Yard Sale

On the Utility of Metaphors for Disasters

I think I was five or six years old the first time my mother and new stepfather packed up what then constituted one of what would be only the first of several assemblages of blended family and took us to Colorado to ski. My sister would have been about four and was distressingly good at it immediately. Over the next several years of ski trips I learned that, like other sports, skiing had its own slang lexicon and, burgeoning word fetishist that I have always been, I enjoyed parsing the language more than I did the actual skiing. I had not yet learned that having very narrow feet and a tendency to altitude sickness might have been factors. But that’s a different story.

Metaphors for the qualities of snow, such as “powder,” “mashed potatoes,” and “corn” are pretty descriptive. I thought “snow snake” was funny—what you blame for a fall caused by nothing, like blaming a fart on the dog if there is no dog present. My favorite, however, then and still, is “yard sale,” which I will capitalize to honor its unique cleverness.

A Yard Sale is when you wipe out so spectacularly that your stuff gets strewn all over the mountain: think Homer Simpson or Wile E. Coyote falling down a mountain and hitting every bump on the way down, cartwheeling and bouncing and making “doh” and “oof” sounds. When you finally stop tumbling, you lie very still for a moment and blink with cartoon stars or birds circling your head. If you have not broken any limbs, you eventually rise, looking not unlike a dazed powdered donut, dust yourself off, and look upon the mess for which Yard Sale is a perfect description.

Scattered across the slope, you will see your hat, gloves, scarf, poles, and whatever was not securely zipped into pockets or packs. I personally have retrieved more than one escaped tube of lip balm. If you are lucky, one or both of your skis have not landed at an angle that has allowed them to carry on without you. If you’re not lucky, you will stand and watch forlornly as the ski makes its way to the bottom.

You will eventually recover enough to make your way awkwardly up and across the slope to collect your things, probably passing a couple of concerned fellow skiers asking if you’re okay and definitely dodging unconcerned skiers who’re aggravated that your body and belongings are cluttering their run.

In the blinking stage of the Yard Sale, dear reader, is where you may envision your protagonist entering the narrative.

She knows this experience well.

I have recently found myself contemplating the utility of metaphors for disasters—bus wrecks, meltdowns, and dumpster fires. The always helpful Thesaurus.com offers Shit Show and the new-to-me and quite colorful Goat Rodeo, which I look forwarding to considering further. For some wildly irreverent (and frequently offensive—you have been warned) but often hilarious takes, I recommend UrbanThesaurus.com. Highlights include pop culture references like

• Snakes on a Plane

• Oh, the Humanity

• Jesus, Take the Wheel, and

• Send in the Clowns

in addition to original material like “Fully Tomatoed” and “Poo in a Bin.” There is an impressive variety of linguistic reworkings of the cheap beer brand Natural Light or “Natty,” which I have personally never tried, but, judging by the context clues, seems to have a reputation for causing catastrophic digestive unrest. I tip my hat to the authors.

I’ve been dealing with a life-long health issue that’s become highly inconvenient and time-consuming and my healthcare providers are taking a “trial and error” approach to various medications; the error parts are not suitable for public commentary. Beyond the problems caused by my noncompliant innards, family members have been ill, infirm, and in varying degrees of distress. Members of my extended family have behaved badly, unkindly, cruelly, unethically, and possibly illegally. Attempts to defend or advocate for the powerless parties have been ineffective, at best.

I am reminded of a story that I tell often. Feel free to skip this part if you’ve heard it before. Weeks after my horrible ex had left me with two traumatized preschoolers, a 100 lb dog, a mortgage, and no job, two of my girlfriends from grad school met me for tea and a pep talk. They’d both been through hair-raising divorces and almost comically absurd custody nightmares. At the time of this conversation, C had drawn on some eyebrows and tied a scarf around her bald head because she was going through chemo as her ex was periodically having her hauled before a judge for no good reason, but because that’s how family court works.

After I gave them the bullet points, C shook her head and said gently in her soft Texas twang, “Well, at least it can’t get worse.”

G, however, raised her eyebrows and gave both C and me a pointed look.

“Oh,” she said with a dramatic pause for effect,” it can always get worse.”

C had to agree.

And, it’s true.

It can.

Always.

Get worse.

I regret having been born into a culture that does not provide clearly marked symbols, gestures, charms, or talismans to ward off jinxes and bad luck.

The Egyptians have scarabs, the Turks have evil eye charms, and the Italians have the mano cornuta, a hand gesture which you might recognize as the metal salute or the decidedly less threatening “Hook ‘em Horns” demonstrated here by University of Texas alumnus Matthew McConaughey.

Sign of the cross? Garlands of garlic worn about the neck and shoulders? Perhaps some sort of aerosol demon repellent spray?

Apparently Bear Spray will not work, at least not against actual bears, although I recently read that a burst can sent a couple dozen Amazon warehouse workers to the ER.

This tweet from May from the Oklahoma Wildlife Department captures my entire vibe and has just broken into the top ten of my favorite poems.

Listen,

bear spray

DOES NOT

work like bug spray.

We would like to not have to say that again.

Bears, as a result of habitat loss, climate change, and human stupidity, have returned to Texas after an absence of over a hundred years, so it turns out that information isn’t just theoretical.

“Excuse me, but do you have any of that spicy aerosol spray? I was going to make an omelette. Grey Poupon?

“It can always get worse” will have to do as a mantra and “Yard Sale” will have to do as the metaphor.

When I first started thinking about writing this, I imagined myself at the part of the Yard Sale experience in which one begins clomping up the slope to collect one’s scattered belongings, grumbling, but resolved to pick up the mess and limp down to the bottom to either start again or recover in the closest spot offering hot chocolate and a clean bathroom. But now I think I’m more at the blinking part, somewhere between squinting at the sky and wondering how it came to be at that particular angle and taking inventory of the wreckage. Definitely not even close to the resolution part, the retrieval and reassembly parts.

There’s a certain relief in just taking a moment to accept that one is well and completely f*#ked.

My son texted me this helpful video. Luckily, I grew up at a time when knowing the words to every KC and the Sunshine Band song on the radio was not optional, so my brain immediately moved it into heavy rotation on the earworm channel.

Enjoy.

I have good historical evidence that I will get to the dusting-off and moving forward parts. I even have some things to look forward to after this period of therapeutic wallowing, wallowing as self-care. September seems like a good goal. In the meantime, I am going to lie here and blink at the sky and maybe think some pretty thoughts—chuckle ruefully at the many clever metaphors for life’s occasional dust-ups, snafus, and goat rodeos.

Do you have a favorite metaphor for a disaster? I’d love to hear it.

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