Thursday, August 12, 2010
From the before, a thank you
There is a lot you end up leaving when you move, especially like this, trading a whole life for a whole different life. You have to make room. You have to close. The night before we set off, before the full truck and empty house, Husband and I had dinner with favorite friends M. and J. M. and I shared an office when we first started out at school, which I have always thought was quite lucky for me, given his generosity, spirit, and overall awesomeness. He makes everyone around him feel valuable and full of verve. Also, jolly. I have so appreciated his friendship and stories, and I watch on in awe of his work ethic and utter genius. J., his wife, manages to be lovely, determined, sincere, and kind all at once. Beautiful! She is the kind of person you want with you in a fight, who would scold you thoroughly afterward and then take you out for coffee or something stronger, and save you all over again. I have no idea how she does this with such grace, but I'm terribly grateful that we spent our last evening with her and her husband. We passed around plates of deliciousness and caught up and laughed and said goodbye. I have no idea what we talked about. It was just dinner with friends, only not quite. For me, it was warm and final and fitting. Something like closure, if closure was a scarf you wrapped around your shoulders and took with you, that you could hang on any hook, anywhere, and feel peace.
The Brake
A few days ago, I thought, I want to go home.
I did not think this with wet eyes or the kind of ache I expected.
I was standing in the kitchen on the new rug by the sink, the rug that is green like our favorite cabinet and covered in the almost-arty cartoons of onions and carrots and the self-consciousness of its own whimsy. I had poured my tea before I remembered. I am home.
The cicadas here are nearly the same.
I did not think this with wet eyes or the kind of ache I expected.
I was standing in the kitchen on the new rug by the sink, the rug that is green like our favorite cabinet and covered in the almost-arty cartoons of onions and carrots and the self-consciousness of its own whimsy. I had poured my tea before I remembered. I am home.
The cicadas here are nearly the same.
Wednesday, August 4, 2010
Here.
Greetings from the new place--
It has been a journey of nearly a week, but Husband and I are home now, safe and sound and almost unpacked. We finally have internet again and we both find ourselves getting ready to work.
I'll be retroactively posting the events/adventures/turmoil/elation of the last week and get you properly updated.
Until then, I actually have to finished this unpacking.
PS. Saw only one earwig since moving in. A holdover, I think, who wanted to stay with us. Who could blame him?
It has been a journey of nearly a week, but Husband and I are home now, safe and sound and almost unpacked. We finally have internet again and we both find ourselves getting ready to work.
I'll be retroactively posting the events/adventures/turmoil/elation of the last week and get you properly updated.
Until then, I actually have to finished this unpacking.
PS. Saw only one earwig since moving in. A holdover, I think, who wanted to stay with us. Who could blame him?
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Hello!
It is Thursday afternoon, bright, cool, and the yellow truck takes up most of the driveway.
There is so much to say about all of this, about moving on and leaving behind, about these final hours, the coffees with friends, the sale of the washer and dryer, the quest for painted bookshelves, the best way to pack balsamic vinegar and bottles of shampoo, all the moving that I've done before and will do again.
I'm not ready, though, and there isn't enough time, yet. The packing isn't finished (and perhaps simply won't get finished); the utilities are not set up; we have little left in the house that is edible; the hours dry away, and we don't want to go to bed anymore.
I don't really know how to say goodbye.
Maybe it will just happen, like falling asleep.
PS-The guinea pigs, Ella and Amelia, know something is up. They are watching me, even now, with their wet eyes and small voices. Tomorrow, they will live somewhere else entirely.
There is so much to say about all of this, about moving on and leaving behind, about these final hours, the coffees with friends, the sale of the washer and dryer, the quest for painted bookshelves, the best way to pack balsamic vinegar and bottles of shampoo, all the moving that I've done before and will do again.
I'm not ready, though, and there isn't enough time, yet. The packing isn't finished (and perhaps simply won't get finished); the utilities are not set up; we have little left in the house that is edible; the hours dry away, and we don't want to go to bed anymore.
I don't really know how to say goodbye.
Maybe it will just happen, like falling asleep.
PS-The guinea pigs, Ella and Amelia, know something is up. They are watching me, even now, with their wet eyes and small voices. Tomorrow, they will live somewhere else entirely.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Spasm! Spasm!
I woke up this morning with a terrific gnarly kink between my left shoulder and spine. I have another coat of paint to do on three sets of shelves, and one small shelf that needs prepping, priming, and two coats. I think this one of those moments where despite all temptation to whine and nap, you must simply go get it done. I'm not a fan of these moments.
I'm having tea with some friends later on this afternoon, and after that, I have a date with a score of unpacked boxes that need filling. Moving is lonely work, but punctuated with good podcasts, good company, and a good back, it isn't so bad.
I'm having tea with some friends later on this afternoon, and after that, I have a date with a score of unpacked boxes that need filling. Moving is lonely work, but punctuated with good podcasts, good company, and a good back, it isn't so bad.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
A song
Today:
1 rum cake
2 boxes
3 painted sets of shelves
4 Craig's list ads
5 moving emails
.
.
.
It is getting like the 12 days of moving up in here.
1 rum cake
2 boxes
3 painted sets of shelves
4 Craig's list ads
5 moving emails
.
.
.
It is getting like the 12 days of moving up in here.
Early to bed
Last night I went to bed at midnight, which is pretty early for me. I'm not usually in bed until after 1, and then not usually turning the light off until after 2. It must be the moving--
Husband and I went to our favorite restaurant for the last time (at least for the foreseeable future) for dinner. It feels like the start of the official goodbyes. I'm excited, yes, but as someone put it yesterday, you also have to say goodbye to the people and things that have been an important part of your life. In someways, it feels like saying goodbye to a life, without knowing how things will turn out on the other end. I have the usual first day of school jitters: what if no one likes me? What if, what if, what if. Going to bed feels like the right thing to do in the face of all these questions. Sure seems better than packing or painting! Speaking of which, I'm running out of time. Off to tackle more shelves.
Husband and I went to our favorite restaurant for the last time (at least for the foreseeable future) for dinner. It feels like the start of the official goodbyes. I'm excited, yes, but as someone put it yesterday, you also have to say goodbye to the people and things that have been an important part of your life. In someways, it feels like saying goodbye to a life, without knowing how things will turn out on the other end. I have the usual first day of school jitters: what if no one likes me? What if, what if, what if. Going to bed feels like the right thing to do in the face of all these questions. Sure seems better than packing or painting! Speaking of which, I'm running out of time. Off to tackle more shelves.
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Home
After being away unexpectedly for almost a week (more on this mid-move trip later, though it is good to be home--even if "home" will only be home for another week), today I only packed two boxes, but they were intense: kitchen breakables and office supplies. We are paper-plating it the rest of the week. Nothing says transition like paper plates. For some strange reason, they make me want to do arts and crafts. Make a mask out of a paper bag with paper plate ears or staple two together with seeds inside for a noise maker. They make me aware of possibility.
A ho-hum day. Husband refereed seven soccer games at a tournament, while I picked zucchini in the garden, wished the tomatoes would turn, even though I know we have weeks to go and someone else, I hope, will enjoy them. I wrote a to-do asap list on the full length mirror in dry erase marker, emailed, painted a bookshelf, and went for ice cream with N. and I. and Husband. Thought. In love with Carl Phillips and The Coin of the Realm. I've been falling asleep thinking about the new house, arranging the new garden, writing by the window, placing pictures all over the walls.
A ho-hum day. Husband refereed seven soccer games at a tournament, while I picked zucchini in the garden, wished the tomatoes would turn, even though I know we have weeks to go and someone else, I hope, will enjoy them. I wrote a to-do asap list on the full length mirror in dry erase marker, emailed, painted a bookshelf, and went for ice cream with N. and I. and Husband. Thought. In love with Carl Phillips and The Coin of the Realm. I've been falling asleep thinking about the new house, arranging the new garden, writing by the window, placing pictures all over the walls.
The final countdown
The truck comes in five days. Will have a new address in seven. Terrified, delighted, nervous, calm.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Furniture=debacle
The new place has dark wood floors and medium wood cabinets. We have a medium wood bed and medium wood dressers. My desk in a large medium wood table. The dining table is...wood. With so much wood, which in this quantity isn't exactly my thing, I convinced Husband that we ought to paint all our wood bookcases (six or so, of varying sizes) white. It will lighten things up, I said. It will make the tiny house seem larger.
I said these things about two months ago, when moving felt more like a destination and less like a journey.
Last week, Husband, though a bit delayed, caught my redecoration fever. He carried the shelves outside before I even knew what was happening. So, we spent a significant amount of time choosing the right white at Home Depot. We listened to the paint expert, who encouraged us to buy the new 2-in-1 paint-n-primer. We sanded. Dusted. Applied two coats.
Six hours of work later and left overnight to dry, the paint was peeling off.
Believe it or not, Husband and I have not only successfully painted furniture before, but we're pretty good at refinishing, too. I like to get messy and kinetic. I want to be handy or crafty, but I struggle, except when it comes to painting and staining. I like the feeling of the paint meeting the surface, of motion that is at once liquid and scratch, and the transformation of object to process to project.
Luckily, this time we had decided to use a bit of left-over paint and primer from the last venture, a lime-green cabinet we use for bowls and things in the kitchen, on one of the shelves. Those are now completed and lovely. The paint adheres. The surface is durable.
Not so much with the others, with their miracle 2-in-1 paint and patchy curls of paint. There was moderate discouragement. Some blame passed around. It was early. It felt late. Crankiness. We already had sore wrists. And ten assembled still-empty boxes.
Eventually, Husband returned the paint and came home with a quart of primer and a gallon of paint, along with some more Zip-Strip, so we can strip off the peeling paint and start fresh. It is beyond tempting to keep painting. To paint over the peeling strokes and forget it. To ignore the need to start over, to try again.
I don't think you know until you are standing in the garage among the tins and bristles what you'll do next or how.
I said these things about two months ago, when moving felt more like a destination and less like a journey.
Last week, Husband, though a bit delayed, caught my redecoration fever. He carried the shelves outside before I even knew what was happening. So, we spent a significant amount of time choosing the right white at Home Depot. We listened to the paint expert, who encouraged us to buy the new 2-in-1 paint-n-primer. We sanded. Dusted. Applied two coats.
Six hours of work later and left overnight to dry, the paint was peeling off.
Believe it or not, Husband and I have not only successfully painted furniture before, but we're pretty good at refinishing, too. I like to get messy and kinetic. I want to be handy or crafty, but I struggle, except when it comes to painting and staining. I like the feeling of the paint meeting the surface, of motion that is at once liquid and scratch, and the transformation of object to process to project.
Luckily, this time we had decided to use a bit of left-over paint and primer from the last venture, a lime-green cabinet we use for bowls and things in the kitchen, on one of the shelves. Those are now completed and lovely. The paint adheres. The surface is durable.
Not so much with the others, with their miracle 2-in-1 paint and patchy curls of paint. There was moderate discouragement. Some blame passed around. It was early. It felt late. Crankiness. We already had sore wrists. And ten assembled still-empty boxes.
Eventually, Husband returned the paint and came home with a quart of primer and a gallon of paint, along with some more Zip-Strip, so we can strip off the peeling paint and start fresh. It is beyond tempting to keep painting. To paint over the peeling strokes and forget it. To ignore the need to start over, to try again.
I don't think you know until you are standing in the garage among the tins and bristles what you'll do next or how.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Appointment, sh-appointment
One of the advantages (or one of the most annoying parts) of moving is the way it forces you to deal with things that you've maybe been putting off for a while, for weeks, months, maybe years. You end up with appointment overload, not including your errands to the library and the dry cleaners or the late night runs to the grocery store to pick up more boxes from the produce lady with the curly hair and suspicious eyes. Also not including all the usual stuff you might try not to deal with, the conflicts, emotional issues, bad dreams, withdrawal.
To that end, I've had appointments with a dentist, eye doctor, regular doctor, lady doctor, etc., etc., all in the last week or two. My experience at the dentist was particularly important. However, this has nothing to do with the state of my teeth. I'll have you know, he thinks I have great teeth. Plus, I don't have any cavities. No, instead, for the first time in my life, my dentist was younger than me. For some reason, this feels like a very important milestone that needs discussing.
I don't know about you, but I'm used to dentists being, um, old. Perhaps a tiny bit crusty. Which is not to say anything negative about dentists--I have no idea why, in my mind, dentists are supposed to be older, even elderly. I don't think of police officers or lawyers or even opticians as old when I picture the profession. It must be that as a tween, I had a dentist who looked like Hal Holbrook. Or maybe when you are a tween, everyone over twenty looks a hundred.
Either way, my new dentist is so young.
I feel awkward saying this since I myself look crazy young (someday I'll tell you about how last year a flight attendant asked me if I was an unaccompanied minor--this means she thought I was younger than fifteen. I have since avoided wearing my glasses). I sometimes worry about looking old enough to be taken seriously by my students. No, I think what shocked me was not actually that there are unwrinkled dentists, but that I'm, gasp, older than I was before. People my age, people younger than me, are grown up, out doing stuff in the world like dentistry.
I think I missed it happening, though I'm not sure I mind it at all. It just seems like a big deal no one told me about. I feel like we should have parties for people when this happens to celebrate. Hurray, I'm old! Hurray, I'm old enough have to figure it out on my own and old enough to be scared and old enough to make it happen or not.
At play here in my delayed reaction is that part of being a graduate student means you get to (have to) keep becoming, keep becoming who you are/who you will be, without the distraction of regular hours or much of a paycheck to provide much stasis. I've heard those of us who still study described as "perpetual teenagers," thwarted and stunted and unable to grow all the way up. This is probably sometimes true for all of us.
Still, there is something about deliberately keeping your identity in flux, deliberately slurping up all the knowledge and dialogue available, of being that conscious of the learning, learning and the constant reach, reach. This continuing to become has its issues and its problems, but I like it not because it delays aging or I'm afraid of turning thirty or forty or have any desire whatsoever to be nineteen again, but because it satisfies. Much like a good teeth cleaning. Or moving on when it's time.
PS. Two more boxes packed. All Husband's doing.
To that end, I've had appointments with a dentist, eye doctor, regular doctor, lady doctor, etc., etc., all in the last week or two. My experience at the dentist was particularly important. However, this has nothing to do with the state of my teeth. I'll have you know, he thinks I have great teeth. Plus, I don't have any cavities. No, instead, for the first time in my life, my dentist was younger than me. For some reason, this feels like a very important milestone that needs discussing.
I don't know about you, but I'm used to dentists being, um, old. Perhaps a tiny bit crusty. Which is not to say anything negative about dentists--I have no idea why, in my mind, dentists are supposed to be older, even elderly. I don't think of police officers or lawyers or even opticians as old when I picture the profession. It must be that as a tween, I had a dentist who looked like Hal Holbrook. Or maybe when you are a tween, everyone over twenty looks a hundred.
Either way, my new dentist is so young.
I feel awkward saying this since I myself look crazy young (someday I'll tell you about how last year a flight attendant asked me if I was an unaccompanied minor--this means she thought I was younger than fifteen. I have since avoided wearing my glasses). I sometimes worry about looking old enough to be taken seriously by my students. No, I think what shocked me was not actually that there are unwrinkled dentists, but that I'm, gasp, older than I was before. People my age, people younger than me, are grown up, out doing stuff in the world like dentistry.
I think I missed it happening, though I'm not sure I mind it at all. It just seems like a big deal no one told me about. I feel like we should have parties for people when this happens to celebrate. Hurray, I'm old! Hurray, I'm old enough have to figure it out on my own and old enough to be scared and old enough to make it happen or not.
At play here in my delayed reaction is that part of being a graduate student means you get to (have to) keep becoming, keep becoming who you are/who you will be, without the distraction of regular hours or much of a paycheck to provide much stasis. I've heard those of us who still study described as "perpetual teenagers," thwarted and stunted and unable to grow all the way up. This is probably sometimes true for all of us.
Still, there is something about deliberately keeping your identity in flux, deliberately slurping up all the knowledge and dialogue available, of being that conscious of the learning, learning and the constant reach, reach. This continuing to become has its issues and its problems, but I like it not because it delays aging or I'm afraid of turning thirty or forty or have any desire whatsoever to be nineteen again, but because it satisfies. Much like a good teeth cleaning. Or moving on when it's time.
PS. Two more boxes packed. All Husband's doing.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Much, much, much!
Since the last, five more boxes have been packed.
They're weird ones, glass beverage pitchers stuffed with dresses and wrapped in university sweatshirts, silver bowls mixed in with my refrigerator magnets and plastic travels mugs. Also, a box full of sweaters, the stereo, and the alarm clock.
Husband, I think, is torn between thinking I'm brilliant, hilarious, or just plain odd. After I put the two dresses inside the glass pitcher, he marveled for a several minutes, mostly laughing, but not quite sure what to make of the whole thing. I think the way they just fell into the pitcher, all scrunched-up and tiny and smooth, like so much water, was what really got him going. My clothes seem to be more flexible or something.
We had a lot of fun packing these boxes, which was nice and unexpected. Change is weird, sometimes brilliant, sometimes odd, sometimes hard to place. Why not, if you're moving, put your dresses inside your pitchers? At least I know the unpacking won't be boring. It'll remind us to be more flexible (or whatever).
They're weird ones, glass beverage pitchers stuffed with dresses and wrapped in university sweatshirts, silver bowls mixed in with my refrigerator magnets and plastic travels mugs. Also, a box full of sweaters, the stereo, and the alarm clock.
Husband, I think, is torn between thinking I'm brilliant, hilarious, or just plain odd. After I put the two dresses inside the glass pitcher, he marveled for a several minutes, mostly laughing, but not quite sure what to make of the whole thing. I think the way they just fell into the pitcher, all scrunched-up and tiny and smooth, like so much water, was what really got him going. My clothes seem to be more flexible or something.
We had a lot of fun packing these boxes, which was nice and unexpected. Change is weird, sometimes brilliant, sometimes odd, sometimes hard to place. Why not, if you're moving, put your dresses inside your pitchers? At least I know the unpacking won't be boring. It'll remind us to be more flexible (or whatever).
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Stats!
Today, Husband and I worked together to assemble and pack seven boxes. We organized files, categorized office supplies, and threw some other stuff into boxes once we were tired. There is now also a box of recycling and a box of shredding, and I feel strangely liberated with all this paper in a place and no longer spread out all over the carpet. Husband has agreed to unpack the paper, a deal I'm happy to honor in (gasp) two weeks.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
White flag
The floor is covered at this moment (11:15pm) with the scattered guts of the dreaded filing cabinet. The landlord is bringing more people through tomorrow.
Bleh.
For now, bath, bed, book.
Bleh.
For now, bath, bed, book.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Stats!
2 BIG boxes packed today. We're down to a few pairs of shoes each, and even less when it comes to our tempers. It is a hard thing, emotionally, to prepare to move on and yet to move on together when we are each in the middle of a million separate projects that won't wait. It becomes easier to bicker, but also easier to forgive, to make-up. Or at least that is what I'm going with tonight. Tomorrow: the filing cabinet that hasn't been updated for year. Wish me luck.
P.S. I have this strange resentment every time the landlord comes to look at our place. Part of me wants to say, hey what is the matter with you? This is a great home! while the other part is screaming, hey you can't live here, this is my house!
P.S. I have this strange resentment every time the landlord comes to look at our place. Part of me wants to say, hey what is the matter with you? This is a great home! while the other part is screaming, hey you can't live here, this is my house!
OK
So, I went on vacation.
Then I got sick and got better.
Then I was not so much interested in "packing" anymore.
But now, I think things are about get crazy and winter coats are about to fly into boxes at rates previously unknown. No scarf unturned, no silver bowl unpacked. Today was the defining moment I needed to give me all the motivation I'll need.
After showering this morning (and to be honest, it was late morning... OK, really it was after lunch, but I'm a student and a writer and it is my house. I'll shower when I feel like showering, thank you very much), I wrapped up in three towels and sat on the far end of my sofa. I may have been reading emails and checking faceboook. Like I said, my house.
I'm sitting there, all wrapped up, typing away, and suddenly I'm having an out of body experience. I'm floating somewhere above myself watching a miniature lobster with giant claws scurry across my left forearm and sashay across my keyboard. The miniature lobster looks particularly menacing against my white Mac keypad. It is so segmented. And wiggly. I get it together long enough to smoosh him until he oozes, and start to breathe again.
First the screaming. Then the questions. Where the fuck (and truly I can think of no other word here) did he come from? Do I have earwigs living in my hair? In my clean towels? In my shampoo? The sofa? How soon can we get out of here?
I don't like it when there is an earwig on the floor in the kitchen by the baseboards. I don't like it when one crawls on the wall by the bedroom door. I don't like them in the bathtub or even outside on the recycling bin. It is a whole other thing with the earwig is up on my body. Oh my. Eww. I can't even type this with my eyes open. I'm too busy shuddering.
So. Over. Earwigs.
Husband and I are killing two or three a day, minimum. I don't know where they are coming from, where they are hiding, or what the odds are that they'll follow us when we move. I love my charming, ancient house. But it is time to get up and out of here. Now. Eww.
Then I got sick and got better.
Then I was not so much interested in "packing" anymore.
But now, I think things are about get crazy and winter coats are about to fly into boxes at rates previously unknown. No scarf unturned, no silver bowl unpacked. Today was the defining moment I needed to give me all the motivation I'll need.
After showering this morning (and to be honest, it was late morning... OK, really it was after lunch, but I'm a student and a writer and it is my house. I'll shower when I feel like showering, thank you very much), I wrapped up in three towels and sat on the far end of my sofa. I may have been reading emails and checking faceboook. Like I said, my house.
I'm sitting there, all wrapped up, typing away, and suddenly I'm having an out of body experience. I'm floating somewhere above myself watching a miniature lobster with giant claws scurry across my left forearm and sashay across my keyboard. The miniature lobster looks particularly menacing against my white Mac keypad. It is so segmented. And wiggly. I get it together long enough to smoosh him until he oozes, and start to breathe again.
First the screaming. Then the questions. Where the fuck (and truly I can think of no other word here) did he come from? Do I have earwigs living in my hair? In my clean towels? In my shampoo? The sofa? How soon can we get out of here?
I don't like it when there is an earwig on the floor in the kitchen by the baseboards. I don't like it when one crawls on the wall by the bedroom door. I don't like them in the bathtub or even outside on the recycling bin. It is a whole other thing with the earwig is up on my body. Oh my. Eww. I can't even type this with my eyes open. I'm too busy shuddering.
So. Over. Earwigs.
Husband and I are killing two or three a day, minimum. I don't know where they are coming from, where they are hiding, or what the odds are that they'll follow us when we move. I love my charming, ancient house. But it is time to get up and out of here. Now. Eww.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Over it
I have an infection in my face and sinuses that has made my right eyelid blow-up like like a water balloon or, I suppose, all other kinds of balloons.
A time zone away, my mom is telling jokes to stay positive. This feels like a wise plan. My new favorite joke: Do you think a runny nose is funny? Well, it's snot!
So...boxes? What boxes? How about a holiday weekend and taking a few days off to read, write, tell jokes, and sleep, sleep, sleep.
A time zone away, my mom is telling jokes to stay positive. This feels like a wise plan. My new favorite joke: Do you think a runny nose is funny? Well, it's snot!
So...boxes? What boxes? How about a holiday weekend and taking a few days off to read, write, tell jokes, and sleep, sleep, sleep.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Glamorous, glamorous
Today's stats:
Boxes packed: 5
Boxes built (beyond boxes packed):4
Boxes unpacked and repacked into other boxes: 2 (ouch)
Tonight, Husband and I had company--our amazing friends N. and I., some of the most giving and inspiring folks I know--to watch the Food Network show Chopped (with nuanced cookery, unusual ingredients, and competition, it beats the drama of Survivor). If you aren't watching yet, start. We make it a weekly tradition).
I always love it when we spend time with N. and I., and it was especially motivating in the moving department to have them over this week. You can't leave all the junk you are wading through spread out in an ocean across your house if you are moving and you have company, even favorite friends like N. and I. who have had the unfortunate pleasure of seeing our house in the shamblest of shambles. So, I powered through the mess, packing large boxes of difficult stuff, wrapping breakable vases and picture frames in fitted sheets and cloth napkins. This is not to say the day was without its, um, challenges.
For example, while in the bathroom grabbing candle holders, in a feat of typical grace, I managed to knock a clear juice glass (where Husband had left it, by the way) from the shelf above the toilet. It landed with a terrific gong on the seat, large shards first pinging across the linoleum while several massive pieces plopped into the bowl itself. I shook my fist at an imaginary version of Husband, and then, in a moment of pure emotional preservation, I decided to just tip-toe carefully away. I went as far from the bathroom as possible and made myself a peanut-butter and honey sandwich to munch on while watching the episode of Arrested Development where Buster and Michael rescue George Michael from Motherboy. Denial and Gob equal bliss.
But unfortunately, we only have the one bathroom. The toilet glass could not be avoided forever. Eventually, there was an inverted garbage bag, some rubber gloves, and more tip-toeing. Maybe a small wail from me. Such is the glamor of moving.
Boxes packed: 5
Boxes built (beyond boxes packed):4
Boxes unpacked and repacked into other boxes: 2 (ouch)
Tonight, Husband and I had company--our amazing friends N. and I., some of the most giving and inspiring folks I know--to watch the Food Network show Chopped (with nuanced cookery, unusual ingredients, and competition, it beats the drama of Survivor). If you aren't watching yet, start. We make it a weekly tradition).
I always love it when we spend time with N. and I., and it was especially motivating in the moving department to have them over this week. You can't leave all the junk you are wading through spread out in an ocean across your house if you are moving and you have company, even favorite friends like N. and I. who have had the unfortunate pleasure of seeing our house in the shamblest of shambles. So, I powered through the mess, packing large boxes of difficult stuff, wrapping breakable vases and picture frames in fitted sheets and cloth napkins. This is not to say the day was without its, um, challenges.
For example, while in the bathroom grabbing candle holders, in a feat of typical grace, I managed to knock a clear juice glass (where Husband had left it, by the way) from the shelf above the toilet. It landed with a terrific gong on the seat, large shards first pinging across the linoleum while several massive pieces plopped into the bowl itself. I shook my fist at an imaginary version of Husband, and then, in a moment of pure emotional preservation, I decided to just tip-toe carefully away. I went as far from the bathroom as possible and made myself a peanut-butter and honey sandwich to munch on while watching the episode of Arrested Development where Buster and Michael rescue George Michael from Motherboy. Denial and Gob equal bliss.
But unfortunately, we only have the one bathroom. The toilet glass could not be avoided forever. Eventually, there was an inverted garbage bag, some rubber gloves, and more tip-toeing. Maybe a small wail from me. Such is the glamor of moving.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
The Threat of the Pantry
Moving is tough for lots of reasons, not the least of which is all the items in your pantry that you haven't eaten for weeks, maybe months, (okay--years), that you don't want to have to pack and bring with you to your new, even smaller digs.
For the last few weeks weeks, Husband and I have diligently been exploring our pantry and trying to make something from nothing, save a few bucks, and still enjoy our dinner. We've eaten dried dates in our pasta, oatmeal in our bunt cake, and raisins like they are going out of style.
During the last US soccer game of World Cup (reverent pause, wistful sigh, wishes for what might've been), I worked on getting through some instant rice (having sold our microwave a month ago), old cream of mushroom soup cans, and a quarter of a package of frozen peas. I made a classic Wisconsin chicken and rice casserole, only without the chicken since Husband and I have turned vegetarian.
I mixed two cups of water with the cans of cream of mushroom soup , threw in the peas and large chunks of garlic (about six cloves), and added about a tablespoon of dried basil and a tablespoon of dried Italian seasoning. Into the 350 degree oven for about twenty-five minutes, and even though the we were on the disappointed edge of our seats for the rest of the match, we had satisfied bellies and a slightly lighter pantry.
It wasn't the best thing I've ever made but we managed and it worked. Sometimes, that is the best you can do, and it is just enough to hold onto. Even when it seems like the boxes are as empty as ever. Even when you forget to say the nice things you should to your husband, who loves your casserole anyway and says so. Maybe the pantry isn't the most challenging thing, but it helps to have it there, to blame and to redeem.
For the last few weeks weeks, Husband and I have diligently been exploring our pantry and trying to make something from nothing, save a few bucks, and still enjoy our dinner. We've eaten dried dates in our pasta, oatmeal in our bunt cake, and raisins like they are going out of style.
During the last US soccer game of World Cup (reverent pause, wistful sigh, wishes for what might've been), I worked on getting through some instant rice (having sold our microwave a month ago), old cream of mushroom soup cans, and a quarter of a package of frozen peas. I made a classic Wisconsin chicken and rice casserole, only without the chicken since Husband and I have turned vegetarian.
I mixed two cups of water with the cans of cream of mushroom soup , threw in the peas and large chunks of garlic (about six cloves), and added about a tablespoon of dried basil and a tablespoon of dried Italian seasoning. Into the 350 degree oven for about twenty-five minutes, and even though the we were on the disappointed edge of our seats for the rest of the match, we had satisfied bellies and a slightly lighter pantry.
It wasn't the best thing I've ever made but we managed and it worked. Sometimes, that is the best you can do, and it is just enough to hold onto. Even when it seems like the boxes are as empty as ever. Even when you forget to say the nice things you should to your husband, who loves your casserole anyway and says so. Maybe the pantry isn't the most challenging thing, but it helps to have it there, to blame and to redeem.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Wedding Anniversary
Today's Stats:
Total number of boxes packed: 2
Total number of boxes built: 5
Total number of boxes already packed that were opened, shuffled about, and repacked: 2
Verdict: Not bad, but not great.
Ah, well, there are other things to do. Husband and I have been married for four years today, having now been together for eleven years and two months. What is a few boxes in the scope of things? We're off for a picnic at the botanical gardens and then a camp-out in the backyard. Change, for the moment, can wait.
Total number of boxes packed: 2
Total number of boxes built: 5
Total number of boxes already packed that were opened, shuffled about, and repacked: 2
Verdict: Not bad, but not great.
Ah, well, there are other things to do. Husband and I have been married for four years today, having now been together for eleven years and two months. What is a few boxes in the scope of things? We're off for a picnic at the botanical gardens and then a camp-out in the backyard. Change, for the moment, can wait.
Making up for a missed post
I've been thinking about moving a bit too much. I want to get it done and I want it to go "smoothly," but I also don't want to miss the last few weeks of my life here. As Husband woke me up as he left for work yesterday morning, apparently I told him in my most dramatic and pitiful voice that I was having kitchen nightmares. Too much is too much, so no post yesterday.
To alleviate any more bad dreams, we reviewed a slide show of pictures sent by the new landlord. Where, in fact, would all of these things I was supposed to be packing go in a our new 700 square foot home, with its four kitchen cupboards and two small closets? The result: two more garbage bags to donate full of clothes, miscellaneous kitchen objects, the hat that makes Husband's head look especially melon-like, flip-flops, and the like, along with our exercise ball. I think we might just be on our way. Also, I slept well.
To alleviate any more bad dreams, we reviewed a slide show of pictures sent by the new landlord. Where, in fact, would all of these things I was supposed to be packing go in a our new 700 square foot home, with its four kitchen cupboards and two small closets? The result: two more garbage bags to donate full of clothes, miscellaneous kitchen objects, the hat that makes Husband's head look especially melon-like, flip-flops, and the like, along with our exercise ball. I think we might just be on our way. Also, I slept well.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Goal-setting
My mother says that I'm goal-oriented. Set goals, she said, for moving. Then you'll get it done. Last night, I had to ask Husband what he thought goal-oriented meant. He said something about it meaning achieving "stuff." I wanted to know what this had to do with goals because, in truth, I set lots of goals, all the time, and I rarely achieve them. I'm constantly setting goals, making a plan, and then not following through or abandoning the original impulse altogether. For example, I was supposed to do the dishes three days ago. And yet, those very dishes are sprawled out in a great big mess of crustiness on the kitchen counter as I type this. So many dishes that if you came over to my house, I would not let you in.
Still, there is a good reason keep setting goals, to pack a few boxes a day like I'd planned: our new place has a dishwasher.
***
Husband has just come home, so now we are going to go out and eat some nachos to fuel up for actually doing those dishes, along with packing up all the art I took down yesterday. I'll let you know how we do.
Still, there is a good reason keep setting goals, to pack a few boxes a day like I'd planned: our new place has a dishwasher.
***
Husband has just come home, so now we are going to go out and eat some nachos to fuel up for actually doing those dishes, along with packing up all the art I took down yesterday. I'll let you know how we do.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Two Thoughts
Right now Husband is moving between the basement and the garage as he hauls up boxes. He is cursing occasionally and wearing an old page-boy hat and a scarf wrapped around his mouth as he battles the likely mold, dust, and giant earwigs.
I only go in our basement (this house is a hundred years old with a leaky foundation and crooked floors) in extreme cases, like when our guinea pigs run out of hay, so I am up here at my desk trying not to laugh at his costume because I don't want to get dirty and put up with the five-foot-tall ceiling.
He cough-shouts at me from the kitchen: whoa... that was intense. And then, devastated, we lost some of the big boxes. Ten large and ten medium. A sad, sad day, he says. He is mostly serious. After multiple moves, the boxes become something like real possessions. He hits the showers.
***
Earlier today I assembled four boxes, packed one with books (fifteen small boxes later, the books are finished), and took all the art off the wall in our living and dining rooms, and a little off the wall in the spare room (the room where we keep everything that doesn't go in the other rooms--spare books, instruments, the filing cabinet, Husband's soccer gear, college posters). In some places there is a light shadow, the ghost impression of a few of our frames. I pulled twenty-four nails or tacks from the walls. My house looks naked. In terms of packing, house-nudity must be a victory.
I only go in our basement (this house is a hundred years old with a leaky foundation and crooked floors) in extreme cases, like when our guinea pigs run out of hay, so I am up here at my desk trying not to laugh at his costume because I don't want to get dirty and put up with the five-foot-tall ceiling.
He cough-shouts at me from the kitchen: whoa... that was intense. And then, devastated, we lost some of the big boxes. Ten large and ten medium. A sad, sad day, he says. He is mostly serious. After multiple moves, the boxes become something like real possessions. He hits the showers.
***
Earlier today I assembled four boxes, packed one with books (fifteen small boxes later, the books are finished), and took all the art off the wall in our living and dining rooms, and a little off the wall in the spare room (the room where we keep everything that doesn't go in the other rooms--spare books, instruments, the filing cabinet, Husband's soccer gear, college posters). In some places there is a light shadow, the ghost impression of a few of our frames. I pulled twenty-four nails or tacks from the walls. My house looks naked. In terms of packing, house-nudity must be a victory.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Happy Father's Day
My father is an excellent mover. He has a knack for puzzling items together so they fit in a space smaller than they should. This is convenient when you are worried that you will have more stuff than will fit in the truck.
He is coming to help Husband and me load during the big move, provided I promise to have all the boxes packed in advance. I have thirty-eight days. This is his third time moving us--his new joke is something like, how else would we see the country, if our daughter wasn't moving?
It rare to have the right help with what you need just when you need it without feeling like your toes have been crushed by well-meaning and appreciated helpers accidentally stomping them to bits, but my dad has a gift for achieving the impossible. Hopefully, I can find some of his magic in the next few weeks, especially considering all the boxes that remain broken-down and empty.
Some odds and ends:
Today's Stats:
Total number of boxes packed: 0
Total number of boxes assembled: 0
Verdict: Packing epic fail.
Husband and I had a small blow-out in the morning about some not-exactly-moving-related-but-vaguely-connected-stuff that we-have-argued-about-before-and-will-argue-about-again. Then we went to the zoo to gawk at the baby polar bear, which was quick and small and so full of play, like his bones and eyes and nose and yellow-white fur were made of play, so much of it that some of the play leaked out and covered the rest of us. I can still smell it in my hair. Later, I'll (probably) do the dishes and dust (Husband has a music student coming tomorrow) while listening to an NPR podcast or two, but no boxes tonight.
Yesterday's Stats:
Total number of boxes packed: 4
Total number of boxes assembled: 1
Injuries: 1--to pride.
As I organized books in boxes yesterday, I came across an old journal Husband and I wrote during our freshman year of college, the year we lived a few hours apart. We have binders of old letters and notes somewhere in the basement, so I wasn't expecting to find this journal among the novels and textbooks upstairs. We took turns writing in it, trading off each time we saw each other, and I was horrified to find out just how embarrassing my writing was (is), though I had (have) my suspicions. His letters are lovely, sincere, and grown-up, while my scrawl and loopy sentences betray my age and inexperience.
It was still nice to be reminded, though. It is strange the things that pop up when you are moving--you are physically taking apart your life, making it into a great puddle knowing the whole time that you'll have to rebuild it out of the glop. It is strange to see what rises to the surface worth grabbing.
He is coming to help Husband and me load during the big move, provided I promise to have all the boxes packed in advance. I have thirty-eight days. This is his third time moving us--his new joke is something like, how else would we see the country, if our daughter wasn't moving?
It rare to have the right help with what you need just when you need it without feeling like your toes have been crushed by well-meaning and appreciated helpers accidentally stomping them to bits, but my dad has a gift for achieving the impossible. Hopefully, I can find some of his magic in the next few weeks, especially considering all the boxes that remain broken-down and empty.
Some odds and ends:
Today's Stats:
Total number of boxes packed: 0
Total number of boxes assembled: 0
Verdict: Packing epic fail.
Husband and I had a small blow-out in the morning about some not-exactly-moving-related-but-vaguely-connected-stuff that we-have-argued-about-before-and-will-argue-about-again. Then we went to the zoo to gawk at the baby polar bear, which was quick and small and so full of play, like his bones and eyes and nose and yellow-white fur were made of play, so much of it that some of the play leaked out and covered the rest of us. I can still smell it in my hair. Later, I'll (probably) do the dishes and dust (Husband has a music student coming tomorrow) while listening to an NPR podcast or two, but no boxes tonight.
Yesterday's Stats:
Total number of boxes packed: 4
Total number of boxes assembled: 1
Injuries: 1--to pride.
As I organized books in boxes yesterday, I came across an old journal Husband and I wrote during our freshman year of college, the year we lived a few hours apart. We have binders of old letters and notes somewhere in the basement, so I wasn't expecting to find this journal among the novels and textbooks upstairs. We took turns writing in it, trading off each time we saw each other, and I was horrified to find out just how embarrassing my writing was (is), though I had (have) my suspicions. His letters are lovely, sincere, and grown-up, while my scrawl and loopy sentences betray my age and inexperience.
It was still nice to be reminded, though. It is strange the things that pop up when you are moving--you are physically taking apart your life, making it into a great puddle knowing the whole time that you'll have to rebuild it out of the glop. It is strange to see what rises to the surface worth grabbing.
Saturday, June 19, 2010
The Set-Up
My husband and I are moving for the third time in four years in five short weeks. So far, I have sixteen boxes packed. Six of these are tequila boxes donated by an elementary school. Husband and I are not sure why schools always seem to be using liquor boxes or how the schools get them in the first place, but they are the right size to fill with books and still be light enough to lift, so we are lucky.
There are nine file storage boxes (a gift from my lawyer father the last time we visited) waiting to be assembled in my dining room, and an unknown number of broken-down boxes in the basement from the last time we moved. Husband warns that some of these are moldy and/or have suffered water damaged. Just like us, I say. He laughs, even though we can't quite explain the joke.
There are two of us to pack up the house, though Husband is working full-time this summer, teaching music and art at the migrant education program in another town, so that mostly leaves my one set of arms with one roll of packaging tape, and the hundreds of things and forgotten things in the six or so rooms of our little bungalow. Plus the basement. Also, the garage.
There will be one moving truck, two hand-trolleys, and eight packing blankets in our driveway in exactly thirty-nine days. This blog is about how we'll manage to pack all our boxes before then. This is about how many dishes will fit inside a box that once held reams of paper. This is about how lonely empty bookshelves look in the glow of a lamp and the smooth satisfaction of spackle in a nail hole. How I'll find someone to buy our washer and dryer. How Husband and I don't talk about now or moving day, but what our lives were like before and what they might be like in six months. How sometimes we get angry. How we get grateful. How we'll decide what to take with us and what to leave behind, and what happens when we stop counting.
There are nine file storage boxes (a gift from my lawyer father the last time we visited) waiting to be assembled in my dining room, and an unknown number of broken-down boxes in the basement from the last time we moved. Husband warns that some of these are moldy and/or have suffered water damaged. Just like us, I say. He laughs, even though we can't quite explain the joke.
There are two of us to pack up the house, though Husband is working full-time this summer, teaching music and art at the migrant education program in another town, so that mostly leaves my one set of arms with one roll of packaging tape, and the hundreds of things and forgotten things in the six or so rooms of our little bungalow. Plus the basement. Also, the garage.
There will be one moving truck, two hand-trolleys, and eight packing blankets in our driveway in exactly thirty-nine days. This blog is about how we'll manage to pack all our boxes before then. This is about how many dishes will fit inside a box that once held reams of paper. This is about how lonely empty bookshelves look in the glow of a lamp and the smooth satisfaction of spackle in a nail hole. How I'll find someone to buy our washer and dryer. How Husband and I don't talk about now or moving day, but what our lives were like before and what they might be like in six months. How sometimes we get angry. How we get grateful. How we'll decide what to take with us and what to leave behind, and what happens when we stop counting.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)