I was set to post about the negotiations the Mister and I have been engaged in about an upcoming wedding. When I turned on the news channel to keep me company through my first cup of coffee and saw the tributes to fallen vets, it seemed inconsequential…at least until tomorrow.

It bothers me that we are still occupying a foreign country five years later, and it really disturbs me that our nation’s presence might have conceivably created more problems than it solved, depending upon which media outlet you choose as your source. I freely admit, I’m not very knowledgeable about the politics of war, but I am observant of the wastefulness of government.

I resent implications by our current executive branch that a citizen who does not support the war should have his or her patriotism called into question. Sure, I feign anarchist leanings, I think democracy sucks, but I recognize it’s the best system we have. I appreciate and have always supported the men and woman in uniform who defend my right to descent. For some it might seem somewhat paradoxical, but I don’t feel the least bit conflicted. I don’t hold those serving this country responsible for poor decisions made by those leading it.

When I walk through the airport, I am often awestruck by the number of troops I see dashing between the concourses, backpacks and laptops in tow. I see them hanging out with their teammates, calling their spouses, and reading magazines. They exhibit extraordinary discipline and ordinary ease. I have not yet been able to bring myself to speak to any directly and thank them personally. When I see others address them, many shift uncomfortably. Feeling awkward about the attention, in the same way I feel awkward about the hero worship.

Though the words always escape in the moment, my gratitude lives on. Thanks to those who believe in things I do not, thanks to those who have given up more than I can imagine, your sacrifices do not pass unnoticed or unappreciated.

My dad during the Korean conflict. A pragmatic man, he enlisted in the Air Force because he didn’t want to be drafted into the Army. He served one tour as an electrician keeping the runway lights functional. He was fortunate to return home. Years later, he couldn’t wire a light switch worth a damn. Use it or lose it.

Throughout the packing and loading process, I was overcome by the urge to stop and write it all down. Hours spent with a tape gun in hand while simultaneously mentally posting to get through the moment. I could not allow myself the luxury of writing, because time was fleeting.

As the previous residence looked less and less like home, the first home the Mister and bought together, I thought back our early days there. We moved in on our first anniversary four and a half years ago. As a “gift” to my family, I didn’t ask them to help us with the heavy lifting. In fact, I didn’t actually tell them we were moving at all until two weeks after the fact. But I did tell them.

That first night we both exhausted. After a quick shower, we rushed off to the grocery store to gather emergency provisions for dinner. In the produce section, I experienced a moment of clarity in which I realized with all the hustle of moving, I neglected to purchase a card for the Mister for our first anniversary. I produced some bullshit story about getting an item from the opposite end of the store so I could find a card. After I returned, the Mister experienced the same brain fart of enlightenment and fled to the card aisle as well.

I always liked the old house. The open floor plan. All the windows beckoning sunlight indoors. The facade completely different from the other houses in the neighborhood. The backyard to which we devoted so much sweat. The property fit the Mister’s and my personalities well. If we could have plucked that house from it’s foundation and set it upon a lot in the new community, the Mister would have.

Mister Hombre is fond of telling me home is wherever I am. That’s one of the things I love about him. He’s my anchor. For me, home is more than a safe place for me and those I love, it’s a place I can grow emotionally and intellectually. A place that inspires me to be the best person I can.

I distanced myself from the house long before the move. It began with the first false start preparing the house for sales two years prior. I boxed up books and clutter and the realtor advised us would distract potential buyers. Gradually the personal touches that described us were eradicated, and the space transformed into a generic home inhabited by art collectors with paint preferences that did not include safe colors like beige. When the rubber ducks and art history books were delivered to storage, my sentimentality for the space begin to wane. For the Mister it continued to feel like home…until the last drawings were removed from the wall.

I anticipated the stress of packing, but not the emotional speed bumps of leaving the space behind. As the contents were gradually emptied from the space, the echos grew, our voices were boomier, the space grew sadder, abandoned. It never occurred to me that I would experience any feelings other than relief.

Drawing of the living room. Point of view top of the stairs. The old house, when we still called it home.

• Garbage pick up twice a week.
• Listening to the Mister sing along with Fleetwood Mac when he doesn’t know I’m listening.
• High Temperature at the New Place today: 65; High at the Old Place today: 81.
• The local wine store will stay open beyond regular business hours if you call and tell them you are running late.
• The phone doesn’t ring every fifteen minutes.
• Even the local wild life is relaxed



• I no longer have a mountain of boxes in the center of the living room. Now, they’re broken down in the garage
• Eating lunch on the deck, while watching the birds. Yes, I’m boring.
• Being within walking distance from places like this:

       

Another week passes, and again I intended to post with fewer than six days passing me like a speeding car on the interstate. Such is the broken record that has been my life for the past two months.

Though tired, and a tiny bit discouraged, there are many things which I am not. Regretful. Disgusted. Lazy. And most importantly, unmindful of the rest of you.I am probably completing the lion’s share of many of the tasks here. I continue because, as one woman expressed to me, I am uptight. While not an inaccurate description, it isn’t all inclusive. I need a semblance of order before I can afford myself the luxury of loafing.

It’s difficult for me to surf blogs when I know I have responsibilities as a home owner, a pet companion, and a life partner. Art always suffers. Reading suffers, and hiking suffers. There you have it. I’m too fucking responsible. But because of that I make a reliable friend, any takers?

I suspect you guys are growing bored by the I’m moving or packing, or painting diatribe. I identify. I am totally bored by it too. Unfortunately there is little else happening at the moment.

There is progress. There is wine. And then there is losing ground. But that is evident in all aspects of life, isn’t it?

Part of my absence can be attributed to my desire to avoid documenting my whining. I know, it’s my blog and I can say whatever I want, yadda, yadda, yadda.

I’m tired in way that makes me withdrawn. I’m tired in a way that makes a thoughtless daughter where Mother’s Day is concerned. I’m tired in a way that makes me cat nap instead of telling my cat sitter how much I lover her and how I much I appreciate her opening up her guest room to us after we loaded our mattress onto the truck. I’m too tired to tell my partner, I think he is lazy about packing/unpacking boxes, not intelligent in shirking the task.

I’m not depressed, dejected or angry. I am hormonal and tired, did I mention tired? I have accomplished what I wanted and I understand life isn’t a cake walk. I have many things to be thankful for, and I am thankful for them, thankful for you. With good things come less desirable consequences. I can deal. I just feel like a shitty friend when I’m not keeping up with the rest of you.

Crashing on the deck for a 15 minute cat nap. Photo, courtesy of Mister Hombre.

The moving process did not disappoint. It was filled with all the stress, frustration, swearing and unpredictability you warned me about.Through it all, I managed to keep my cool, except for one that one time when I chewed the Mister’s ass and served it to him on a plate. Only once. I refuse to apologize because It would be insincere.

The Mister hovers. I don’t need a supervisor. I packed 80% of the boxes without incident. I don’t appreciate him looking over my shoulder offering constructive criticism when he can’t keep track of a tape gun, much less be bothered to reserve enough underwear to survive the move. We sacrificed one ugly Christmas mug to my inferior packing techniques. Not bad for 350+ miles towed behind a semi.

Knowing stress was inevitable made it easier to prepare emotionally. I wish I were better about being zen under ordinary circumstances. I knew we hadn’t completed enough preparatory packing before the trailer arrived. I knew the Mister would take more time to load the truck than he anticipated. His estimates are only reliable if things go perfectly. This was far from perfect. A former work acquaintance of mine once remarked, you can’t derail a disaster from its natural course. So I practiced breathing while the mini-dramas unfolded.

What the Mister lacks in planning and preparation, he makes up for during the scramble. He struggles with deadlines, but he can pack a truck better than the Joad family can load wagon. I am still in awe at how much he loaded in the final three feet of the trailer. Did I mention he did it with a broken toe? My hero.

Our hired loaders were moonlighting from their day jobs. Instead of sixteen hours of manual labor, we netted four. It wasn’t wasn’t part of the agreement. There isn’t much you can do when you find out on the day you need them, they will be seven hours late. Well, there is one one thing….you start drinking apple schnapps at 9AM. It took an extra day to load the truck. One of these eager beavers might have strong-armed the shut-off valve for the washing machine resulting in a mini-flood and an emergency call to the plumber. Good times.

We doped up the kitties for what turned into a six and half hour tandem car trip. (Gotta luv traffic in the ATL). I drew the short straw I chauffeured the cats in a stick shift and the Mister packed his vehicle to its cargo limit. It was like unloading a clown car. I still can’t believe he hauled the flammables, the vacuum cleaner, the air mattress, the liquor stash, clothes, walking sticks, bed linens, cat litter, art, ironing board, coffee maker, corkscrew, pillows, computer bags and a bunch of shit I can’t be bothered to recall.

We spent three days waiting for our furniture. It was refreshing. After being surrounded by things, I felt free in the wide open space not yet influenced by our lives. I remember when my youth held that much potential. Maybe it will again.

The last major snag occurred when the driver delivered our trailer. Seems there was a problem with parking. The property has two drives, both of which slope downhill and require setting your emergency brake. We had permission to park the trailer on the street, but the driver didn’t want to be responsible. After we determined the driveway slope allowed minimal room for the trailer, we discovered the phone and cable lines were too low to accommodate the trailer height. We called the city, but it wasn’t their responcibility. The driver suggested we wedge a board under the lines to raise them, rather than waiting for professionals. I found a fallen hickory tree in the back yard with a “y” at the top. Propped on a pair of bricks it raised the cables just high enough to allow the trailer to pass. So the lines remained propped for two days.

Sometimes it pays to be self-reliant.