The house has figured out that I'm moving and in retaliation things are starting to break down. I've seen this process before: the house gets all mad at you when you plan to leave, or maybe it's depressed, or maybe, like most of us, it produces this toxic mixture of sorrow and fury that it trots out at the least hint of change. Whichever it is, I'm terrified, because I'm watching the last few remnants of my security deposit go swirling away down the drain with the broken mirror and the round thingie that goes around the thermostat thingy and the ominous sudden murmuring of the refrigerator. That's another reason why I have to move as fast as possible; the other reason being, of course, that if I give myself 2 weeks to move I won't do anything about it for the first week anyway, so might as well freak out completely and all at once.
Still, it's difficult to concentrate on work and homework and, for chrissakes laundry right now, let alone feeding everyone. Everyone complains about vegetarian chili made from all the stuff that hasn't been eaten yet and cornbread anyway and does not understand that I am not buying groceries simply to move them across West Asheville a few days later. Also, the dogs shredded a box across my bed in what is either an attempt to help "Wow she sure likes cardboard boxes right now! Let's give her a hand by chewing one up on the bed!" or hinder. "This is one box you won't be filling up, lady. Bwah ha ha ha! Now you cannot change things!" Whichever; I still have a pile of lovely damp shredded cardboard all over my bed and that doesn't even address the complex tactical maneouver that I am trying to figure out at the moment: to wit, how to make sure I have clean sheets on my bed for my first night in the new house, which may be impossible. I'm also beginning to get all choked up and teary eyed about getting rid of so many books and even self pitying statements of doom like, "You don't deserve those many books anyway, Fliss. Huge libraries are for the rich people who get to own houses and you? No books for you! Get back to your dumpster with a torn up Archie comic, scum of the proletariat!" don't seem to be helping much. Although they do, a bit, because then I laugh and toss another book into the going away box with wild abandon, a sob, a swig of beer and a little, muttered curse.
Then I bitch for a while about the goddamn missing tape gun. Which is what I'm going to go do right now.
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1 comment:
That peony sure looks like an Afghani opium poppy.
Good luck with the move. I'd help you but my El Camino's been in the shop for 18 months.
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