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.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
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.
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