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We’ve moved twice in two years. It’s also our eighth house of my adult life. That doesn’t count apartments before that and various houses as a kid.
So, yes, I’ve moved a fair bit. Less than some people, but more than most. Simply put, I should be pretty good about this moving thing.
So how do I explain the tangle of cables? A large moving box, rarely unpacked, has moved from house to house crammed full of electrical cords for a plethora of known—and many long-forgotten—devices.
Why do I still have the cigarette-lighter charger for my very first cellular bag phone? I don’t have the phone. I don’t even have a cigarette lighter in my car. But what if, I hypothesize to my ever-patient partner-in-life, unwieldy phones in suitcases make a comeback? If our fashion choices of the ’70’s and 80’s reached popularity among younger people, how much of a stretch is that?
I also discovered I still had a cord to connect a 5 1/4″ floppy drive. Not the drive—or any of the disks—but the cord. I’m prepared for…well, something.
I even had cables for connecting stage lighting and sound systems, though I haven’t spent time backstage in years. Those techie days are long gone.
Don’t judge me. Not because I don’t deserve to be judged, but because I already have been. And convicted. And sentenced. I was required to discard the box. The entire box.
I pleaded my case. Of course, I claimed, I needed a dozen different cords to charge my iPhone. What if 11 of them failed? It’s possible. Anyone who has ever owned an Apple device knows how fragile the cords are.
Besides, that giant JVC stereo system might come back in fashion and then I would need the 1,000 yards of speaker wire wadded in the bottom of that box. And you never knew when I might need to wire a small city with Cat 5 ethernet cable (ahem, with a little Cat 3 as backup).
We compromised, which is a face-saving way of admitting I lost. I was allotted a small box. Any cord that fit in that box could remain. Everything else had to be discarded. I whimpered. I cried. I begged. And then I sorted.
When the sorting was finally complete, I bid goodbye to a mountain of cable. The price of copper took a hit on the commodity markets when I released my hoarded supply.
Then I waited. I knew it would happen. My told-you-so moment.
My wireless headphones needed charging. I couldn’t find the cable. The one for the iPhone didn’t work. Nor the one for the wireless security cameras. Nor the photography cable. A-ha, I exclaimed, proof I needed to keep all those cables.
Ever-patient partner-in-life thumbed through my tiny box. Extracted a cable. Handed it to me. Much to my chagrin, it fit. My headphones are now fully charged.
But I’m waiting. When the cable apocalypse hits, I will be vindicated.
Books I’m Reading
Jamie Conklin wants only to be a normal kid. The ups and downs of his family life are strain enough, but normal kids can’t see and talk to dead people. They certainly can’t make dead people tell the truth like he can.
That skill, however, is quite valuable to an NYPD detective fighting to keep her job, so she involves Jamie in the hunt for a serial killer. That murderer, though, has promised to continue his reign of terror from the grave, and includes Jamie as a target for revenge.
Did my use of pleaded bother you in the story above? Did you want to use pled? Merriam-Webster explains how pled worked its way into American English via our Scottish ancestors, so many of whom settled our Appalachian Mountains. In fact, both forms are acceptable, at least on this side of the Atlantic Ocean, though pleaded is more commonly used.
Gratuitous Dog Picture
Roscoe doesn’t seem to be overly impressed with Hu-Dad’s story about the tangle of cords. He would prefer the busyness of typing on the computer wraps up so that they can go play.
Background title image courtesy Lucian Alexe.