Pasta cooked, sauce simmering. Plate at the ready and then, dunno know it happened, I turned and knocked the oil onto the kitchen floor. Damn it. Extra virgin olive oil and shattered glass in a puddle. See, kept the oil in a glass decanter. I've got this thing about putting things in a different container. Even have my mouthwash in a whiskey bottle. Weird, sure. Can't explain it. Any food packaged in a box or bag is removed into a tupperware container and shit like sugar and coffee, that's put into air tight containers on the counter. And my cans of vegetables are alphabetized: black-eyed peas, butter beans, field peas and snaps, green beans . . . humma humma and so are the herbs and spices: basil, black pepper, crushed red pepper, oregano, salt . . . humma humma and the pasta is aligned and alphabetized in their containers on the counter: linguini, macaroni, thin spaghetti . . . humma humma and my life is alphabetized: awake, labor, sleep and even the activities in between: babies, read, supper, write.
Then I knocked the oil onto the kitchen floor an fucked up the order of things. Couldn't just clean up the puddle, hell no, had to mop the whole fucking floor. On the plus side, oil makes wood shine and my kitchen floor, being wood, now has an extra layer of shine. But, holy shit! must shock the noodles! Found myself in a kitchen clusterfuck. Save supper, clean floor and corral rabbit. Had to get him out (he's always at my feet) and keep him out until the area was safe for his paws. No big deal, right? An accident. Happens to everyone. But it fucked up my world. It's the little things, ain't it? Had my life organized and alphabetized and then smash shatter spill it was fucked. In an instant. Smash shatter, loud noises. Don't like loud noises. I mean they make me . . . a . . . little bit . . . insane. Instinctively, I want to grab a rifle, take cover. Loud noises. Can't alphabetize them and keep them aligned. They happen when they want to happen. Spill, don't like spills.
smash shatter spill
shock the pasta, save the rabbit, clean the floor . . . it was a surprise attack, an ambush! One second I'm getting ready to serve myself a supper of thin spaghetti with marinara sauce, the next second I'm shocking saving cleaning . . . but even after those duties are achieved I had a bigger one: had to realphabetize and realign. Had to . . . how'd I get ambushed? Shit. I ain't strack no more. I'm losing it. Lost it. My movements are sloppy. Sloppy enough to knock over a glass decanter of oil. Fuck fuck fuck. Why does it hurt to walk? Glass. Shrapnel. The detritus of an ambush. Stepped in it and caused another spill.
from my feet spilled even as I mopped up the smash shatter spill of the ambush. I'm wounded. Medic! Medic! Is everyone all right? Spaghetti, is it all right? Shocked and stopped cooking? The sauce, is it safe and simmering? Hasn't bubbled over? Private Spaghetti, are you all right? Corporal Sauce, are you all right? Corporal glass decanter and Specialist Oil are fucked. Their dead. Smashed and shattered and spilled and dead. The rabbit! Muzzle awareness! Muzzle awareness! Paw awareness! Paw awareness!
Ambushes are the fucking worst. Motoring along a highway and then BOOM BLAST BOOM!!! An IED unalphabetizes and unalignes your world. Cooking your supper and then SMASH SHATTER SPILL!!! And I don't have any back up. No on to come and mop the floor while I shock the spaghetti. No one to hold the rabbit while I mop up the ambush.
Route to work is on a three lane highway. Stay in the middle lane, goddamnit, away from the edges where the IED are planted. Cruise steady and fast straight down the middle until I have no choice but to get over to the right to make my exit. Can't get ambushed en route to work. And that day I hadn't been. Fuck it all. The ambush came at home. In my kitchen.
Loud noises and spills. World if fucking full of em! I mostly manage to alphabetize and align them out of my life. But then, ocassionally, I'm ambushed.
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She (ex-fiancé) said the final straw was when she dropped a bottle of wine and it smashed shattered spilled and I grabbed the semi-auto pistol (kept for home protection) which she thought was unnecessary. Scary and unnecessary. An overreaction. One extreme to the other. Either lying in bed all day and staring at the ceiling fan (helicopter blades) or arming myself with a lethal weapon at a sudden sound. Said she was scared she'd come home one day, make some noise, and I would blow her brains out.
* * *
The pasta was post traumatically stressed. The sauce was fine. Kitchen floor mopped cleaned extra shiney. Rabbit's paws unscathed. We survived the ambush. I ate. Pulled glass out of my feet. Had a drink. Ordred myself to relax. War's over, Jack. Been over. No more ambushes.