Hi-ho1.
Today I bumped up against something I feared I would last week: I ran out of work. This is the first time since I began this 8-week project ten months ago that this has happened. I kind of didn’t know what to do. So I bid farewell to my officecompadres and came home, where I could be infinitely more useful. If you have ever tried to put your house on the market with one week’s notice, you will feel our pain. Since you’re probably a hell of a lot smarter than that, let me just clue you in: it hurts. Physically, mentally, and subconsciously in ways that haunt you in your dreams. I haven’t been to the gym since Friday; though I’ve walked just to get outdoors, I haven’t needed the exercise. I’ve been moving constantly for three days straight. I have injuries whose origin I can’t trace. I have a weird ring of scratches and bruises around my right bicep, a la fratboy tattoo. My hip is bruised from hauling bookshelves down the stairs. My knees feel like I suspect my grandma’s do on a daily basis, when she creaks and pops her way up the stairs. It took me a while to realize that if you take stairs by twos, you use your thighs more than your knees, and thus alleviate most of the suffering. Much too late, unfortunately. In the middle of the packing and hauling and carrying furniture and storing and donating and cleaning, my dad likes to call and say, ‘what should we work on today?’ Saturday, I got to stop working on the packing so I could mix concrete in a red wagon for an hour. That was, uh, fun. When he called and asked the same question Sunday, I was so exhausted I couldn’t respond. I just stood there and gaped for a minute, at which point he announced he was on his way over to work on the garage ceiling. I said OK and hung up. After dropping my third Saab-load of personal belongings off at the parents’ house, I staggered inside and laid down on the couch to rest for a minute. A half-hour later, I woke up. The funny thing was that no one knew I was there; my dad was at my house, and Stephanie and Escobar were ensconced in their rooms. I left quietly, unseen. So all my stuff is packed, at least as far as it can be. I can’t bundle the furniture off to storage, because it has to look like we still live here. And we do, in fact, still live here, although we keep forgetting. Heather and I divided up utensils and managed to pack them all, so now we’re trying to manage some creative cooking. I packed almost all my shoes, which was pretty dumb. If I finish this knitting project, I’ll have to go buy all new stuff because the rest is in a bin in my parents’ garage somewhere. It’s like camping, only in a 2000-square-foot tent. Today after work, I busied myself with the important things, like doing the kitchen floor with the lazyman mop2, washing the stairs by hand, unclogging the vacuum hose, and wiping every available surface clean. Then I mowed, which was timed unfortunately to coincide with my dead-rabbit-burying neighbor’s mowing as well. She kept mowing up into my yard, and I realized that she probably felt sorry for me with my pushmower3. Awesome. Also, I realized as I was mowing that I was a walking stereotype. Vegetarian tshirt, huge baggy boy-capris4, jangly anklets, flipflops, and my pushmower. You know, I do what I can to give the old folks around here a laugh. Tomorrow, the carpets will be professionally cleaned, and then the dog will just have to levitate for the rest of his stay here. After that, the realtor will be allowed to revisit to take professional-style photos for the MLS listing, and we’ll be good to go. Starting Thursday, not a single thing will be out of place in this house, or somebody’s gonna find their fingers broken. TWO OTHER ITEMS OF INTEREST, with which I have been spamming you folks with the misfortune of knowing me, but I’m just gonna mention them here as well: It is a mere month until my 60-mile walk to benefit breast cancer. I still have $750 left to raise. I ain’t too proud to beg. Please help me by clicking the button on the left and following the pleasant and well-written instructions on their site. If you’re mailing a check, today is the cutoff to do so. Also! I’m planning a new episode of creamedpeas. It involves your participation. Since I’m too lazy to re-explain it, here’s what I emailed out today:i want to collect childhood photos of people and put them up in a guess-who sorta way. so i’d need at least one, preferable two or three photos of you as a kid… say under 8 or 10? i dunno. you pick, and email them to me. and then just your name and a url or email if you want to be linked. it’ll be fun, i swear. really.
So there you go. Two action items just for you, my friends. Don’t say I never give you anything.
Going, going…. gone.Jenni
1 My mother sometimes says this when she calls. I always answer, ‘did you just call me a ho?’
2 Seriously, every time I use that Swiffer thing I feel guilty.
3 Dear Neighbors: Please do not look at me with such pity. I am not destitute. I like my sexy human-powered lawnmower. Move along.
4 I have been informed these are simply called ‘short pants’, as boys shiver at the word ‘capris’.