It’s only two days out of the house — two days that will be over with by the time you read this. But it already feels like an eternity … and we haven’t even left yet.
We’re still packing to leave. It’s quite a process, prepping a house so the termite people can erect their grand circus tent of horrors. They’ll pump it full of gas, eradicating all those wood-eating critters who think my 100-year-old domicile is a McDonalds drive-thru. The termites have been coming out in little swarms, dancing about like drunken spring breakers. “Party-on, dudes,” I tell them. “Enjoy it while you can.”
I’ve warned them what’s coming — that they should get out. They don’t listen. Foolish arthropods. Now it’s the tent for them.
Two days and two nights. We’ll spend it at my aunt’s condo. That’s the easy part. But it’s getting there I’ve found is difficult.
You don’t just hand over the keys to your house when it’s being tented. Oh no, it’s never that simple. There are all manner of preparations to get it ready. Like taking all the food out of the house. It’s reverse grocery shopping, only you’re loading up half-eaten bags of Goldfish and boxes of cereal so stale that the petrified bits chip your teeth when you bite down.
You find all kinds of things in your pantry and cabinets as you empty them of food. Vinegar that has turned back into wine. An economy-sized tub of oatmeal that would feed a brigade of troops. Why did I ever need that? Halloween candy as old as my daughter. A sprouting potato as old as my daughter. (For the longest while, I thought it was an ordinary houseplant. I even watered it.)
We found this is a great opportunity to purge — to clean out all the unneeded and unnecessary items. Because does anyone really need four different jars of capers in various stages of Darwinian evolution. “Hey, look, this one has started growing a tail!” (Maybe it’s not the termites we should worry about.)
It’s been quite a project getting ready to leave. I’ve created elaborate checklists with hand-drawn checkboxes next to them. It contains items that are obvious: car keys, dog, fish, kid, wife, beer, me. And items not so obvious: Hiding boxer shorts with the puppies on them. Wouldn’t want the termite guys seeing those.
Appliances had to be unplugged. Check. Medicines taken out. Check. Trees trimmed off the house. Nearly killed me … but check.
It’s strange and awkward abandoning your house and going to someone else’s. Alien even. My aunt’s is only south of town, and we have it all to ourselves. Thank goodness we have it, but it’s not home. All of our stuff is stacked up inside. We’re not getting too comfortable. It’s only two days.
For two days I have to commute to work — an actual drive. It’s been years since I’ve had one of those. I live half a mile from work and most days I ride a bike. A traffic jam is a cat the shape of a walrus stepping out in front of me on the road.
Now I have to travel un-godly — even in-humane! — distances. A whole 5 miles. FIVE MILES! They have these things called traffic lights I have to stop for. I wonder if I need to pack sandwiches and water bottles for each trip. I worry I might make a wrong turn, end up in the woods and get eaten by a bear. We townies are hopeless when we venture out of our little world.
Two days, I remind myself. And already I’m ticking down the minutes until I get to go home. Ah, home! Just the thought of it. Funny how much we take it for granted. Most days my house drives me crazy. Old houses will do that to you. But I haven’t even left yet, and I already I miss it. The creaking of the floorboards. The spider I can’t seem to find on the ceiling fan.
Two days and we can go home. Free of termites. Back to our comfy little world. Just the thought of it. Then we can put it all back together, and restart our collection of evolving capers and petrified cereal.