17 days remain until my house is allegedly foreclosed upon.  I say “allegedly” because I’ve been duped twice already and while I might be somewhat of a fool, I’m not unpacking the boxes I’ve already packed.  I want to be ready when foreclosure comes calling.  Besides offering a convenient spot to ram my toe into in the middle of the night the boxes represent the harsh reality of the forthcoming foreclosure.  So off to the garage I cart them.  Out of sight, out of—I am out of my mind.  The lack of communication on the lender’s part and the lack of control over my living situation make me dizzy and weak.  That could explain the fainting spell that occurred a few days ago whilst on my way to the refrigerator for a glass of almond milk in the middle of the night.  I really want to blame the episode on Bank of America but it’s time to rehabilitate these atrophied frontal lobe muscles of mine and chalk it up to the Theory of Evolution.  Nature must not take kindly to Namby Pamby almond-milk-drinking boobs like me when it comes to survival of the fittest.  If I were going to the fridge for a real beverage like whole milk from a real boob perhaps the outcome would be different.  It’s not the first time I’ve attended a middle-of-the-night fainting conference.  Last Fall I fell… face first into the toilet in an all out porcelain on porcelain battle royal in the wee hours of the morning.  I was standing in front of the toilet when a neurotransmitter leapt to the wrong synapses and informed my head to lighten instead of my bladder.  The next moment of consciousness found my face pressed firmly into the marble floor and my alarmed girlfriend hovering over asking what happened.  I didn’t know and I didn’t care because the cold stone against my clammy skin felt good.  My mouth, however, did not.  “I’m hoping the toilet lid isn’t cracked,” was the first incoherent thought that struck.  An inspection of the intact lid and my intact front teeth put the mystery out of its misery.  As I’ve proven often in the past, my brain is small and perhaps nonexistent so the lack of weight it provides to my cranium kept forward momentum to a minimum.  A new lid would cost as much as a new toilet and my lack of dental insurance would leave me a toothless wonder competing in Clampett Family look-alike contests.  Finally, it seemed my own stupidity paid off.  Shortly thereafter foreclosure madness set in and my foolishness of months past resumed its reign of detriment.

With this latest fainting fracas I recognized the symptoms of dizziness in time to get low to the ground before succumbing to unconsciousness.  When I came to the cold marble of the kitchen floor felt good against my clammy skin… really good.  So good I consider sleeping there the rest of the night until I notice the refrigerator door hanging wide open.  “Oh yeah… a glass of almond milk.  Boy am I thirsty,” I say to myself.  The incoherence is second nature and goes unchecked as I pour myself a generous helping of the pressed-nut liquid.  Gulp… Gulp… Mmmm… Mmmm... WWWWWHOA!  Wait a second.  This tree just fell in the woods and nobody was there to hear it.  My cat slept through the whole thing but that’s to be expected.  We’re in our third month of the foreclosure crisis and his actions are on par with the household emergency drills we run on a regular basis.  His role is to sleep and eat through all disasters (natural and manmade) and mine is to bandy about pointless escape plans.  But what if I didn’t resume consciousness?  What then?  Who would feed him?  Would he eat me?  I wonder which part of my body he’d gnaw away at first.  The head?  He’ll be so disappointed when he sees how small my brain is.  I say to myself, “You should be more care-- OMFG!  You know who would’ve found you, don’t you?  The goddamn lender, that’s who!”  I play the scenario in my throbbing head: I lay on the kitchen floor unconscious for days until a Bank of America servicer stops by to present me with an eviction notice and spies my limp body on the kitchen floor through the window.  He springs into action with a 911 call while my cat springs into action with his eating and sleeping routine.  I remain calm because I’m… well, unconscious.  The paramedics arrive just in time to revive me and the lender is hailed the hero.  Great, that’s just great.  The situation is akin to rewarding a would-be robber for saving the life of an elderly bank security guard with CPR after he’s waved an Uzi in his face and caused the underpaid employee a heart attack… unless of course, he was robbing a true American hero: my lender’s bank.  In that case his best chance for a reward would come in the form of conjugal-visit-privileges in the State pen… from Randall, his horny cellmate. 

In the wee hours of the morning I stand clutching an empty glass of almond milk and contemplating my narrowly escaped satire of fate against the backdrop of a half-empty house.   A tremendous sense of emptiness washes over me.  I’ve been here before.  Prudently I steady myself against the kitchen counter as the overwhelming sensation makes a distant memory feel not so distant.   

It’s February 2007.  I’m a few months into a soon-to-be dissolved marriage and moving back into my house after crashing in guest quarters of friends.  I climb my front steps clutching a garbage bag filled with a few items of clothing.  They're returning to the house in much the same fashion as they and I left: hastily.  The separation from my then wife that drove me from the house was, like all good unforeseen events, abrupt.  The house is almost entirely empty which is exactly the way I want it.  Much of the dishware, glassware and utensils that once occupied the kitchen cabinets were wedding gifts masquerading as memory grenades waiting to explode in a mockery of the nuptials.  The bed and linens once shared between two lovers were bunker busters sure to finish off any remaining emotional guards.  Everything had to go and it did… before I even set foot back in the house.  Not a single reminder of a once celebrated union that ended in swift misery remained.  This house is to become my sanctuary from sadness and so begins a spending spree to fill the hollows of my heart by filling the hollows of my house with a new bed, couches, dining table, dresser, dishes, glassware, cookware and so on.  No matter how much I filled the house with furnishings it still felt empty.  “Hmm... it must be this bachelor-style modern decor causing the funk.  Maybe soemthing more... I don't know... vintagy would be better,” I told myself.  An obsession with the Danish Modern era followed and brought with it another new bed, couch, dining table and chairs.  The constant perusal of craigslist and vintage furniture boutiques brilliantly distracted me from the rigors of a feared healing process.  Once the furniture shopping fiasco ended I forced myself into the solace of a professionally installed home theatre system in the living room -- and the bedroom.  I shopped wisely but healed unwisely, a fact my therapist would attempt to point out months later.  I couldn't hear a word she said over the din of motorcycles, ATVs and off-road trucks from Motor Storm on PS3 as it blasted from the speakers and enveloped me in its glorious surround sound. 

The mass purchase of tangible goods never turned this house into the place of solace and retreat I intended it to be.  Instead it became a habitat for disconsolation and a setting I now must retreat from.  One day soon I will pile my belongings high atop a truck and vacate this Cahuenga pass house in the same fashion the Clampetts arrived in Beverly Hills.  The only thing missing from this picture is a few missing front teeth… but trust me, I’m working on that.