Constance Street Constancies

The only thing constant about living here is that everything breaks. We are working on simple solutions for small grievances:

Kate says, "Maybe we could consider our constantly running toilet a Zen fountain."

My shower leaks, so now I don't use a rug. (Who really needs rugs, anyways? Our feet got spoiled somewhere along the line. Someone told me that some marathon runners do it barefoot and end up less injured and blistered than shoe-touters. This would make sense, to just use what God gave us, but I think we make matters all complicated for ourselves. Then, when small unnecessities break down, we consider them our crucial necessaries).

Instead of fixing the floor to ceiling window that Quincy broke in the kitchen, we left one pane of it open to the air, and he has accepted using the rectangular space as a personal dog door. He also ate 12 oatmeal cookies last night. See, dogs know when to indulge and when to count losses. I counted 12. He counted none, plus a new exit route to boot.

I have come to the conclusion that besides trying to simplify, functioning happily means accepting that most of our dependencies are defunct.