her able hands

Twenty eight minutes, people. That’s how long I spent on the phone signing up for Vonage digital phone service. Listening to the terms and conditions twice, having my order read back to me and recorded by no less than three different recording devices three separate times, and all while trying to decipher the words spoken with an accent that my lazy American ears didn’t know how to process.

I said, “I’m sorry, can you say that again, please?” at least twenty times. In the background, Lila sitting on the other task chair, spinning it around and around and knocking the back into the sewing table on each pass. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk. The fan on the G4 screaming like a small jet. Then Lila howling for more Little Bear. Then “Let’s go over your order one more time, Ms. Ferry.” Yes. Please. Let’s, do. One. More. Time.

::head explodes::

::mops up blood and grey matter splatter::

Time to get dressed, load thirty boxes of books into the back of the Ram, and head over to the inlaws to pick up THE KEYS! Must remember to bring a tape measure, a notebook with the measurements of the piano, the entertainment armoir, the king bed, and the new fridge. Also, stop to pick up hot pepper cheese for Dad. Not pepper-jack. Pepper cheese. You got that wrong last time, little missy. Then over to the new house where I will lock myself in, strip naked, and run through the rooms. I keep telling Tyler that’s what I’m going to do and he is so completely freaked out that he’s moaning in his room about his ‘tard of a mother.

We have to empty out the boxes of books onto the big workbench in the basement, then bring all of the boxes back home so we can pack up the kitchen. I just refuse to buy any more bloody boxes.

But we’re MOVING. Starting…NOW.

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