…falling down the porch steps with a milk crate full of loose toiletries, and landing on my side/ankle in the scratchy, hot grass. I’ve killed 2 bags of edamame (the only frozen veggies in the house at the moment) and now have to leave to get Ty to the airport on time, swollen ankle and all.
Sob.
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.
The incredibly talented and prolific Meagan (who has so many pots on the fire I’m sweating bullets just thinking about it, from 700 miles away) has started a new website.
It’s called largerfamilies.com and sings with the diverse and intelligent voices of the contributing writers.
Even if you only have one child, there’s so much insightful writing on parenting, children, and family life over there, you should check it out. Now. Go!
Living here in this house must have been the dam in the river of life for us, because now that we’ve taken the action to move, the dam seems to have split apart, and the currents are swirling almost too fast for us to keep up.
We’ll start moving things over on Friday, but we’re only about 1/3 of the way packed. Trying to figure out how to juggle all of the different balls has turned into a logistical nightmare. I’m living by the grace of a very long list. Every day I end up driving into town to get rid of bags of things we’re purging. Sorry about that bag on the porch at the thrift store and the overstuffed donation box on Sunday, I tried to get that last one in there, but it wouldn’t fit. I promise it was some good stuff!
In between these thrift/dump runs, and Tylers’ classes, and packing, and doing 432 loads of laundry, and meal prep, and taking care of the animals, and playing with the kids, and the 25 phone calls a day, and planning for a few other big things that are coming down the pike, I’ve squeezed in hours to get things planted in the in-laws’ back yard. My head is spinning, and I feel like a crazy person who wants to kick everybody in the balls. Just because. Can somebody please come out here with a dozen bales of straw to mulch up the rows of fast-growing potatoes? The weeds are starting to catch up with the plants, and I just stand at the kitchen sink and look out at the rows turning green and think, “Huh. Wonder whose dumbass, big idea it was to plant potatoes in the middle of a MOVE? Furktard.”
1. The jar of glycerine suppositories, with only one missing but the rest melted togther in a ginormous globule of goo, from who knows how many years ago. What’s the shelf life on something like that anyway?
2. Try unpacking the 50-gallon Rubbermaid bin, full-to-bursting with tiny, inch-wide balls of yarn. You need to use that for moving that stack of Farm and Dairys.
3. That blue and aqua argyle sweater from 1988. I’m looking at you, dear husband.
4. The bottles of herbed, peppered, and garlicked vinegar your father gave to you back when you were speaking to each other. You’ve moved them four times already, and haven’t used them yet.
5. Those few remaining ugly articles of maternity clothing. You are so finished with those.
6. 150 paperback novels. You are not ever going to read that Dostoevsky, Bukowski, Miller, Camus, Nin, or Twain again. Ever. If somebody else wants to read them, they can get up off their lazy butts and walk to the library.
7. The giant flatbed scanner your ex gave you 8 years ago, the one that has no known driver, cables, or power supply.
8. The dozen or so 10K piece puzzles you picked up for a dime a piece at a yard sale and never opened. You know, the ones that the cats have been sleeping on, and tracking cat litter all over on that rickety old shelf in the basement for three years?
9. All of those empty Burt’s Bees Beeswax Lip Balm tubes. They will not refill.
10. The CD that stalker librarian guy gave you of his band back in Orange County, NY. The music was abysmal, and you really didn’t need to see those photos in the liner notes. The ones of his excruciatingly thin body? Naked? With the guitar oh-so-coyly hiding his parts?
"Grass is the cheapest plant to install and the most expensive to maintain."
~Pat Howell
Stories We Need to Know: Reading Your Life Path in Literature by my dear friend Allan Hunter who happens to also be married to my dear, dear, dear friend Cathy Bennett. This one is next on my list!
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