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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

The final countdown

The truck comes in five days. Will have a new address in seven. Terrified, delighted, nervous, calm.

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.