveted Limey tools. Absolutely brilliant! And with my not- so-thorough background check on the author in hand, I am anxious to read more of her book. What to do? Should I draw (see how I did that?) a nice hot bath and settle in for a chapter or two? But what about the $1000 overuse penalty on my water bill that came last month as a result of the Incident of the Leaky Toilet? At our home, we need to prove to the Water Co. that we are not profligate water wasters, so until that matter is settled, no long baths. How about a cozy fire, some hot tea and my book? No tea. No matter how I try, I can’t get used to the feeling of drinking potpourri. I’d like to be a tea drinker but there goes another Anglicism thrown into the Boston Harbor. Also, no luck on the fire—I think it’s a “Spare the Air” day, so no profligate wood burning either.

All this naysaying decides me: Forget the book, I should go ahead and tackle that chore list I had already prepared for today. Blecccch. So, I don my blue coverall (this was a genius purchase) and begin to finish the very last parts of my deck renovation. Although the entire project has taken a ridiculous amount of time, I finish up the last bits rather quickly. Spit spot as Mary Poppins would say. So I tackle the sanding and refinishing of the deck furniture. This takes a surprisingly short amount of time and now I’m on a roll. During the application of rosewood oil, I get to phone chat with my sister Wendy. We successfully solve many of the world’s problems. At one point she reminds me, “It’s interesting, even when we are doing charitable or selfless things for others, how easily we can become focused on our own awesomeness in doing those things.” I nod wisely, feeling sorry for those poor oafs who can't get out of their own way.

I should have known things were going to take a turn for the worse when the garbage man did not pick up my garbage. I love to have my garbage hauled away. It is so refreshing: like starting all over. I call the Waste Management Company and leave a message. Then I confront the next item on my chore list. My roof tiles, on the southern exposure of the house, are starting to lose color in spots. Readying for this task, I have already bought two different colored concrete stain samples for testing. So I climb up the ladder to the roof. The phone comes with me, just in case the garbage man comes a-calling: would not want to miss him. A little way into stain swabbing, the phone rings. Caller id tells me it's my sister Jessica. Having enjoyed keeping company with my other sister on the last job, I decide to keep up the trend.

Jessica: “Hey what’s up?”

Meghan: “I am” (witty)

Jessica: “What?”

Meghan: “I’m up here on the roof, staining my roof tiles.” In conjunction with being on the phone, this very sentence should have given me pause. Sadly, it didn't.

Jessica: “Boy you are really handy”

Meghan: “Pshaw....shucks I’m bashful.”(eedjit)

Jessica : “No really that’s pretty impressive.”

At this point I start to think she might be right. After all, I could have been lying in the bath, in front of the fire, enjoying my brand new book. Instead, I’ve saved water, spared the air, gotten beaucoup work done and now I’m on the roof. Booya! I’m awesome. Should have known better. Should have hung up the phone right there.

Meghan: “Wouldn’t it be funny if I fell?”

Jessica: “Chuckle” (she actually says the word)

Meghan: “Gasp!” (ditto)

Jessica: “Oh no! Did you fall?”

No such luck. Instead of me falling off the roof, the entire container of Terra Cotta concrete stain falls everywhere, I mean ev-ree- way-r: all over the driveway, deck and the arbor that separates the two. Horror bull. If I were a true blogger I would have the quick wit to take a picture so people can know what a catastrophe this is. At this juncture, I can go one of three ways:

• Emotional Outburst- nix
• Stain the Entire Driveway- tempting...very, very, tempting but the stain is the wrongest color you ever did see: less like Terra Cotta and more like Terra Loompa (land of the Oompa Loompa just in case you didn’t figure that out) In an unprecedented act of self-restraint I move on to door number three.
• Haul out the Pressure Washer- I hesitate for just a moment, “What about the the water police?” But I really have no other choice. And so, I spend the rest of the afternoon pressure washing the remnants of my pride off of....ev-ree-thing.

Editor's Note: The yellow paint splatter picture came from: http://ooyes.net/blog/how-to-mold-paint-splatter-to-a-face-in-photoshop. A very cool tutorial on how to make this image with photo shop