HOME SWEET HOME

Not a particularly pretty sight, huh… Unless you happen to be one of the Chem-Free guys who are busily primping and preparing our plain ol’ beige building of sixty units for the big execution, as millions of termites are sent packing into their next lives.

Or else the circus is in town…

We’ve known this thing is coming for a while, so I tear through the drawers and shelves, pitching bottles of medicine with expiration dates that go back to the 1990’s, make-up I bought at Thrifty and Save-On (before they morphed into Rite Aid and CVS). I’m giddy and a little smug as I haul garbage bags to the trash chute.

At a pre-fumigation meeting we are given detailed instructions on what to do and ten hefty-sized “don’t-gas-me” plastic bags to stash our stuff. But the first thing I do is ask for ten more. You know, just in case… They tell us to pack up the food, toothbrushes, gooey stuff you might rub onto a body part. But I watch my mind begin to s-t-r-e-t-c-h the parameters of bag-worthy stuff. By the time we drag ourselves out of the place this morning, 18 bags are scattered around the floor of our little condo. They are filled with…oh my…toilet paper and ziplock bags (yes, plastic inside plastic), my reasoning being that we put food inside the ziplocks. The paranoia starts small and grows exponentially as I pack several mini-bottles of French perfume a neighbor gave me FIFTEEN YEARS ago for watering her plants during her vacation. I toss in nail files, Q-tips, panty-liners…

I’ve lost my mind.

So here we are, hubby and I, at the local Sheraton for a two-night out-of-town spree. A couple miles from home. It’s seven in the evening and we’re hungry and homesick. “Let’s look at the vending machines downstairs…” hubby suggests. As we peruse their selection of sugar and salt-laden fake food, I offer an idea that under normal circumstances would be squashed cold by my husband. “Let’s go to the mall,” I say. “They have a fabulous food court.” My sweet Craig would rather go on a liquid diet than eat at a mall food court. But he agrees, so quickly, that I am momentarily stunned. We have to get over there before he changes his mind.

We could walk. It’s just across the street. But no… We drive, park and descend into the land of too-many-food choices… A sweet-faced young lady draws us into the dizzying world of Big Fat Pita. This style of food is a big no-no for me. I can’t eat gluten-anything and that means falafel and pita bread. But as I unleash my sad story of deprivation, her face lights up. “We have gluten-free pita. And falafel.” Now I know this is heaven and our hoped-for nighty-night snack is turning into the main event of the day. “Do you live in the area?” the friendly cashier asks. “If you do, take this card. Eat ten pitas and the next one is free.

Here’s the strange thing. I feel like a visitor. A visitor to the local mall in my own neighborhood. I have to snap myself out of this bubble of confusion before I respond “yes, we live in Culver City. Give me the card.”

Leaving our safe little nest for only a couple days and shifting our “home base” just down the road is really shaking up our sense of groundedness, our sense of place. And we are doing wild and crazy things that folks do on vacation. Like eating at the mall.

Thankfully we human beings are adaptable creatures and by morning hubby and I will begin to drop roots into this new ground. Until the day after tomorrow when we return to life as we know it and tear into those 18 bags of too-much stuff.