Ah, the dining room table … perhaps the most important piece of furniture, with regard to the construct of Family, and thereby Society, that exists. The place where, as sunlight fades, all come together to share their experiences of the day, to laugh as one over silly happenings, to empathize and give support in hard times, to show love and appreciation for what and who one has, where it need not be spoken aloud.
I’ve not seen the surface of my dining room table in months. There are stacks of papers, spindles of CDs, a disassembled ceiling fan still waiting to retake its place in the remodeled kitchen, a substantial portion of my collection of hand tools, an impressive (if unintentionally assembled) beer can collection, a pink cowboy hat (wtf?), several stuffed animals that the dog has liberated from The Live Acorn’s room, a number of pots and pans (also originally put there during kitchen construction and subsequently forgotten), and a banjo.
That’s just the top layer.
But I’m done. I’ve had it. In fact, I started putting a few things away last night, and almost immediately found my favorite 5 mm allen wrench, which I thought was lost forever. Already the rewards are overwhelming! I’m a bit giddy at the realization that, by Sunday, I will be supping in the evening, not at the coffee table staring at the TV, nor leaning against the kitchen counter with a spoon and a can of Spaghettios, but at the goddamned dining room table, listening to the hell-hound recount her day’s adventures, laughing uproariously as she regales me with tales of mischief, sitting together again, after far too long, as a family should.
[Update:] I’m not sure if The Live Acorn still reads this, but if she does, I’m sure she’s thinking “Well, crap. No more Facebooking during dinner, I guess. At least for a week, until the table's covered up again.” She knows me all too well.