Typing on phone, sitting in windowsill to catch 1-foot pocket of 3G.
Night 1: Hated the house. Hated the stray dogs and feral cats and speeding cars and tourist neighbors and stifling mugginess. Couldn't sleep. Cried. Embarrassed with self for being snively, said, "It could be worse." Suspected I had made a terrible mistake.
Night 2: toddler peed in his sleep. Mostly on me. Changed bedding and jammies, realized as I was stuffing the wet sheets in washer that the laundry soap was at the old house. Just as I sighed about this and decided to go back to bed, my guts made a sound like a water cooler, and I spent the rest of the night in the toilet.
The moving doesn't stop for la grippe, and I cemented my insides with my mind powers for 6 hours while scrubbing down the old house and closing it up for the last time. Got home, body immediated re-asserted its attempt to invert itself.
Crawled to bed early, near hysteria from lack of sleep and dehydration. Listened to ocean, tried to convince self that inner Scottish seafarer should be soothed by it, drifted to sleep finally, and BLAMMO! the house rocked, plaster raining from the ceiling. Shot out of bed, smelling gun powder. Ran outside in undercrackers with flashlight. No bullet holes, firework remnants, exploded gas tanks, exploded cats, toppled furniture, or ambulances. When I was 16, our neighbor blew his head off, and it sounded like that. Either one of our neighbors is as yet to be discovered headless, or some asshole drove by with a shotgun to welcome in July 4th.
Well, FANTASTIC. Our new house is fucking awesome.
Oh dear.
ReplyDeleteMay it improve exponentially, not explode-a-mentally.
My friend has assured me it was not a shotgun, just a small bomb. So that's encouraging.
ReplyDeleteI will stop being a whiney jerk when all the boxes are cleared and the boy is returned from Grandma's House of Ice Cream and Mini Putt.