June 14, 2006

• Discombobulation

      Ever have a day -- or maybe even longer than a day -- when everything you try to do feels like driving down a one-way street the wrong way?

      It’s happening.  Right here, right now at Toad Hall.

      As of last Friday, the attorneys have gone from pleasantly reminding me to literally BADGERING the hell out of me to get probate closed.  I hate stuff like this.  I hate red tape and anything in which I must deal with government bureaucracy, but I don’t like being badgered, either.  Guess I’ll have to get off my ass and comply.

      But I can’t find the key to the lockbox.  There’s nothing in it, but I can’t close probate (or stop paying rent for the box) until I open the thing and prove to the courts that there’s nothing there but stale air.  No, the bank does not have another key.  If I can’t find the one assigned to us, I will have to pay to have the box drilled open (which requires an appointment on the 3rd Wednesday of months beginning with the letter “A” between the hours of 9 and 11 a.m.)  Even if I KNOW there’s nothing in the goddamm thing.  (Lindsey?  Whut the heck did you DO with that KEY???  I’ve looked everywhere but your sock drawer!)

      Furthermore, according to the attorneys, the car titles MUST be transferred immediately if not sooner.  I hate this too, because I LIKE having Lin’s name on the titles.  It just seems right to me.  But at least that task seemed like it might be easier.  I went to the Toad Hall filing system, which is a 30-gallon garbage bag full of smaller garbage bags. I set aside those smaller bags labeled “dogs” and “house” and “receipts,” finally coming to the one labeled “cars.”  Logical, right?  But I found only one title there -- the one for the Batmobile. 

      Clutching the Batmobile title tightly in my hand so as not to misplace it, I spent several hours rooting and rummaging around the rest of the house for the title to the Money Pit Car.  “Where,” I asked myself, “would he have put it?”  And then I remembered the treasure trove of books and magazines about Money Pit Cars.  Ha!  Success at last!  Right there on the bookshelf, next to the miniature wooden Buffalo and the model of the Indian motorcycle, in a binder labeled “The Money Pit Car,” was the title.  Whoo Hoo!  I’m off to see the county clerk!

      But then I had this inspiration that I probably oughta’ CALL the County Clerk to see whut ELSE I needed to bring along to complete this annoying exercise.  So I called.  And called, and called and called.  But no one ever answered the phone.  “It’s not a holiday.....so did the courthouse burn down?” I wondered.

      No.  The courthouse did not burn down.  I was assured of this by the nice lady in the “Driver Licensing” office:

      “Honey, everybody in the clerk’s office went down to the city today to one a’them CON-frences.  That’s why you don’t get no answer over there.”

      Apparently they do not believe in recordings at our esteemed County Courthouse.  You know -- the kind that tell you nobody’s “to home” and to call back another day?

      My brain has a conditioned response to this sort of thing -- it simply says “O-KAY... I’m done!”  Then it shuts down and fills itself with a dense, thick fog for an indeterminate length of time. For hours if I’m lucky......for days if I’m not.  It’s sorta’ like being stoned on good drugs, but not as fun and giggly.

      So now I can’t find ANYTHING......not even my cigarette lighter,  And I can’t REMEMBER anything either.......like whut I was gonna do next (besides smoke a lot).

  ------------------------

  Fifi O’Toole can be found standing in her kitchen
  with a dazed look in her eyes and a blank stare on her face
  until further notice.

   

  • 2:27 pm
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