I pretty much gave up on the cable boxes in my old house years ago. At least now things are happening, now that I am getting a fresh start and a brand new account number. No matter how huffy this cable guy becomes, moving to a new house promises to be a lot simpler than waiting in line at the world (world meaning my world as opposed to the real one) cable headquarters for hours hoping that this time -- just this one time -- when you get to the one window that is open to folks other than those trying to save a stamp by paying their bill in person the clerk behind that window doesn't decide it's time to go to lunch or pee or go in the back room and do a word search puzzle.
Much to my relief, the cable guy looks nothing like Jim Carrey. He looks a bit like Colombo, actually, not quite as adorable as Peter Falk but just as disheveled, with a thick end of cable tubing hanging out the side of his mouth instead of a cigar. He stops by every so often to give me a progress report and ask me the same questions he's already asked more than a few times, and each time he seems to be really deep in thought. Just one more thing, I keep expecting him to say as he pivots back toward me and shakes his head before moving on again to solve the mysteries of the universe. My universe, that is.
Just about every day now I visit my cute little new townhouse, even though I don't officially need to move out of the old one for more than a month. Other than the kitchen table that my daughter and I managed to stuff into her car and the five carved wood coyotes that have stood watch at my front door for years, there is no furniture here. There is diet coke and water and wine, and plenty of toilet paper. Within a few hours, there will be cable. (I'm considering telling him not to bother with the wireless, since I had no trouble logging into somebody's unsecured network.) All I need now is one comfy couch and I am set. I cannot, for the life of me, figure out how or why I have accumulated so much other stuff over the years. There is so little I really need.
Yesterday, I took a walk in my new neighborhood. I am only minutes from some of my favorite stores, which is a shame since there's really nothing I need to buy. Still, it's nice to window shop, even to wander through shops stocked with expensive items that serve no purpose that I can think of but are certainly pretty to look at. Nowhere near as pretty as the view of the lake, though, just a few short blocks away. I paused at the edge of a bluff thick with tangled tree branches and autumn leaves, listening to the sound of the gentle waves and marveling at the flat crystalline surface of the water as it prepares to freeze for the long winter. As useless, I suppose, as many of the luxuries for sale in town, but that view, well, you just can't put a price tag on it.
The houses, which became noticeably bigger the nearer I got to the lake, were all quiet. I wondered about the people inside, even wondered a bit about their "stuff." No doubt there is a lot of it, and, to be fair, the most useless stuff can be enlightening. Even the Halloween decorations give me clues about the nature of the beasts inside.
I am guessing I will fill the rooms and closets and drawers and any available nooks and crannies in my cute little new townhouse with more than water and diet coke and wine and coyotes and toilet paper. Some of it will be useful, most not. As is my custom, I will have no Halloween decorations. (I stand not on principle but on pure laziness.)
Inside, I will try my best to keep it simple. As simple as hooking up a new cable account. As simple as a fresh start.
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