The Universe Spoke. I Listened.

Here we all are, wishing life was at least as easy to figure out as the Sudoku puzzle labelled "Easy" in the American Airlines magazine. Which is not all that easy, by the way. I would be in favor of one labelled "You Fell on Your Head Really Hard, Didn't You?"

Thus, when I am looking for direction from above, a hint as to which path my earthbound feet should follow, I am thrilled when a sign bursts forward and guides me to the light.

Case in point: In the family room at the back of the house, there is no room for a family. Not even a tiny nuclear family, like Scott, me, and Hankie, our 19 year old cat. Why? Because when the movers brought in my belongings, the pile of boxes was 7 feet high and took up almost the entire room. Even Scott's couch near the fireplace had to be stood on end. And this pile doesn't count the stuff carried to the bedrooms.

After clearing out a dozen or so boxes, I thought I could distract Scott from the rest by sweeping the floor where I'd unpacked. I would purty up the piece of floor the size of an ice cube tray. Because that would certainly make him forget that an entire room of his house had been slurped up by the Box Ness Monster. This would end those nightmares of Scott's, the ones where he has been sucked into a big lava lamp and is fighting off boxes like nautical bumper cars in the gelatinous orange fluid.

I got out the vacuum cleaner. But as I turned it on, I noticed this mysterious little face at my feet. "Do not sweep me," it said. And of course I couldn't. Not that day. Because the universe had spoken.

I call him Linty. He and Lizzie, my poor dead pet lizard, would have been great friends. They would perhaps have dated. "Lizzie," he would have said, "would you honor me with your charming desiccated presence at dinner?" If I hadn't eventually sucked his face to pieces with the Hoover Roundabout, that is.