July 30, 2001
During this visit to Ireland I rediscovered the joy of socializing with my mother while seated within the confines of her disintegrating car. Hurtling along, with the necessary exchange of power provided by me being at the wheel, delivered an ease that was absent in the home. We talked, laughed and performed dull chores together: the purchasing of a new mattress, the repair of the vacuum, the gathering of the groceries. For me, one who is always alarmed by the challenges of the simplest task, assisting my mother suddenly lent me an efficiency I don’t associate with my daily existence. There was no room for foundering, for getting lost in the jungle of north Dublin, no possibility that we shouldn’t be able to find a parking space. I became the warrior of chores, understanding that our unheeded progress was vital to the maintenance of our camaraderie. We made our way to Classic Furniture to buy a new mattress. En route we pass the Cadbury’s factory. We stop at the traffic lights and I become hypnotized by the purple script declaring the brand of product being made within. The C of the sign is a purple whirlpool, the d and b mirror images of each other. I want chocolate.
Classic Furniture is one of those stores that provides its own form of relief by containing nothing that you could possibly want. I want to proclaim from atop its highest CD tower: “Classic Furniture, you have temporarily freed me of desire.” Nothing in Classic Furniture is remotely classic, it is all a dull modern conglomeration of shoddy function that has bypassed anything conversant with the pleasure that can be derived from form. However, in the back we find a good orthopedic mattress to replace the tired noodle that my mother has been folding herself into for too long. She asks strange questions of the salesman that he answers with patience and conspiratorial smiles directed at me. I have fallen into one of the armchairs, my mother has shifted gear into an uncharacteristic spending spree: why not replace all of the mattresses? On our return home I phoned my friend Una who had recommended Classic Furniture as the nearest mattress outlet; we had devised a vague plan to meet there that afternoon as she too was in the market for a new mattress. Her trip to Classic Furniture had been somewhat less successful, she had left without purchasing a mattress as her two children had immediately thrown tantrums, used the beds as trampolines and filled their diapers to capacity. I sympathized with them.
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During this visit to Ireland I rediscovered the joy of socializing with my mother while seated within the confines of her disintegrating car. Hurtling along, with the necessary exchange of power provided by me being at the wheel, delivered an ease that was absent in the home. We talked, laughed and performed dull chores together: the purchasing of a new mattress, the repair of the vacuum, the gathering of the groceries. For me, one who is always alarmed by the challenges of the simplest task, assisting my mother suddenly lent me an efficiency I don’t associate with my daily existence. There was no room for foundering, for getting lost in the jungle of north Dublin, no possibility that we shouldn’t be able to find a parking space. I became the warrior of chores, understanding that our unheeded progress was vital to the maintenance of our camaraderie. We made our way to Classic Furniture to buy a new mattress. En route we pass the Cadbury’s factory. We stop at the traffic lights and I become hypnotized by the purple script declaring the brand of product being made within. The C of the sign is a purple whirlpool, the d and b mirror images of each other. I want chocolate.
Classic Furniture is one of those stores that provides its own form of relief by containing nothing that you could possibly want. I want to proclaim from atop its highest CD tower: “Classic Furniture, you have temporarily freed me of desire.” Nothing in Classic Furniture is remotely classic, it is all a dull modern conglomeration of shoddy function that has bypassed anything conversant with the pleasure that can be derived from form. However, in the back we find a good orthopedic mattress to replace the tired noodle that my mother has been folding herself into for too long. She asks strange questions of the salesman that he answers with patience and conspiratorial smiles directed at me. I have fallen into one of the armchairs, my mother has shifted gear into an uncharacteristic spending spree: why not replace all of the mattresses? On our return home I phoned my friend Una who had recommended Classic Furniture as the nearest mattress outlet; we had devised a vague plan to meet there that afternoon as she too was in the market for a new mattress. Her trip to Classic Furniture had been somewhat less successful, she had left without purchasing a mattress as her two children had immediately thrown tantrums, used the beds as trampolines and filled their diapers to capacity. I sympathized with them.
- rachael 7-30-2001 9:38 pm