People who live in glass houses...should move

Never doubt that a tiny piece of quartz in the wrong place at the wrong time can screw things up enormously.


The weekend started promisingly enough. We had been searching awhile for two solid used utility tables and some shelving for a project T has going in one of the spare bedrooms. We both share a kind of stubborn cheapness blended with an environmental ethic, so we were unwilling to buy brand new utility tables to the tune of a hundred and fifty bucks when we could get them used. So on Saturday morning we decided to hit some garage sales. The Kid has become enamored of that sort of thing, and since it was just the three of us that morning we decided to head out. The Kid scraped up all his cash -- about three dollars and seventy cents -- stuffed it in the pocket of his shorts and climbed into my Toyota RAV4. He was hoping to find Legos with which to build an ocean liner, and we, of course, had the less lofty but still pressing goal of getting our tables.

We struck gold at the first garage sale. Two utility tables and a set of shelving for $21 total (but no Legos). We grinned smugly at each other as we hoisted the shelving onto the top rack. T put the back seat down next to The Kid and slid the tables in. They looked a little long to me, but we closed the door slowly and gently, and nothing was amiss.

We drove home slowly, but as T took a turn a couple blocks from the house, the tables started to shift. I grabbed them to make sure they didn't fall too close (or on) The Kid, and T pulled over so we could readjust.

"We're two blocks from home. I think I'll just ride back here and hold them while you drive," said T. I agreed. He got settled. The tables looked like they were sticking out a bit again, but hey, they did before too, so I went ahead and closed the door.

Turns out they were sticking out.

Folks, I don't know how many of you have had a large piece of glass shatter into smithereens at close range, but it's bizarre. It's as if the surface before you changes from one form of matter to another in a split second. What used to be my back window took on a near liquidity as it fell all over the place and into every crack and crevice. It was as if Scotty had just beamed up my back windshield, because there was a quick noise and then it was just gone. Goodbye window, hello shocked face of my glass-covered boyfriend. And I stood there for a stunned moment, contemplating the shards falling onto my feet, noting the look on T's face, and wondering well, huh, look at that. What the yellow rubbery hell am I supposed to do now?

Plink. Plink. Plink.

Plink.

After exchanging a few words I do not remember, I got back into the driver's seat and drove home carefully. T did not move.

In the end, T had only a few minor nicks on his legs, and my mother brought over her two Shop-Vacs so we could clean up the rest of the glass, and she took The Kid for most of the afternoon to give us some time. She also bought him a remote-controlled helicopter to alleviate the disappointment from his aborted Lego-hunting mission.

We recovered. We moved on. Saturday sucked, but whatever. Okay, so those utility tables and shelves were a little more expensive than we hoped. Ha ha.

Sunday started better, and I was pleased to see that the grass was high, because that meant it was time to climb on my new riding lawnmower and cut it. This I did later in the day after it had cooled off. I stuck the orange foam earplugs in my ears and fired up the engine. I was going along pleasingly, pondering the nature of the cosmos, or perhaps humming some silly tune, when I saw T in front of me, waving his arms manically. I stomped on the brake, turned the mower off and yanked the orange foam out of my ears.

"What did you run OVER?" he asked, astonished. "Huh?" I asked impatiently. In response he just pointed, shocked, at the sliding glass doors to the walkout basement. Which looked like, well, see the photo at the top of the post. I climbed off the mower, still clutching the earplugs, and stood in front of the glass doors. There was an audible crackling sound as the cracks continued to spread across the glass. T looked stricken.

"I don't even know what to say," I muttered, then turned around and walked inside the house.

The glass guy comes tomorrow. It's going to be, as our door guy wincingly noted, pricey.

I shouldn't bitch. Rose has a flooded house after what can only be termed a dreadful week, and hell, it still isn't summer at Jeannie's place.

But glass still makes me nervous.