Where has the year gone?

It dawned on me the other day, as I was filling out the renewal papers for this lovely apartment we moved into that a great deal of time has somehow escaped without my even noticing it. Just a year ago next weekend, we got our move in date, we were in the midst of sorting, packing and throwing away. I was happily building box towers in the living room, bedrooms, bathrooms, where ever there was a spare corner to put them and dreaming nightly of a place we could actually move around in and not fall all over each other.

And so here I am, getting ready to renew another year in a place where my mother's dining room furniture has been reunited after 5 long years apart. It now sits in happy contentment in my huge dining room. I can and have had over ten people in here at once and everybody sat comfortably together and had a lovely time. The cats have discovered the joy of wide window sills, open windows and once they forgave me for the trip up from Virginia ~ I believe it was finally last week~they've not only settled in here, but are sharing the house together for the first time since Sahara moved in with us three years ago. Robb is loving life in his big new room and for the most part, things are good.

4330 minutes to go and counting down

You could say that I am beyond excited about picking up the keys to our new place. I cannot believe that we are finally just about there, a few more days before we sign our lives away and get presented with the keys to our new apartment.

We literally cannot move where we are now, each skinny little room of our current abode is lined with boxes, literally floor to ceiling and while this was a source of some amusement to the puddies as I started this process, the taller the box towers became the more anxiety ridden they have become. Py is now refusing to move off the sofa, whether out of fear that he will be grabbed and packed in something or because he now no longer fits behind any of those towers and therefore has no clue what lurks behind them, I'm not sure. Sahara has gone one step further, he's building cat forts everywhere, last night, he took up residence in the empty bottom shelf of the DVD cabinet in the livingroom and pulled the doors closed behind him. Robb has found this to be a grand adventure, delighting announcing how many days we have left and cleaning his room on a daily basis to make sure that no dust will accompany him to his new room. Last night, he was happily sorting through the boxes in his closet and making sure that all his belongings were lined up and ready to go, even though the furniture itself is not moving for another three weeks. And of course, I've only packed up about half of our stuff, there is literally no more room for boxes so this weekend, we are hauling boxes up there so that I can spend next weekend packing the rest of our stuff in preparation for moving all of it between the 13th and the 19th.

Robb's paperwork is in and they are already working on getting his slot for his program, that relief is unreal, he is so happy to be going back where he will be busy all day and have people to be with and a real job to do. He's done remarkably well during these three years we've been here and he has been home, he's matured and gotten more independent, but it's lonely at home with just him and cats and he needs to be out and about.

On the downside, the Big Guy's transfer is on hold, so he'll still be trekking back to Winchester to work, hopefully not for long. I've still not given notice because, well my boss hasn't been here. One thing or another has kept her out of the office for the last eight days and I have no clue when she is planning to return. My father has suggested I leave a note and make sure the lights are all turned off when I go, and it may come to that. Although I will probably give our board president a call and tell him today and ask him how to avoid the screaming hissy she will have when I tell her bye bye. I suspect she'll birth a bovine right here in the lobby when she finds out and I'm hoping that I'll at least be able to salvage a reference out of this. She is very Me first Me only oriented, so I suspect I'll be running for cover when it all comes down to it. The screaming fights she's had with Spouse of Boss in here have sent me hiding in the ladies room trying not to throw up on several occasions. Anxious? You bet your sweet cottontail I am.

Meanwhile, I'm off for another cup of coffee and to check my watch...there are now 4310 minutes to go

My son really wasn't raised by wolves...honest

Ok, in keeping with our wierd little family traditions, my middle son is moving just a few weeks before we are. I'm not sure exactly why this happens, but he moved to Richmond the same weekend we moved into our current apartment almost three years ago. I don't think it's so that he gets out of helping, life just does those funny little things to us.

I expect that a number of things all hit at once. 1. He's living in the top floor of a 120 year old house, in what was obviously servants quarters and only Twiggy in her prime can walk up that last flight of stairs without going up sideways. 2. It's Summer in Winchester....he has just a pathetic whimpy window unit because, he is in a 120 year old house with some rather anemic wiring 3. The charm of living around a bunch of obnoxious college students has worn off. He is without a doubt the OLDEST 23 year old I have ever met. And probably most importantly, 4. He woke up in the middle of the night and realized OMG, Mom is moving, I'll have no place to wash my clothes. (said 120 relic has no laundry facilities and the nearest laundra-mat is around the corner from MY house. ), and no place to go when the power goes out down here and it's either the middle of winter or summer.

Needless to say, I have spent the weekend doing the Mom thing, inbetween packing up my own junk -- my boys swear I have been permanently trapped in maternal overload. In spite of the heat, I put on my grungy shorts and t-shirt and wandered down into the historic district where my child currently lives. Although once I got upstairs and opened all his windows (Oh, gee, I didn't realize I had cross ventilation) the place wasn't bad at all heat wise. CLEAN wise was another story. And while no eggs popped and cooked on the counter, I was fully expecting Zuul to be waiting for me when I got up the nerve to open his fridge. There was dust on the stove, ok, so cooking in this converted little place was not high on his list, at least with a stove of questionable durability. There was apparently some sort of chili/microwave incident on one side of the kitchen. There was a stack of towels, well molded into some semi permanent hardened shape and I kicked them into the trashbag after he suggested I might not want to know how that happened, but that his two best friends from highschool were involved (They WERE raised by wolves). I refused to do the bathroom, well if you could call it that, it's a toilet and a sink tucked into what was obviously a chimmey shaft-the shower is in a closet in his bedroom. Now in his defense, he wasn't expecting the electricity to be so deficient in that place that when you plug in the vacuum, you blow the lights out in the front half of the second floor apartment, or that turning on all the lights in the oddly shapped place, you lose power in the bedroom. And face it, he's a man, sparkling clean floors and kitchen are not high on his wish list. Although calling a coverted bedroom that holds a stand alone stove, sink and fridge a kitchen is probably a stretch of anybody's imagination.

I have scrubbed until my nailpolish peeled, his woodwork is once again white, his kitchen no longer needs to be cleaned up to be condemned and even I would put food in that fridge now. We have bagged up his soda box tower (they are limited to one bag once a week in the historic district), got rid of way more pizza boxes that I really think one person is capable of going through in a week, and generally organized the three of the four rooms in his cut up little apartment. His office, of course, was pristine, but then again, my software developer/php engineer is a bit anal that way. And next weekend, I will be back over there, hauling his clothes over to his new place which has a washer and dryer in the unit and doing the mom thing there. And on the 14th, we'll be hauling what little furniture he was able to get up those Thumbalina sized stairs down to street level and across town into some extremely yuppie digs. I'll be glad to get him settled in before we head out of town, because yes, I will own his little php coding soul and he will have to come and help his Dad move the heavy Ethan Allen furniture out of storage and into it's new home in Hagerstown.

Momma ain't stupid

Overdrawn at the dumpster bank

Ok, there may not be moving fairies or packing elves, but I swear, somewhere out there, exists Trash Trolls. And they've been using my storage unit and closets to store their squirrelled away booty. That is the only explanation I can think of to explain the unbelievable amount of stuff that was lurking in our outside storage unit. The one just on the side of our porch, where carefully put up shelves had been set up when we moved in nearly 3 years ago. And I knew it wasn't in the best of shape, there are three of us using it, my material, patterns and hoops, the Big Guy's various odds and ends-power tools, computer stuff, an assortment of rather heavy something precariously balanced on the top shelf. That I was expecting, because I do periodically go in there, looking for a particular pattern or to refill the cat litter storage bin, but damn, I had no idea that something was using it to store items apparently stealthed away from the four corners of the known world by evil under bridge dwelling trolls. And while I did keep my eye out for a missing pooper scooper, hose nozzle, street sign and a couple of packs of gum that some of my friends have discovered missing, I spent most of the weekend bagging up trash. Items formerly known as functional objects, weird bits of things (sorry, no hubcap), the collection of empty cat litter bags that Robb had apparently decided could be held for recycling and a host of other unidentifiable objects made their appearence, squealed for help momentarily and then gave in to being shoved into big black garbage bags and sent on their way to the dumpster via my steady happy helper. Although somewhere along the line, he went on strike, declaring on his fifth trip back up from the dumpster that I was done now. There he stood, in my livingroom, wearing that adorably loud tropical print shirt he loves so much, with the bolo tie his grandfather gave him for Christmas several years ago and his favorite chinos and told me, only five bags, Momma. You used six. Apparently, unbeknownst to me, I have a five bag a day limit and I exceeded it. I am, therefore, overdrawn at the dumpster bank.

Wonder what he'll say when we really start packing

Gentlemen, start your packing

It was fate, it had to be. Why else would things have gotten hectic at the rental office just after that notice was turned in so nobody was called about the vacancy. Why else would we have been delayed by the alternator on my car just long enough. The Big Guy put his usual NASCAR spin on it, it is after all apartment number #3 He's already bought the welcome mat for the front door. We have done it. Put our signatures on the line, dipped into the checkbook and embarked on our next new adventure. It's not the townhouse we were thinking about, which suits because we're talking ground floor, no more stairs, with a patio for the BBQ, baby. And as of September 12th, it will be our new home. With more than enough room, all my furniture can come out of storage, once again, we'll have a real dining room, a kitchen you can actually turn around in and a shower that somebody taller than 5 feet can actually use without doing their Hunchback of Notre Dame impersonation. There will of course be challenges. I've not cooking on an electric stove in years. I will have to find some other form of exercise than hauling bags of groceries up the stairs, learn to manuever my way through a livingroom that is wider than 9 feet, does not include the vaccum cleaner, footstool, rocking chair obsticle course, and a foyer approximately the width of a cat box. I'll need to re-learn how to get into bed without having to crawl over the end of said bed to get into my side because of lack of space between the bed and the wall. I'll be dealing with rooms large enough to actually hold the furniture they were intended for, the fact that my livingroom will now actually seat more than two people and most of all, dining every night around a table with my entire family. Yes, it will be tough, but I'll manage :).

But....in spite of my sending that note up Santa's way, leaving the envelope under my pillow for the Toothfairy (guess I should have used a real tooth, huh), setting out carrots for the Easter Bunnie, the Jack'olanterns for the Great Pumpkin, there are apparently no such things as moving elves. I tried calling the sprite and fairy union hall, but it's apparently closed for Summer Solstice. The trail of jelly beans I left from the parking lot to the door of our current place were carried off by the ants, and while the final draw, a case of beer might actually get the attention of various family members, do I really want drunken men packing up my crystal? So many questions....

So I am off to buy a case of tape, gather up my newspapers and settle in for the long haul. It's from here to Hagerstown in 80 days...let the packing begin!

Hi Ho Hi Ho, to Hagerstown we go...

Well, tomorrow morning, bright and early, after a fast and wholesome breakfast at Wafflehouse (I am SUCH a redneck sometimes), we are heading up route 81. Armed with wage statements and SSI payment letters, wearing our lucky underwear, a bag of four leaf clovers in the back (Honest officer, that really IS a sack of four leaf clovers, I swear), fingers, toes and eyes crossed that we can qualify for the townhouse we want. I am dreaming of actually being able to fit all our furniture into one place, to have a real dining room, not a 'nook' that barely measures 5 x 7 that only a little patio table fits in. (Do you have any idea how hard it is to plug up that umbrella hole?) To be able to actually turn around in the kitchen or even fit in there with Py and Sahara walking behind me. I know that somewhere in this world, other people can actually open their dishwasher and oven door at the same time and I want to be counted in their numbers! I can remember from memories of a house long past that it is possible to open your fridge and not scrape the counter across from it, but it was so long ago, that the memory has faded to where I am not sure if it's real anymore. A shower that actually fits a grown person, a tub that you can actually stretch out in and not feel as if you are bathing in a basin. Windows that open and stay on track, a patio where you can sit outside at night and not be afraid of what will filter down on you from the tenant du jour upstairs. And if this magical place can also have a garage where the Big Guy can tinker on his truck and have his tools, it would truly be heaven.

I know what I will be dreaming about tonight. Mark Harmon, No (well ok, maybe) Johnny Depp? No. I will be dreaming of Ethan Allen. Gorgeous Ethan Allen maple furniture made back when wood was wood and it took four men to lift the table. Furniture that has been languishing in pieces under the bed, covered in dismal blankets in storage, separated for years, whimpering in the dark, wanting desperately to be together again, like it was for nearly 30 years in my mother's dining room.

Keep your fingers crossed for us. We're about to embark into a brave new world!

Watch that for that left turn just before Margueritaville

That sneaky one, just on the other side of those palm trees, you can barely see it, but damn if you don't make that slight adjustment to the right to head on towards parrots and tequila and loud patterned shirts, you just might end up in that little slice of hell known as Micro-Management City. I was obviously either adjusting the lei around my neck or looking for that salt shaker that rolled under the front seat and missed it, because bam...I looked up and instead of swaying palm trees and white sandy beaches, I found myself face to face with tall forboding sooty steel towers, mounds and mounds of papers and this voice that chimes in, every few seconds, tolling off endless lists of tasks, directions, comments, critisms and demanding status reports on every item being scribbled on an endless whiteboard. IM windows opening everywhere around me, is this done yet, did you do that, I need an update for, bing bing bing, that annoying little chime keeps going off and there is no CTRL-ALT-DEL feature anywhere here that I can find. And somehow, the exit out is under construction and the detour route is littered with mountains of laundry baskets, lists of calls to be made about insurance and rental properties and the like. The phone off to my left is endlessly ringing and HELL keeps comes up on the caller id. Sock drawers are mysteriously being emptied the moment my back is turned (Sahara...STOP THAT) Somebody is obviously allowed the elephants from the zoo to make potty stops in the litter box on an hourly basis (Py..BAD CAT) and I cannot even beseech Calgon to take me away because the last person in the shower left the lid off the bottle and it all spilled down the drain.

And while I do understand that a number of the people around me, the Big Guy and my boss in particular are under more than usual stress, I am presenting this open letter to them and others around them to state my position on the recent and rather unpleasant change of direction that has kicked me out of Margueritaville without so much as a flip flop to my name.

Everybody---

While I understand that certain situations you all are in have resulted in the loss of control of your environment, I must humbly request that you stop, cease and desist, forgo, halt and generally knock off all attempts to assume control of me. I did actually get up and dress myself this morning, without directions, help or other constructive assistance. My shoes, they are even on the correct feet. I can and do, on a daily basis, find my way to work and back again without getting lost. I can use the bathroom without written instructions. I know how to answer a telephone, write an email, mail an envelope and even fold a letter to go into that envelope. I can operate a fax machine, a printer, a copier and 9 times out of 10, a pair of sissors without causing myself and those around me bodily harm so step by step instructions are not required for every instance of use. And that includes IM'ing me all day about said things when we are both in the office and calling me about them when you are working off site. I am still the same individual I was last week, or last month when you had all the confidence in the world that I could do my job and more without ever blinking an eye. So it is really not necessary to dictate an email to me over the phone to somebody we deal with on a daily basis. It is truly not necessary to ask me, what I am typing if you hear my keyboard, require an immediate answer regarding why I have opened a pill bottle or explain why I am taking three advil unless you really want to know exactly why I have this never ending migraine. I know what shelf the dishes go on, what drawer the socks need to be put and damn, I can even work the washer with a fair amount of skill. The papers stacked on the ironing board will be put away, but since I just set them down there, give them a moment to rest, absorb their new environment before rattling their sensitivities and uprooting them yet again. I put dinner on the stove so I know it's cooking, I know the difference between cooking and burning (although sometimes I will admit, it is a narrow difference) I can actually figure out what to fix for dinner without getting a blow by blow inventory over the phone and as God as my witness, the next time I hear the phrase, my mother makes it this way...you will be finding out how expensive it is to have an ER doctor surgically remove the Skillet of Enlightement. Although I haven't decided whose head it's going to be bounced off of yet.

And yes, I can sympathize, nobody likes to find themselves out of control of situations and their surroundings, but the answer is to not focus down on every step I take, every breath I breathe. The answer is to face whatever is stressing you out and smack them/it senseless. The key here is to stop whatever is frustrating you and correct the situation at the source, not to try and reclaim your control of your surroundings by passing the stress forward. Today is the first day of the rest of your life, make it an effective one by taking back control of your space. Mine is already spoken for. I am really anxious to get back to Margueritaville so if you don't mind, I'll be hunting up those flip flops and heading back that way. And yes, I know how to put them on once I find them. I am officially declaring my personal space as a no micromanagement zone. Offenders will be rolled in sugar and staked out for the ants.

Sincerely

Tink's Happy Disposition


Wow....I feel so much better now. Now if I could only figure out a way to keep my phone from ringing or my IM from nagging until it's time to go home.....

Disclaimer: In the Big Guy's defense, he is a jewel of a husband, the love of my life, and the best father any woman could imagine having for her children. I would not trade him for anything in the world. His boss, on the other hand, who is the demon currently pulling the puppet strings on life around my wonderful man needs a serious attitude adjustment.