General Craziness

The majority of my move is over (insert spastic Elaine Benes dance of joy here) and I'm left only with a few boxes for Goodwill, a few boxes of stuff my sister wants, and a table set and club chair, which will most likely go to the Salvation Army. My mover (part-time mover, full-time fireman) expressed interest in the table for a friend whose house recently burned down. If he doesn't want it, and he'll let me know this week, then I'll call the SA and see if they'll come pick it up. After that, just the extra-deep cleaning and I'm outta there.

I'd hoped to be mostly finished yesterday, but things didn't go as planned. For starters, I spent more time than I wanted to in line at the post office mailing some packages for friends and family. I kept forgetting things and having to go back to the car (and in one case, the hallmark store...forgot to get a card for someone) for them. By the time I got to the apartment, it was already past 2 o'clock. I had someone who was planning on helping me out, but they were genuinely not feeling well and needed a break, so I let them off the hook. I worked for a while and then decided to load some boxes into my truck. On the first pass I successfully made it to my car with my tiffany lamp and the glass/lead lamp from my bedroom. Second pass was like a comedy of errors, only minus the funny part. I'm sure I'll laugh in about a week when my body stops aching. See, I live(d) in a 3rd floor apartment. Before anyone feels too sorry for me, I chose it on purpose. At the time, I was in extra good shape, so the hike up the stairs was pretty painless. Plus I like having windows open at night when I sleep, and it just seemed safer doing so in a third floor apartment. So yesterday, as I was carrying down the second load, I fell partway down one flight of stairs. Nothing broken or sprained, unless you count my pride. I was a little wobbly after that, but tried to be careful, and I managed to make it all the way downstairs without further mishap. And then, after making it to the bottom floor, I tripped over my own big size 8 1/2 feet and fell down again. As before, my pride suffered more than any particular body part, but I got quite petulant and stomped back upstairs, grabbed my purse, and drove back home, crying half the way, like some melodramtic teenager who tripped and fell at prom. It was truly pitiful. I'm much better today and can at least laugh at my own histrionics. I'm so sorry for everyone who knows me!

When I got home last night, I got a little more of the same. I love my parents dearly, but it can be difficult feeling like a grown-up when I live with them. I pay rent and everything--not even particularly cheap rent--but I do feel twelve sometimes, and not a little defensive, when I'm approached with parental indignation. Let me stress this is my issue, not theirs. Last night I neglected to leave the garage light on when I got home, and I received a stern lecture about light-etiquette (we leave the lights on when others aren't home yet), to which I gave a snappish reply. I immediately apologized and cried a little more while my parents looked at me all "What in the world did we let ourselves in for???" I apologized again and that particular drama subsided, only to give way for another.

Have you ever seen "The Christmas Story?" The dad in that movie has a trash mouth you wouldn't believe. Every time he has to go downstairs to fix the furnace, he lets loose a string of profanity that would embarrass a sailor. Well, I always found that funny because my dad, an even-tempered, good-hearted man, always gets a bit profane when he's repairing/constructing items that seem not to want to be repaired/constructed. Last night, he began the (simple, right?) task of changing a light bulb in the fixture over the kitchen sink. Well the glass part broke off, leaving the twisty part in the fixture. Since the fixure is inset, my dad had trouble getting at the proper angle to remove the base of the bulb. He wound up removing the fixture so he could get at it, but then had the devil of a time reinstalling the fixture. Add to that my step-mother, loving and well-intentioned, proffering un asked-for advice and admonitions of safety. Concerned about his welfare, she kept trying to get him to stop and let her call our general contractor to come and replace the light fixture. Now I know my dad. The more you try and get him to stop something he KNOWS he can do if just concentrates hard enough, the more determined he becomes. Enter lots of profanity. Enter a wicked-angry stepmother. They nitpicked and I was very, very quiet. I know when to keep my mouth shut and that was definitely one of those times. Eventually, dad prevailed, there was residual nitpicking, an apology on both sides, and finally peace. Stepmom, in passing, told me to pull Baxter's (one of our two labs) bed in my room--a true concession, as there has been a bit of a power struggle between Stepmom and Baxter. Baxter decided, just about the moment I moved my first box in, that I was his person. That first night, he crept into my bedroom and slept by my side instead of my stepmother's, as he'd done for the last 3 years. Stepmom ordered him back into her room and he complied. For about five minutes. Then he crept back into my room and hid at angle from which he couldn't be seen at the doorway. Night two, stepmom put Baxter's bed back into their room and told him to stay in it. He got into the bed, to be sure, but he sat up on his honches and kept trying to sneak out. Finally, in exasperation, Stepmom told him he could go. He wouldn't. But he wouldn't lay down either, so she hollered, in great bitterness, for me to call my damn dog. I did and he slept by my bed again that night. So last night's immediate concession was a surprise. I expect rumblings of "you stole my damn dog" for a few months before things calm back down.

My family is crazy, but we love each other. That should count for something!

Anyway, as a result of yesterday's pouting fit, I'll be spending lots of today at the apartment, doing much of the work I'd intended on completing yesterday. I will be SO glad when all is finished. The apartment I lived in has truly gone downhill over the years and it's definitely time to be gone. It occurs to me that this very long post is my way of putting off the inevitable. So, I'll stop with babbling, now. Even though I'm sure I could think of more things to say. Why do I suddenly see ChaucerianGirl in my mind, shoving something caffienated in my hand and telling me to shut up and get to work?