View from the North 40: When tragedy stalks my house

One of the greatest tragedies to an enlightened mankind, which, as a group, develops a strong sense of attachment, is dealing with loss.

This can be loss of loved ones or co-workers, loss of a home or familiar landmark, or loss of an heirloom or - worst of all - any of our precious, glorious, bountiful stuff which we accumulate in our lives.

It has been a week of loss. Tragedy is stalking my house, and it's rearranging, killing and stealing my things one by one.

It started with a little matter of 40 bucks. Not that I'm saying $40 is a little deal in my world, but the incident was ultimately little, resolved without, um, further incident when I found the money cleverly stashed away in my purse. It was a nice opening effort by tragedy to mess with my psyche because, really, who keeps money in my purse? Not me, for certain. But there it was, and I was too relieved to hunt down the culprit who put it there.

Then came the laundry issue - truly an advancement in effort by tragedy to mess up my life.

In one load of laundry, tragedy wrapped a bra strap around the agitator and the rest of the bra around a few shirts. The bra strap was the weak link in the mess, the fatality. (And stop getting the vapors every time I write "bra." I'm a chick, I wear bras. It's more for you than me, anyway, as I do my part to keep America beautiful. So get over it and just thank me for my sacrifice when you see me next.)

The same load of laundry claimed the life of my favorite shirt. Tragedy carefully unraveled the threads on the lapel edge. Now my favorite shirt is a frayed mess and - it pains me to say this - destined for the rag box. I know that seems like harsh treatment for a shirt that has given me years of service, making me presentable in public. No easy task that.

But cutting a favorite shirt into useful rags is just the frugal person's form of a funeral pyre. Believe me, I grieved. I wailed. Gnashed my teeth. Pulled at fistfuls of hair. Threw a 2-year-old's temper tantrum on the floor. It was tragic.

The last stage of grief will be the hardest because I need to go shirt shopping for a replacement. Or I could lose weight so I fit into one of my other shirts hanging in the closest.

Yeah, I laughed at that, too, so this weekend I'll be shopping, which is also known as visiting the tenth level of hell. Curse you tragedy.

If that weren't bad enough, while tragedy was stalking my house, it also stole one of my notebooks. One of my recent ones that I, you know, need - as in need need for a deadline need. I looked everywhere for it, and then I was forced to do the unbearable: clean my house. Yes, as in clean, clean, including sorting through the piles of stuff so important it must be left in hoarder-sized piles on my desk and looking under the furniture where, apparently, I store paperclips, popcorn, dust bunnies, gravel, dog toys, more of my important papers, used tissues and some unidentifiable objects I don't know how to explain. But no notebooks.

Curse and double damn you, tragedy, to a world of sunshine, daisies and sweet children, like a flock of cherubs, singing "Here Comes the Sun."

The true tragedy was that after all that pointless cleaning I stumbled upon the notebook the next morning. It was in my pickup truck that I use to do chores.

Yeah, I didn't see that coming either. Well played, tragedy. Well played.

(I'll be the chick wailing, gnashing my teeth, pulling at fistfuls of hair and throwing a 2-year-old's temper tantrum on the floor in women's wear at [email protected].)