… as being this time of settling into wisdom and really coming into myself and becoming comfortable with this crazy thing we call life and getting to carve out time to be better and feel better and do better. But adulthood has been nothing but nonstop, exhausting insanity, like some fucked-up round of Whack-a-Mole that never ends, where the little dudes are not only popping up but popping up in flames that spread and the faster I thwack them, the more they spit fire at me.
Or like opening a vein temporarily that just ends up bulging and pushing and pushing and pushing because the needle is never satisfied and, oh, what is your other arm doing, because we’re going to need to use that one too.
It sucks. God, it sucks. And I am bad at it. And I want to stop doing it. Can I opt out?
You ever notice how Pepsi machines put the Diet Mountain Dew button above the regular Mountain Dew? Probably not because I’m sure you never patronize Pepsi machines. But if you ever stroll past one on your way to a Coke machine, take a look. I have a theory that it’s because that is the only fucking way they can sell Diet Mountain Dew — to trick people into thinking they are buying a regular Mountain Dew.
That’s what keeps running through my head as I’m going through the business of making this move. I just keep picturing Clark Griswold clapping his hands together and saying it over and over.
So here is where we are and where we have been.
We found a house! After three weekends of searching plus ALL THE INTERNET RESEARCHING, we ended up deciding to go with a house on a tip supplied by Sarcastro. (Apropos of nothing, I miss Sarcastro’s blog.) It’s cozy with a sweet little porch, a bay window, three bedrooms, two bathrooms, a deck out back, and a bonus room/den/office area, complete with a perfect little spot for the cats to shit. You would not believe how difficult it is to find a house with a good spot for cats to shit. And there is a little laundry room with tall shelves for me to store all the crap I will inevitably drag along with me since I won’t have enough time to sift through everything and chunk much of it.
We had this other house we really loved but it wasn’t a 100 percent deal and we decided we needed to go ahead and push the button on something definite before we left town. I was getting pretty discouraged with the house hunt* and just needed to feel like we had something we could rely on so I could go ahead and start making moving plans. I start my job Wednesday, after all, and much of the packing and moving is going to have to happen while I am 200 miles away. This makes the control freak in me want to barf.
So I am going to Nashville tomorrow night to stay with Matt and Amanda. And then I report at 9 a.m. to the new job. I’ll come back to Memphis Friday night to continue packing and then back to Nashville Sunday night. We won’t actually move into the house until around the 11th so that it going to be pretty rough. I cannot imagine being away from my baby for a week but that is the reality of the situation so we are going to just do it, I guess. We will figure out the details as we stumble toward them.
It’s exciting and scary.
* We had an appointment to view a house at 10 a.m. Sunday. The landlord told me over the phone that 10 a.m. would be good because the family would be at church and we could poke around the house. I assumed he would clear all of this with the family. We showed up at the scheduled time and knocked on the door. A lady answered and was flabbergasted at our presence. I told her why we were there and she said no one had communicated anything with her. “We still live here!” she said with complete exasperation. She was in a nightgown and I heard kids in the background. We got back into the car and suddenly my phone started blowing up — it was the number of the landlord. I finally thought maybe I had gone to the wrong house when he texted, “R U gettn close I am here waitin.” I called back. Turns out he had just gotten there after us, I guess. I told him the tenant had no idea we were coming. “Who answered the door?” he asked. “That big fat lady?” Aaaand scene.
… but if there is one thing I have learned about photography (or at least how I like to do it) that is different from writing, it’s shoot sober, edit drunk.
Some day in 14 years when I am scolding Holden for eating Jolly Ranchers and putting his expensive braces at risk, I am going to wistfully think back to when he was a wee babe and wish for simpler times when I could hold him in my arms and get a grin out of him just by smiling wide. I know my memory and its tendency to function as a black hole (I have already forgotten much of what we did all day during the first month of Holden’s existence), and it’s going to be hard to remember what our days were like when he was this age.
So on Thursday, I photographed pretty much everything I did all day, figuring it would be a pretty accurate representation of our average day. Fun with mundanity. Or FUNDANITY!
This slideshow probably won’t make much sense without captions, since my phone takes such HORRIBLE pictures, so to see the captions you have to select full screen and then click on the first picture. Captions should anchor at the top right after that. I think.
• babies can sleep soundly with their heads at 90-degree angles from their bodies, but they scream in agony the instant you take them out of the bath tub because of the slight change in temperature?
• I am 30, a homeowner, and a parent, but I feel most like an actual adult those times when a light bulb goes out and I know I’ve got a backup bulb stashed away?
• the women on the network morning shows dress in tiny tiny tiny dresses year-round, even when it’s cold out? And hooker heels?
• Google is fucking up my world? I mean, I know they’re allowed to and I never really thought the “Don’t be evil” thing would hold sway forever. But still. Why can’t they just chill with the stupid? Who is in charge over there right now who’s making these Facebookesque decisions?
• people post text-heavy shit on Pinterest? It’s a visual pin board. If you want to bookmark text posts, use that handy “bookmark” feature on your browser.
• It’s nearly February and I haven’t worn a single sweater this entire winter? WHAT IS WITH THIS WEATHER?
• I bought a house that isn’t in walking distance to any restaurants or grocery stores? There’s a corner store a couple of blocks to the west, but some dude was shot and killed in that area a few days ago. Besides, all they have is crap food anyway.
• I look even more supersized now than I did when I was nine months pregnant, despite having lost 10 pounds (during birth) and breastfeeding around the clock?
• my feet are constantly getting mangled from unseen pieces of glass or wooden splinters that apparently litter the kitchen floor, no matter how often I sweep?
• Mitt Romney is allowed to call Barack Obama “detached from reality” without the entire country collectively laughing in his face and then ignoring him for the rest of the year?
• my dad has an epic mancrush on Newt Gingrich? He has really liked him for as long as I can remember. I don’t think they would get along in real life.
Holden loves this song.
… come in and fix shit in 20 minutes. They also inform you that in the great state of Tennessee, you have to have a license to cut hair but not to do electrical work. Interesting. No, wait. Stupid.
Note to self for when I inevitably forget this: The breaker box is technically rigged, but it’s not dangerous. Illegal, maybe. But the house is not going to burn down if I leave an extra lamp on. I just need to pony up $1,200 for a new weatherproof panel and some rewiring in the next … however long it takes me to get $1,200 to spend. Whee.
I pretty much feel like shit mentally nearly every second of every day and I’m getting really tired of it.
Fix it fix it fix it.
I don’t know how.