The Writer and the Overseas Childhood: The Third Culture Literature of Kingsolver, McEwan and Others.http://www.mcfarlandpub.com/book-2.php?id=978-0-7864-4900-2
In order that my ego not revel too long, or that my soul not transcend the bounds of mundanity, fate determined that I arrived home after work (first day back after vacation) to discover our ac broken, again.
It's not so bad as long as we still have some power, but it is a bit uncomfortable.
The zinger: the receipt for our July 5 repair of the ac had been on the floor in the kitchen corner all month. I knew exactly where it was. But yesterday, mysteriously, it was gone. I needed the receipt, for ac repairs are costly, and if the company installed a faulty part I darned well didn't want to have to pay for it again.
I searched the basement (in case the cats had taken it for a toy). I searched my mail bin (in case I absent-mindedly had put it somewhere sensible). I searched the recycling (which is where is ought to have been if not somewhere sensible).
And then I opened the garbage. Fruit flies lifted from the rinds of the morning's cantaloupe. Things oozed from detritus warmed by the afternoon sun in our currently un-airconditioned kitchen. A doggie poop bag (tied shut but still gross) cradled a rotting tomato.
I sorted by hand until, under a dripping styrofoam container that had held chicken breasts, I found the receipt. Wet, bacterial, but legible. I left it out on the back porch to dry and then sealed it in a zip-lock bag.
Today the repair company has been singularly unhelpful.
I am contemplating putting the receipt back in the garbage, under the festering chicken container, for a while before I hand it to them for perusal, IF they ever show up . . .