my father takes me down to the basement to show me the “multipurpose room”â€”which turns out to be the space under the stairs completely converted for utility storageâ€”itâ€™s been brilliantly and perfectly organized, and I ask him how heâ€™s managed it, and he gives me the name of some organization consulting company. then heâ€™s telling me how my mother hadnâ€™t wanted to get rid of her something-or-other and so there are gallons and gallons of what looks like whole wheat flour in plastic milk jugs, which sheâ€™ll doubtless never useâ€”but still I feel sorry for her in the face of my fatherâ€™s rage for orderâ€” it seems so ruthless, steamrolling everything in its path. we go into the laundry room, which has also been completely transformed, and I say, hang on, how many laundry machines do you have in here? and he looks smug and smiles and says, just waitâ€”and itâ€™s clear he has several set up for specific purposes and plans to give me a demonstrationâ€”theyâ€™re all professional grade, and everythingâ€™s neat and shiny, and somehow Iâ€™m just disgusted by the excess and single-mindedness.
Iâ€™m hang-glidingâ€”or somehow not actually me hang-gliding, but virtually, like watching as if Iâ€™m right there a demonstration of what not to doâ€”heâ€™s hot-doggingâ€”an expert, so he can get away with itâ€”but the commentatorâ€™s pointing out how foolhardy and dangerous his maneuvers are, letting go of the handles and swinging free in spaceâ€”and heâ€™s clowning and looks so happy, and we swoop along with himâ€”then heâ€™s low over the water when he regains control, never seeming to worry, and swoops it up and inland over the roofs of the houses, just clearing themâ€”and I ask, isnâ€™t that kind of close? and the commentator tut-tuts and says, thatâ€™s what happens when you goof around and cut it closeâ€”but really all I can see is how fun it looked and how he made it look so easy.