when one door closes a ceiling opens
When one door closes a ceiling opens. I will casually and calmly say that what appears to be shredded [and then fluffified] newspaper and snow in our living room is actually [drum roll, please] shredded [fluffed] newspaper in the form of insulation topped with more insulation.
We decided to join the Energy Efficiency Team and opted to add insulation to the attic.
And then one of the insulation team members fell through our ceiling. No big deal. He didn’t escape injury [stitches in his hand] — but nothing worse. Which is a wonder.
It was raining man for a very short moment.
I was at the computer desk [as I am at this moment].
-Pause [It’s just not a sound you hear coming from the ceiling.]
— Stand [I felt like investigating, and I’m the boss of me.]
— See [the man falling through the ceiling and catch himself–he’s holding onto a beam]
— Stare and simultaneously utter, “Are you okay, sir?
— More staring [and I grabbed his legs–certainly not because I was glad to see him, and not to pull him down–but to guide his legs to the banister]
— Breath [inhale is a better word–in a couple of tons of insulation–it’s raining fiberglass and fluffy newspaper–neither of which actually belong in my lungs]
— Shout — the other team member came racing down the attic stairs shouting the falling man’s name–I shouted, “He fell through the ceiling!”
He ran to the truck to turn off the steady flow of insulation spewing from the new entrance. The term “new entrance” just seems so much more suave than “gaping hole.”
That’s Handsome Dude Jones standing at the top of the stairs vacuuming.
We are left with a very fine [as in texture] layer of insulation on every little, big, high, and low thing in the universe of our house.
And there’s still a gaping new entrance in our ceiling.
This will be a great story in a minute. Or a week. Or just later.
I’m going to go dance in the kitchen–to “It’s Raining Men” and sing me some Allelujah.
Excuse me while I go and count some blessings.