Random Acts of Randomness

I have picked up several odd slang terms and turns of phrase from the different parts of the country in which I have lived. Some find this enchanting, while others, those of my dear husband’s ilk, find in this an endless source of amusement. I find it best, however, if I lend those latter none of my attention as I sweep forward to the point of this essay.

One of my favorites of these informal uses of familiar words is the term “random”. It’s a good English word (well, to be truthful, it’s really French in origin, but what has that to do with the price of cheese in Tarrytown, N.J.?) meaning ‘without a pattern: done, chosen, or occurring without a specific pattern, plan, or connection’.

Its slang usage holds pretty closely to its library definition, which is surprising in and of itself. It is used to express mild surprise at an unpredictable occurrence. For example:

Ginny Gumchure: “The French quiz that we were to have today was cancelled because Mr. White’s hairpiece fell off during his lecture.”
Tiffany Pompom: “Wow. That’s random.”

But anyway, what brought this all to mind was that I was reading a book called “I Hate To Housekeep”. It’s an older book by Peg Bracken. Well, I mean it was written back in the ‘dark ages’ when many women actually did keep house full-time. The sixties, or something. Where was I? Oh, yes: the book addresses itself to the ‘random housekeeper’.

And that made me think, well, who is more random than I? Now I don’t mean that I am unpredictable, because actually my life is far more routine than I would care to admit to any but you, my devoted readers. I am very boringly predictable, with the endless rounds of toilet scrubbing and picking up children and drinking pots and pots of coffee that make up my day.

I guess what I am getting at is that I am predictable about getting things done, but completely random about how or when they are finished. Those who do not know me intimately are at times surprised when I explain that I am shockingly, shockingly lazy. Some point to having written a book or two and insist that the evidence alone speaks to the contrary.

The truth is simple. I only ever get anything done because I am trying to avoid doing something else. For example, right now I am avoiding doing the dishes, so I am working on my pet project, writing. At times when I am trying to avoid some onerous task such as mopping the floor, I will suddenly and urgently feel the need to sip coffee and invent situations from which my novel’s characters must extricate themselves. My, I know the floor needs cleaning, but Dolorosa has just discovered that Frederic has been untrue and can’t decide who to turn to. Will she choose the steadfast but boring Gregory or the dangerous but attractive flamenco dancer, Bob?

Conversely, when I’ve written myself into a corner and am not sure where to go from there, I am likely to be attracted to, say, ironing, or any other task that will free me from writing another sentence. For example, perhaps Dolorosa has tired of Gregory and of Bob, and I’ve tired of Frederic and am growing to think that Dolorosa is entirely too whiny. Must be time to clean tile grout. That is, until I’m tired of housework again.

I’m randomly organized, too. My desk is a heap of unanswered letters, interesting articles, clippings of restaurants I want to try and scribbled notes to myself to “Cad Aram”, whatever that means. Oh, wait, I think it’s “Call Amanda”. No, I don’t even know an Amanda to call. At any rate, it’s a disaster requiring a five minute hunt every time I wish to liberate something from the desk's cluttered surface. And that's not even counting the amount of time I have to spend trying to squint my handwritten notes into legibility.

My books, on the other hand, are fairly well organized. One entire bookshelf is devoted to frequently used nonfiction books, which are categorized by Dewey Decimal number. My fiction books are grouped by author, and the rest are in a logical order throughout the room. I can set my hand on whatever book I desire in under a minute, unless it is one of the boxes of paperbacks we had to pack up because we had too many books on too few bookshelves.

True story: a month or so ago my dear husband turned to me, whilst I was arranging myself prettily beneath the covers in order to drift into sleep, and asked, in a husky voice, “Dear, what’s goulash?”

I stared up into the blackness of the room and replied that I thought it was some type of stew, possibly containing eggplant although I wouldn’t swear to the latter. He said that the topic had arisen at work, and that he and his good friend couldn’t remember what it was.

Readers, I had a sudden brainstorm, and without getting out of bed, I turned to my left, slipped the second book from the left off of the bookshelf, and turned on my charming little bedside lamp with the frosted glass base. Within seconds, I had opened the book, entitled “They Never Tell You These Things”, and had located the appropriate page, where I read aloud the featured question (Q.: What is goulash?) and answer (A.: A hearty Hungarian beef stew flavored with paprika) to my dear husband. I was just a teeny bit impressed with myself.

Well, now I’m not sure where I was headed. I’m sure that I had something else I wanted to say, but…well, never mind, the coffee maker just sounded its friendly beep, so I guess I’ll just end it here. How random.