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.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
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.
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