Page 18 of The Happiness Blueprint
“Thank you. You’re officially my favorite customer,” I say. “Now, shall we go through the samples I brought over?”
I take a sip from my second cup of coffee of the day. Greta leans in.
“Between us, though, could you chat with the builders about bathroom manners? Toilet seat down and no drops on the floor—that sort of thing. I know this is a job site now, but it’s still our home, and it certainly makes for additional work on our end.”
I turn the discreet color of a beet.
“I’m ever so sorry,” I say. “I will have a word with them, and this won’t be a problem going forward.”
I come home and find that Dad’s made dinner again, if fried eggs on toast counts as dinner. The ketchup and sweet chili sauce are in their usual place in the middle of the table. I recognize most of the tableware from when I was a child. I check my step-counting app and am pleased to see that I have not only achieved over six thousand steps, I have also ended on an odd number, so I reward myself with a glass of wine. Dad declines my offer to pour him one.
“What about the egg?” Dad asks as I sit down and straighten up my cutlery so that the knife and fork are placed completely vertically. “I know you eat them, but what’s the actual life span? Do you go by the life span of the egg or of the chicken it could turn into?”
I’ve already googled this, which presents a valid dilemma to my diet.
“Ah. Interesting. For the egg to change into a chicken many things would need to occur, first it would need to be fertilized. Most eggs sold commercially are from poultry farms and have not been fertilized. In fact, laying hens at farms have not even seen a rooster. For an egg to become fertilized, a hen and rooster must mate prior to the formation and laying of the egg. I’m quoting Google here. This egg here,” I say and poke at the yellow with the tip of my fork and some yolk spills out onto the bread and plate, “this egg would have a life span of whatever time is left until it reaches the use-by date on its packaging.”
“I will keep a lookout for the shorter use-by dates if that helps, Klara, honey,” Dad promises warmly.
“Maybe we should get takeout tomorrow? My treat,” I say. I love takeout. And online shopping. It’s opening a lid and getting a surprise while knowing exactly what’s inside. Which basically means there can’t be any bad surprises.
“Be my guest, but it would be cold by the time you arrive home with it. Fred’s Grill and Pizzeria is the closest one.”Of course, I’ve been driving the van all day, and when I finally arrive home, if I want a decent meal, it involves a half-hour drive. Delivery service nonexistent. Escape to the country at its finest.
After dinner, I try to organize my life. I have never had a calendar this full. The lines form against the page in varying distances, and I can’t help thinking of how long it would take to hold my breath between each one as if they were pedestrian crossings. It would be many short, shallow breaths, as if hyperventilating. When there are too many notes, they blur together, and I can’t see where one ends and another starts.
Today’s notes are:
7:30 Key drop-off to Gunnar. Bring pastry at the same time.
8:00 Tile wholesaler to collect samples.
9:00 Office time and invoices.
10:00 Customer meeting in office to discuss new project. Name: Hans, presumed age: 40 plus. Only other information: he’s a Mac user (“sent from my iPhone”).
11:00 34 Smålandsgatan. Woman called Hilda. Favorite color (assumed) red. Cat named Sot. Likes when we take shoes off.
Then I ran out of space in the margin. I turn the page to look at the afternoon.
“Only write what’s important for the job. Like what material and equipment needs to be brought, where the client has left the key for you, if it’s under the doormat or next to a flowerpot, that sort of thing,” Dad tells me when he reads over my shoulder.
“I see. But how does one know what is important? The cat’s name could be important. What if he walks into a newly cemented area for example? He may need to be called back.”
“We don’t usually have to herd cats.”
“I felt like I was herding cats on my first day.”
Dad shakes his head and walks off. I notice that he is holding on to the wall as he does so. He seems to have become more and more like a small child lately. He is recently a fussy eater and goes to bed early, and I have to force him to get dressed in the morning. I decide to prepare his clothes for the following day, folding them neatly on a chair outside his bedroom door. Jeans, T-shirt, sweater and thick white socks at the very top of the pile. I rearrange them to resemble a smile, stretched and curved, though I’m not smiling as I do.
It’s Thursday which means it’s time for Wine and Whine. Our sisterly, weekly catch-up session. Saga’s name is on my screen, and I press green. Her blond hair is in a messy bun, and she has her reading glasses on.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey.” I have this habit of mirroring Saga, sometimes intentionally, sometimes not.
Why do you always have to copy me, Klara? Get your own vocabulary!
“Trying to sort out Dad’s website, but it’s impossible. Harry is like a cat. Whenever I open up the laptop, he comes running.” She sighs.
