Our house is making cracking noises. Sharp ones. Rather frequently. “GRACK!”
Mike and I are telling each other it’s just settling, but honestly? It sounds more like snapping. Houses aren’t supposed to snap. Or crackle. Or pop. A house is not breakfast cereal. I am deeply disconcerted.
Another source of disturbance: Arthur is apparently an aardvark. WTF???!!! Has the world gone mad? More on this later. I’ve got to get some sleep.
Anyone who can tell me what this thing is will win an afternoon digging up a monster rose bush with me and my dog. It’s hanging in the “pantry.” Not the rose bush. This:
It’s driving me crazy. What is it? It must do something. Unless a conceptual artist had it fabricated for a laugh. But, as the lady living here before us was about as conceptual as a washcloth, that is most likely not the case.
Here’s the thing. Here’s how my luck works. I will keep it forever, and never learn what it does, and look like a fool. Or, I will throw it in the recycling and then, a day after the trucks come to take it away, I’ll have that “DOH” moment where I realize “Oh, that’s what it was for. What a perfect, eloquent, ingenious object! Too bad it’s gone forever!” and once again, despair.
Why do I bother? The outcome — I’m-a-fool — is predetermined. Still, curiosity wins out…