According to Wikipedia a jigsaw (tool), is a tool used for cutting arbitrary curves.
What Wikipedia doesn't say, is that jigsaw puzzles are addicting and there is no help out there.
Sure, if you are rich there is always Jigsaw Acupuncture or Aromatherapy for bitches with miniature sized pooches in their purses. And of course, the old-fashioned jigsaw rehabs for the tough love crowd. But then they had to ban those. You see, there are always jigsaw puzzles set up on tables for group therapy and free time at those kinds of joints and when they switched them over to crack and alcohol tables instead, it just complicated the situation.
And people were still pulling out and putting together puzzles in the wee hours.
Sadly, the ordinary guy today has no safety net.
And there is not insurance.
Like most addictions, it all starts out innocently.
You might think, "Oh, what a pretty picture on that box."
And then you might say, "Sven, let's put that pretty picture together."
Sven might say, "Why?"
And you might say, "Because I love Jigsaw Puzzles. When I was a kid, I did them all the time."
He might shrug his shoulders and say, "Okay."
And that slight shrug of those shoulders, the very shoulders that you have loved and trusted, could have shrugged at precisely the moment that your life was taken over. From that point on your food has to be delivered in and your laundry has to be sent out.
Nowhere on those boxes with those pretty pictures is any of this mentioned.
Who in the hell are these warped jigsaw people anyway?
I don't think they should own anything that is sharp.
Whatever made them into the twisted characters they are, people who enjoy messing with others' lives with every little turn of their hand on a tool that cuts arbitrary curves, is not my business. But what is my business is this.
"What the hell am I supposed to do?"
The holiday break is almost over, and I will have to report back to work.
That means that I will be spending eight hours in the office at my desk looking at excel files, and that puzzle will be sitting all alone back home, in the loft.
And when I get home after work, Hunter is going to think, "Yay! My mom is here. We are going for a walk."
And Sven will think, "Yay! Millie is here. Now that damned dog can quit staring at me. And I wonder what she is going to make for supper after she takes him for a walk?"
Do you see my quandary?
What those boxes with the pretty pictures also do not mention, is that your ability to see the world without jigsaw lines is forever gone.
That if you glance over at your wood stove, all wrapped up and cuddly in your blanket on your couch, you will think for a split second that the log in there that is in flames, the one that is sitting on top of the other log that is also in flames, is that piece you have been searching for.
The only warnings printed on those beautiful boxes covered with scenes of places you will never go, is, "Not for children under three years of age."
Do you know why?
Because a child under three might eat a piece.
And if they do happen to swallow one, after you've held them upside down by their little ankles and shook them around and nothing happens, you might kill them. Especially, if the piece in their stomach is that pretty orange one that goes right in the middle of the picture of that boat.
And do you know what else is not mentioned on those boxes? Not even in the fine print that no one can read?
Nowhere does it warn you that Norwegians will only look for the edge pieces. That Norwegians do not have the capability to branch out to the innards of the puzzle until every last edge piece is in its proper place. That Norwegians do not understand that you do not have to have all of the edges set before moving on.
"Sven, why don't you work on the boat?"
"I can't Millie. The frame isn't done."
"For God's sake, there are one thousand pieces. If there are four missing from the sides you can flip over to the middle. They will turn up sooner than later."
"I can't do that Millie. I am going to find them."
Well, he still hasn't.
And those jigsaw-bastards-form-hell make flat edged pieces today that land on the inside of the puzzles. So if you are looking for a big booted piece, you know the type that looks like it is dancing with that one large festive foot? Get over yourself. It's probably been jig-sawed into ten individual toes anyway.
I would love to finish this story, but I cannot.
The loft is calling me.
Do you hear it?
"M-I-L-L-I-E. M-I-L-L-I-E. Where are you? We miss you. Come up here and snap in a piece. Just one little piece and you can be on your way."
BULLSHIT.
My sister tried to console me yesterday. "Don't worry Millie," she says. "You are fine. Enjoy it. It sounds like it is a great outlet."
"Here is the situation, Louisa. Your sister, as in me, has more outlets than inlets. Mathematically speaking, that does not add up to healthy living."
What will become of us if Sven ever finds those four edge pieces and that puzzle is ever completed?
What happens then?
