Dear AKR (2) The Red Boot Stage

In which Sandolore tells Amy about Rats, Floods, and Locusts--and waxes poetic about friends in space shuttles

This is a throwback letter I found while moving. The stories told within it seem so timely in terms of my move and the things I am escaping at the old house.

Dear Amy,

I just got back from the grocery store, and the whole time I was writing this letter to you in my head—probably because you’re so passionately interested in my adventures there.¹

Things have been mental lately. Yesterday was one of those days with pipes bursting, literal rats (not the offspring kind)² peeking in at me, with floods sweeping and fans blowing. It was a day of shattering phone screens, bruised shins, and plenty of chaos. I’m still cleaning up the mess and making progress, but I’m exhausted. So many urgent things to juggle. Naturally, I didn’t want to go to the grocery store. I was determined to plow on and avoid the fuss of making myself presentable. Hunger wasn’t the driver either—there’s always something to scrape together when I’m alone—but realizing I could count the number of coffee grains left, and with only a naked roll of toilet paper—these are baseline necessities. Since grocery stores are closed on Sundays, and extra closed on Easter Sundays, I’d be wiping my ass on pinecones and sucking the oil out of those 3 coffee beans for 2 whole days.

This left me a choice: go as I was, filthy fingernails, greasy hair, with ivy stuck in it (the result of my landlord’s charming message about the ivy situation). The black goop on my hands was the tree's sap—its blood—dripping down from my weeping pine tree.

I was still in my new red rain boots—they’ve become housewear with all the rain and constant sweeping of floodwaters into the drain. I’ve been doing that every couple of hours. So, boots on, hair in a ponytail, still in my blue French work pants, I decided to make it a thing. Why hide how filthy I am? I strutted into the store like, “yeah, I’m so cool I can rock up in my yard gear.” Maybe I even look cute like this. After a few furtive glances from grocery guys, I thought, yep, pulling it off. High five.

These boots have a story. Aym and I both shop at LIDL (yes, the place where people sometimes poop their pants)³. They have these aisles of miscellaneous treasures, and I found my dream red rain boots there. Bought them instantly. A week later, Aym goes, “I have something for you.” I asked if it was blue. He said, “No, red.” That’s when I knew: he’d bought the same boots. We’ve officially entered the Red Boot Stage of our relationship, where we know each other well enough to buy the same pair. Now I have a pair for his house and mine.

All right, enough gushing. Let’s talk about rats. So, I’ve decided that the giant rat peeking in the basement was actually searching for his friend—the one who got skewered on a thorn. The overgrowth near my gutters had gotten out of hand, and a couple of days ago Aym was out there hacking away at this monstrous weed tree—let’s call it a Black Locust, though it isn’t. The “Locust” has four-inch thorns that are impossible to avoid. Any interaction with it resulted in gashes, perfect for infections. As Aym hacked, we noticed a bad smell, but oddly Zok, the dog, wasn’t sniffing around. The more he cut, the stronger the smell, until it was suffocating. Then, as he yanked down a particularly gnarly branch, we found the source—a rat, impaled on one of the thorns. Must’ve jumped from the roof and met his end. Guess I can call that tree carnivorous now.

Floods, rats, and locusts. It’s biblical over here. Speaking of locusts, I had a good laugh recently. Sitting with Aym and the kids, I tried to reference the biblical plagues but couldn’t remember the French word for locusts. I asked Aym what insect attacked in the Bible, and he said, “Sauterelles,” which means grasshoppers. It cracked me up—grasshoppers are just too cute to imagine as a biblical plague. I started laughing uncontrollably, tears streaming, and everyone stared at me like I’d lost it. Couldn’t explain why the idea of a grasshopper plague was so hilarious. Is it funny, Amy? Or did I just have a minor breakdown? It felt like one of our old Friday night bunny foo foo moments, when we’d go berserk together.

Speaking of breakdowns: earlier today, S⁴ forgot his phone at the house and came by to pick it up during a heavy downpour. His dad was parked in front of the house, and I went out to meet him. It had been raining for hours, and the concrete was slick. I was rushing, already soaked head to toe, and I slipped. The phone flew out of my hands, flipping in the air like an Olympic diver, and met its spectacular, face-first end on the concrete step. The screen shattered into a perfect spiderweb. Disasters around every corner today.

The atelier was already a cataclysmic—seriously bad. But the flooding from yesterday, coming from both above and below, made everything worse. My mess just compounded the disaster. There’s so much art junk down there, and now it’s all soaking wet. If I leave it, it’ll rot.

I woke up yesterday to a screaming dishwasher. The water on the floor confirmed it wasn’t just a nightmare. It was still pouring outside, and I was out in my pajamas, under the torrents, trying to shut off the house’s water. All of this before my first sip of coffee.

Turns out something had been munching on the dishwasher hose. Hopefully not one of the beefy rats that freaked me out yesterday. See, I’ve got this trench in my basement—a drainage channel because the neighborhood floods so often. As I swept the water into it, I saw this huge rat body emerge from the drain. We locked eyes for what felt like an eternity before I screamed, stomped, and it scurried back.

It’s been weird. I’ve been operating on pure adrenaline, pulling weeds, trimming trees, and now, digging through the basement like a zombie with Sandolore stories playing in the background.⁵

Today’s story was about two friends, one was an astronaut who invited his buddy to hang out in a space shuttle. Netflix funded the trip, turning it into a reality show, and they laughed about being the most boring reality show ever. The end.

My goal is to make the basement look somewhat like a room again today. Optimistic, I know.

Here’s your Saturday rant. I’d love to respond to your ocean sadness and ocean calm, but today, it’s all about me. Utter self-absorption. Me, me, me. I’m glad I could share the red boot story, though. I always feel weird gushing about good things in my relationship. Why does talking about good things get so boring so fast? Bad things have so much more texture, non?

But when we get to the space shuttle, we can talk about everything for one whole cycle around the moon, okay?

Until then, love you like crazy,
Sandolore

1. In a previous letter, she told me how much she loves my grocery store rants.

2. I affectionately refer to my children as “the rats” sometimes.

3. This refers to a recent trip to LIDL when I nearly had an anxiety attack—sweating in an endless line for the register, suffocating in the unmistakable odor of a nearby pants pooper.

4. My son.

5. Since childhood, I've always had narratives running in the background of my mind, especially when I’m vacuuming or doing other mindless chores.