survived without you, I wonder?”
“Mom, first of all, I’d hardly call replacing a cabinet a renovation . And anyway, what’s the alternative, waiting until we all have hacking coughs from black lung or whatever it is you get from that disgusting fungus inching across all the walls into our beds?”
“Are you finished, Bette Davis? You really are a Chaplin with all the dramatics you have swirling around in your head,” she says.
“If Eddie weren’t, I mean if Eddie and I were, well, you know what I’m trying to say. I’d have him come over and take a look at it but I can’t so let’s get the plumber in here.”
“Oh, fine.”
“You know, if you just did a little planning these things wouldn’t happen.”
Now that got her attention but what the hell was I thinking?
“Since we’re on the subject of things that need fixing,” she says.
“Forget it, Mom, it’s nothing,” I say. Too late.
She emerges from the refrigerator. Dang it all. Now she’s going to go off on me about my thing. Again. For the millionth time. She’s wiping off her hands, closing the icebox, making her way to the Big Chair for yet another lecture. I’ve never known what else to call this habit of mine. It’s not an obsession or OCD or whatever they call it. It’s just … it’s just that I hate surprises. Lots of people hate surprises—I’m not the only one. I am, however, the only smart one, because when life throws you curveballs —and we all know it does —I will be prepared. I like to say that with careful planning I’ve taken the un out of unexpected . Which basically means I’ve wiped out any chance for a surprise to catch me off guard. It’s not easy, you know. And hardly anyone appreciates the tremendous effort that goes into it.
I’ve always been a “doer.” That’s what my daddy called me. “You’re a real doer, Honor,” he’d say with a wink. According to Daddy, there are two types of people: diners and doers. Doers go out and get the job done while diners sit and eat supper, figuring they’ll get to work the next day. I never did get the comparison—don’t doers have to eat too?—but I did learn that doing something was the better way to go in Daddy’s eyes. And in mine too. I’ve always liked projects of any kind but I wouldn’t say my thing started that far back. If I had to pinpoint when it started taking up my focus, I’d have to say it was high school.
Back then Patty Werther was in charge of the senior prom but I did all the work, which meant the dance was surprise-free and therefore a flawless success in my humble opinion— one of the greatest in the school’s history , Mr. Kipper, the principal, said. He said those exact words: the greatest in the school’s history . He gave the thank-you flowers to Patty Werther, mind you, but I didn’t care. All I cared about was getting through the night with no calamities.
At community college I went to every single class, I took copious notes, and I didn’t even mind photocopying them for whomevermissed class, just so long as they signed my petition to ban touch football on the quad (you know how much it hurts when you get hit by an errant football? A lot, trust me. It hurts like H-e–double hockey sticks).
After college I worked as a secretary at the local television station, and Larry Diesel, the weatherman, once told me it was common knowledge that if anyone needed something done well and fast they should give it to Honor .
And frankly, I don’t think it’s a crime to sleep with a notepad and ballpoint pen by your bed. I don’t know about anybody else, but for me it’s not uncommon to wake up halfway through the night with a scenario that would require a set of skills or equipment I haven’t yet considered. So in the morning when I see a word or two scribbled down in that middle-of-the-night handwriting, I remember what I have to do. For example: one time I wrote “frying pan” and I knew that meant I had to get a new one
“Mom, first of all, I’d hardly call replacing a cabinet a renovation . And anyway, what’s the alternative, waiting until we all have hacking coughs from black lung or whatever it is you get from that disgusting fungus inching across all the walls into our beds?”
“Are you finished, Bette Davis? You really are a Chaplin with all the dramatics you have swirling around in your head,” she says.
“If Eddie weren’t, I mean if Eddie and I were, well, you know what I’m trying to say. I’d have him come over and take a look at it but I can’t so let’s get the plumber in here.”
“Oh, fine.”
“You know, if you just did a little planning these things wouldn’t happen.”
Now that got her attention but what the hell was I thinking?
“Since we’re on the subject of things that need fixing,” she says.
“Forget it, Mom, it’s nothing,” I say. Too late.
She emerges from the refrigerator. Dang it all. Now she’s going to go off on me about my thing. Again. For the millionth time. She’s wiping off her hands, closing the icebox, making her way to the Big Chair for yet another lecture. I’ve never known what else to call this habit of mine. It’s not an obsession or OCD or whatever they call it. It’s just … it’s just that I hate surprises. Lots of people hate surprises—I’m not the only one. I am, however, the only smart one, because when life throws you curveballs —and we all know it does —I will be prepared. I like to say that with careful planning I’ve taken the un out of unexpected . Which basically means I’ve wiped out any chance for a surprise to catch me off guard. It’s not easy, you know. And hardly anyone appreciates the tremendous effort that goes into it.
I’ve always been a “doer.” That’s what my daddy called me. “You’re a real doer, Honor,” he’d say with a wink. According to Daddy, there are two types of people: diners and doers. Doers go out and get the job done while diners sit and eat supper, figuring they’ll get to work the next day. I never did get the comparison—don’t doers have to eat too?—but I did learn that doing something was the better way to go in Daddy’s eyes. And in mine too. I’ve always liked projects of any kind but I wouldn’t say my thing started that far back. If I had to pinpoint when it started taking up my focus, I’d have to say it was high school.
Back then Patty Werther was in charge of the senior prom but I did all the work, which meant the dance was surprise-free and therefore a flawless success in my humble opinion— one of the greatest in the school’s history , Mr. Kipper, the principal, said. He said those exact words: the greatest in the school’s history . He gave the thank-you flowers to Patty Werther, mind you, but I didn’t care. All I cared about was getting through the night with no calamities.
At community college I went to every single class, I took copious notes, and I didn’t even mind photocopying them for whomevermissed class, just so long as they signed my petition to ban touch football on the quad (you know how much it hurts when you get hit by an errant football? A lot, trust me. It hurts like H-e–double hockey sticks).
After college I worked as a secretary at the local television station, and Larry Diesel, the weatherman, once told me it was common knowledge that if anyone needed something done well and fast they should give it to Honor .
And frankly, I don’t think it’s a crime to sleep with a notepad and ballpoint pen by your bed. I don’t know about anybody else, but for me it’s not uncommon to wake up halfway through the night with a scenario that would require a set of skills or equipment I haven’t yet considered. So in the morning when I see a word or two scribbled down in that middle-of-the-night handwriting, I remember what I have to do. For example: one time I wrote “frying pan” and I knew that meant I had to get a new one
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