It’s official. As of Friday, we own two houses. We flew up for a thirty hour stay to perform a final walk through and sign papers. We have returned to the old place to wrap up packing duties.

This week will be filled with last minute debates like when to pack the toilet paper, do we really want to transport our houseplants, and whether or not to buy bread or spend the rest of the week dining at the local watering hole.

We are either beloved by friends and family or deplored by them because we are receiving offers to help. The proposals are pure in selflessness, but there is the minor detail of wanting to locate possessions after they’ve been boxed and transported. I appreciate their generosity, but I’d prefer them take the time to share a meal or a pint, than pack the mystery items stashed under the bed.

People want to be needed. Everyone, from the youngest toddler to the oldest grandmother wants to feel useful. The importance of the task seldom matters, just the desire to participate. Sometimes you should to allow others to “help” so they know you still need them in your life.

It’s humbling to ask for help, but it asking isn’t an issue of humility for me. I recognize I possess a stubborn self-sufficiency. I don’t believe in asking others to help me with things I wouldn’t be willing to assist with if I were asked. I have moved people, helped paint houses, remodeled fish ponds, provided technical support, and other physical tasks. I am willing, but I’d rather pay laborers I can bark orders to.

For most tasks remaining, we’ll hire muscle. I know how heavy our sofa is, and how many sheets of birch plywood were required when I constructed flat files. I won’t ask my friends and family to jeopardize their spinal health to move our heavy life, but I don’t feel guilty paying a couple guys cash for their labor.

Extraordinary and uncomfortable circumstances led to the Mister spending six extra days home before we close on the house (a call from work canceling his trip, and his back revolting after he made a wrong move lifting his suitcase). Under normal circumstances, I would be glad to have extra help in the packing, but little packing remains, other than last minute and awkward items. It’s just as well, the Mister lacks motivation in these matters. For him there is always plenty of time, or he becomes bored and starts another task, then another, finishing the first only after my nagging.

His skill lies in making phone calls, lining up utilities, grilling the house inspector, and scrutinizing the good faith estimate. These are important tasks, but I’m becoming more frustrated about having done the lion’s share of the manual labor, and preparations to sell. Mister Hombre believes his supervisory contribution offering packing critiques, is equal to the number boxes I have stacked, walls I have patched, and hours I have spent pressure washing. He has no idea I am within a single hair on a cat’s ass of suggesting he go fuck himself. I don’t care for criticism from someone who has contributed so little sweat, and isn’t paying me for services.

There is talk of logistics, paint colors, and remodel priorities, but little action. The Mister thinks lip service equals taking action. For me lip service is a tease to cloak laziness. The real problem is my eagerness to be settled. I don’t want to participate in a three hour conference to find out he can’t approve paint colors because he can’t visualize it in the space or thinks we should make a special trip with swatches to scrutinize lighting conditions. As usual, the man Martha Stewart has more free time than I have.

There is stress with moving (ya, think?). I remind myself, I’m tired and irritable, all potential arguments are not worth the effort. I recognize the Mister is stressed out by the move, as well as, his parents inability to adjust. He is more likely to argue like his mother when he is stressed, a confrontation in semantics I don’t need.

When Baby Girl and her Man visited, we made a group trip to the Assisted Living Facility to visit the One Eyes. The One Eyes have been very confused about when we are leaving. During the visit, Mrs. One Eye asked three different times if we had moved yet. Then she would scold us. She was disappointed my own mother wasn’t angry with me for leaving. We took turns changing the subject and distracting her from the hurt she continues to pick at like a festered boil, in hopes of making it more painful than it need be.

As we prepared to leave, one of the other residents asked about our move. She asked how I felt about it, and I replied, excited. She took it as a sign of betrayal, as only an eighty-year-old who doesn’t know you can. She scrunched up her face in disapproval, as if it would help her understand. I made no apologies, but said I look forward to every day. I walked away feeling guiltless. Why shouldn’t I pursue what I want? I’ve waited for the One Eyes, the Offspring, and the Mister. Why not me, and why not now?

I wonder if consumers would have remained optimistic about the mortgage boom if they had consulted with this lender? The housing industry is a mess.

Our home has been on the market for two weeks. It’s been shown four times. THe feedback has been positive so far, unfortunately these buyers were deterred by the second story. Our agent is optimistic. I am indifferent, but mostly because I need to direct my focus elsewhere. There are friends to see and boxes to pack.

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The Mister is in the process of passing financial management responsibility for his parents to his younger brother. It isn’t rocket science, but it can be confusing until you have month of experience. His brother is overwhelmed and intimidated.

Monday morning the guys were supposed to meet and discuss the financial obligations. Younger Brother set up the time and then promptly rescheduled twice. The guys eventually met and went over some details, but weren’t able to finish.

Mister Hombre: When do you want to meet and finish? I go back to work Sunday.

Younger Brother: As soon as possible.

Mister Hombre: Okay. How about early tomorrow morning?

Younger Brother: That sounds good, I’ll meet you then.

This morning, I’m eating breakfast with the Mister and we’re talking about our day’s appointments when the phone rings. It’s Younger Brother canceling the appointment that was made to accommodate HIM. Apparently, he can’t come because he has to pay property taxes. WTF? Property taxes and he didn’t know this in advance because…..I’m drawing a blank here. Anyone? And does it take ALL day to pay property tax….mmmm let me think about that. Maybe if you’re Fred Flintstone with cerebral palsy and you have trouble chiseling out the check.

Fine. Reschedule for two days later morning to accommodate Younger Brother a third fourth time. Not only does he not understand the meaning of ASAP, he’s immune to the reality of common courtesy. Obviously the world is meaningless when compared to his poorly managed personal life.

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Stray Comment from the Mister: I should probably spend as much time as I can stand to with my folks before we move. sigh

Me: snicker

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The neighbors are more interested in us now that we are relocating. I’m not complaining. I’ve never been the gregarious, block party, neighborhood watch type. My home is my safe place, my refuse from the bullshit and pettiness that life dumps on you. I’ve lived here for almost five years and I know six families by name. There are at least a hundred houses. I watch for strange cars, and I look out for roaming kids, but I do not interfere in anyone’s personal business without an invitation.

I think the nosy neighbors have a “stick with the devil you know” approach to me and the Mister. We keep our yard, and our property hasn’t lowered the value of the neighborhood, and it’s been at least two years since we made loud construction noises before nine AM on a Saturday.

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So far I’ve used 450 feet of bubble wrap, and nineteen rolls of packing tape. Two words. Framed Art.