Today

Week 5: The Sound and the Fury

Oh, dudes.  Peeps.

I have been trying to think of funny ways to describe the pain that has been this week, but they elude me.  Pain is just...pain.  And this week has been chock full of it.

My work has been awesome to let me work from home the past two Fridays in order to be here for contractors who are fixing this and that.  And today, even after a three day work-fest, I begged off work at noon.  There's just too much stuff to do before it goes hot tomorrow.

So I have been emailing for work and jumping up to clean windows and baseboards, etc.  We are at the point that whatever happens to be left in the basement or garage is just going in a box and that's that.  We'll deal with it in Denver.

I was thinking as I worked this afternoon about how stressed I am - this is not anxiety or depression or those other serious emotions - this is simply and totally stress.  Day before finals stress.  Day before The Big Event stress.  I'm in the state in which intellectually I realize that I am standing inches away from the finish line, but emotionally I just can't see it.  And not being able to see that line makes me feel like I'm miles and miles away from it, and I lose focus and dwell on the cloud of stress that envelopes me.

In the midst of the cleaning fury, I thought - but this is where God gets to be God.  This is where my prayer life and my very relationship with my Creator gets to hum.

I had this moment of realizing that it was Him who led us to this house and it was Him who led us to the Denver opportunity.  This is not accidental and I am not alone.  He really does have this and I really do need to let it go - and yet still work my butt off in preparation.  I need to do the work and let it be.  Stressing over it accomplishes nothing.

I pray that not only do we find renters - and quickly - but that the right people are led to this house.  I pray that we find people who don't just want a house, but who want this one for their family.  I pray that this work that has been so hard in so many ways won't be in vain.  And I know it won't be, but still I pray.  And then I pray that He leads us to the right place in CO, but that's for another day.

And with that, here is a recap of Week 5 of The Move Prep:

*We had the back deck power washed and stained.

*The utility company marked the yard for the sign - and the realtor put it up yesterday.

*Packing, packing, packing.

*G said, "Wow.  Having the Olympics on is so motivating.  I'm going to get some ice cream - want any?"

*B replaced herself at work - and here's the kicker - she hired not one BUT TWO replacements!  Mwahahaha, she is indeed the master.

*Staged all rooms in entire house for showing - once and for all, so help us God.

*B said to G, "These rooms have now been staged.  Do not contaminate them with your presence."

*Remembered that we have crap stored in the attic.  Cursed and cleaned it out as well.

*Plumbers replaced some faucets and double checked our pipes and water systems.

*Plumbers do not work for free.  Nor do they accept old lady rabbits for payment. 

*Made yet another trip to goodwill.

*Made yet another trip to the Uhaul store for packing supplies.  Their eyes turn to dollar signs when they see us pull up.

*B spent the last three days literally on hands and knees, scrubbing the entire house.

*G disappeared into the basement.  B had to follow the blue cloud of cuss words to find him.

*B said, "Ryan Lochte sure can swim.  But how well can he wrap Irish pottery?  As well as I can?  I DON'T THINK SO."

*We have managed to avoid divorce.  Of course the house is not rented yet.

Again I implore you to cross your fingers for us, as tomorrow we move into the wash-every-dish-after-you-use it stage.  The get-out-of-your-house-so-strangers-can-roam-around-in-it stage.

For Rent (Some Thoughts)

We list the house for rent in a couple of days.  We are finishing the mad dash of packing, storing, cleaning, complaining, repeat.  My patience flew the coop about a week ago and I'm past the point of even caring right now about the whole fitness/food dilemma of late.  We are in survival mode.  And if we need cheeseburgers and fries in order to survive the next week, then so be it.

Our attitude has gone from, "Is this absolutely right?  Is this perfectly done?", to "Oh screw it, it's good enough."

A typical "listing" picture we used.

A typical scene, at any given moment in time.

This morning we dropped my car off for an oil change.  When G made the appointment earlier this week, the guy said to be there by 7:30 a.m.  So of course we got there around 7:15 - and promptly discovered that they didn't open until 8:00.

So we slept in the car.  Because it has come to this, peeps.

The bedroom pic.

Behind the scenes:  Broken curtain rod so we had to improvise.

The realtor came by today and approved the staging of all the rooms, and put a sign up out front.  We have some last minute dashing left, which is not minor, but we should be able to list this week, like we had planned.  And when I say 'planned,' I mean, the news that was sprung on us that we should list it weeks and weeks earlier than we expected.

I've had some thoughts in my rattled brain of late:

*Howwwwwwww do people with kids do this?  I'm dead serious.  I'm one step away from crazytown right now.

*We are never going to have any money again.  It is literally flying out of our wallets.

*And we're spending this money in order to convince strangers to come live in our house.

*I never want to see any of my stuff again.

*Where did all this crap come from??????

*We are, at all times, one simple household task away from a divorce.

*(Not really!)  (YES REALLY!)

*I hope people don't bother Orca.  The thought of this keeps us awake at night.

*On the other hand, she could be a real hit with the kids!  And they could badger their parents into living in the bunny house!

*The process of going from sitting to standing takes me around 15 seconds.

*I clutch at my back a lot, and G's knees pop pretty much constantly.

*I'm cut out for a more supervisory role.  This constant manual labor is wearing me down.

*Hence, I'd like more of the delegating and less of the actual doing.

It has come to this.  Smut mags for escapism.

As I type this, G is out tackling the yard for the last time.  The couch is beckoning me into sweet, sweet slumber.  I think I may give in.

Cross your fingers for us!

TGIF! In words this time.

Though pictures are worth a thousand words, sometimes words are frikkin' hilarious.

In our frenzy to get the house ready, we have had about 75,000 workers in and out at odd times.  Plumbers, the realtor, the junk guys, etc.  Here are just a few interesting conversations that have taken place lately.

Our realtor, gazing at a bookshelf in the library full of classics, says:  "Hmmm.  David Copperfield, eh?"

Us:  "Yeah, we got these classic books from B's papa when he died.  He loved Charles Dickens."

Realtor:  "Hmm.  So...are you guys really into magic or something?"

Us:  "....???"

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One thing that concerns us, as people filter in and out of the house, is their impression of our pet.  Do they think we're dirty or unkempt for keeping an animal inside?  Do we seem strange to other people?

Today our plumber looked at Orca's cage (she wasn't in it), and goes, "Whatcha got there?"

We explained.

He goes, "Hell!  I love rabbits.  Me and my wife?  Let's see, we got two pigs - in the house!  The 200 pound one actually sleeps with us.  And we got six ducks, all named Aflac.  Six dogs, two cats, two snakes.  Oh - and two kids."

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Between us just now:

G:  "This is never going to end.  We are never going to be done."

B:  "Oh, yes we are!  And we're moving to Denver!"

G:  "If we don't pile all our crap in the front yard and burn it first."

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Folks, that pretty much sums up our state of mind.  TGIF!

Good ol' Dave Barry

In frantically cleaning out the house, I found some old scrapbooks and albums I had from college.  One of my majors was French and one of my hobbies was reading Dave Barry, and I came across this article that he had written for the Miami Herald.

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Parlez-vous Francais?

This summer, for my vacation, I went to Paris, France.  I went there to follow in the foot steps of such great writers as Ernest Hemingway, Henry Miller and F. Scott Fitzgerald, all of whom, for the record, are currently dead.  I blame the Parisian drivers.

Paris has only one vacant parking space, which is currently under heavy police guard in the Louvre museum.  This means that thousands of frustrated motorists have been driving around the city since the reign of King Maurice XVII looking for a space, and the way they relieve their frustrations is by aiming at pedestrians, whom they will follow onto the sidewalk if necessary.  Often the only way to escape them is to duck into one of Paris' historic cathedrals, which fortunately are located about every 25 feet (or 83.13 liters).

Nevertheless, it's very pleasant to walk around Paris and feel - as so many Americans feel when they're in that incredibly beautiful city - fat.  Because the fact is that we Americans look like enormous sneaker-wearing beef cattle compared to the Parisians, who tend to be very slim, with an average body weight of 38 pounds (7.83 meters).

It's odd that the French appear to be in such good shape, because the major activity in Paris, aside from trying to run over pedestrians, is sitting around in cafes for days at a time looking French.  Sometimes we Americans try to blend into the cafe scene, but the French immediately spot us as impostors, because we cannot pronounce the Secret French Code letter, which is "r."  They have learned to say "r" in a certain secret way that sounds as though they are trying to dislodge a live eel from their esophagus.  It is virtually impossible for a non-French person to make this sound; this is how the Parisian cafe waiters figure out that you are an American, even if you are attempting to pass as French.

WAITER:  "Bonjour.  Je suspect que vous etes American."  (Good day.  I suspect that you are American.)

YOU:  "Mais je ne portes pas les Nikes!"  (But I am not wearing the sneakers!)

WAITER:  "Au quais, monsieur pantalons intelligents, prononcez le mot "Rouen." (OK, Mr. Smarty Pants, pronounce the word 'Rouen.')

YOU:  "Woon."  (Woon.)

WAITER:  "Si vous etes Francais, je suis l'Homme de la Batte."  (If you are French, I am Batman.)

The other sure-fire way to tell the difference between French people and Americans in a cafe is that the French are all smoking, whereas the Americans are all trying to figure out how much to tip.  The tourist guidebooks are vague about tipping:  They tell you that a service charge is USUALLY included in your bill, but it is not ALWAYS included, and even if it IS included, it is not necessarily TOTALLY included.  On top of that, to convert from French money to American, you have to divide by six, and I have yet to meet anybody who can do this.

And so while the French are lounging and smoking and writing novels, we Americans spend our cafe time darting nervous glances at the bill, which is often just a piece of paper with a lone, mysterious, not-divisible-by-six number scrawled on it such as "83."  We almost always end up overtipping, because we're afraid that otherwise the waiter will make us say another "R" word.  I frankly don't know how the French handle tipping, because in my two weeks in Paris I never saw a French person actually leave a cafe.

Not that I am being critical.  As a professional journalist, I like the idea of a society where it is considered an acceptable occupation to basically sit around and drink.  In fact, I liked almost everything about Paris.  The city is gorgeous, the food is wonderful, and they have these really swoopy high-tech public pay toilets on the streets that look as though, if you went into one, you might get beamed up to the Mother Ship.

Also Paris has a terrific subway system, Le Metro (literally, "The Metro").  I always felt safe and comfortable in the Metro, although one time, when I was waiting for a train, the loudspeaker made an announcement in French, which was repeated in English, and I swear this was the whole thing:  "Ladies and gentlemen, your attention please.  Robbers are in the station.  Thank you."

None of the Parisians seemed the least bit alarmed, and nobody robbed me, which was a good thing, because I would have had no idea how much to tip.

T minus 1 month...

The trip from here to Capetown is going to take 18-20 hours overall.  You know that originally, this news sent me to the medicine cabinet searching for some happy pills.  After the past few weeks, though, 18 hours of interrupted time sitting on my butt is sounding SO NICE.

I CAN'T WAIT.

T minus one month.  And counting.

This is a sprint, not a marathon: Week 4

Week #4 of Moving Plans went by in a flash.  And it ended on a low note, then a high note.  Can something end on both a low and a high note?  Anyways, that's what I'm going with here.

G got back from his nerd con last night and then Orca started acting strange.  You know how we have had to make emergency, middle-of-the-night vet trips?  Yeah, had to make one of those at 3:00 this morning.  Which makes two nights in a row of no sleep for me.  Let me tell you how much fun work is going to be tomorrow.  I know all of you with kids are reading this and thinking it practically sounds like a spa day, but you get my general drift.

There's nothing like sobbing and praying in a vet's office at 5:00 in the morning to put life into perspective for you.  I write this with a grateful, though raw, heart.  I am so, so thankful for more time with the geriatric bunny.

Turns out she's fine now - just had some mild tummy issues - and she's back home now and our heart rates and adrenaline levels are slowing going down.

Here was Week 4 in a nutshell:

*Got our second round of Hep A & B shots for the vacation that will never, ever frikkin' get here.

*Hired a landscape service to come out and hack the crap out of our yard to get it rent worthy.

*Repainted some walls in the house.  We call this "depersonalizing."

*G attended his annual nerd fest and nerded his little nerd heart out.

*B cleaned out the entire fridge, pantry, mud room closet, laundry room and kitchen.

*We moved several large pieces of "new" furniture out of the living room to make it look palatial.

*Made a trip to goodwill (of course).  This makes our SEVENTH trip overall.

*Bought fertilizer to fool people into thinking our yard is lush and perfect.

*B got a thousand new work responsibilities hoisted on to her and started permanently breathing out of a paper sack.

*Hired the 1-800-JUNK guys to clear out some remaining furniture from the basement.

*Emptied out and staged the guest bathroom.

*Cleaned up the boyz' corner of the living room.  Not that it was dirty or anything.

*Got to bring Orca home!

*Got to humiliate her in the car on the way home!

*Got an answer to prayer.

*Turned a day that was supposed to be highly-productive into a true Sabbath day of rest.

*Made plans and lists for this week - we have about 10 days until the house goes on the market and becomes open to the public.

Here's to the sprint!  Because at the finish line?  We have to find a new home in Denver!

Pushing Plastic

I got back this afternoon from two days at Historicon, which is the premier historical miniature wargaming convention (say that ten times) if not in the whole country, then at least on the eastern seaboard.  Several thousand people (mostly white, male, older, and overweight) descend on a convention center for a weekend in July every year to recreate battles, real and otherwise, on terrain tables that vary from simple cardboard to painstakingly recreated terrain boards that match the geographic features of the real battle.  Most of the games are historical, as the title of the convention would suggest; everything from ancient Persians and Greeks to Christians and Muslims fighting the Crusades to naval warfare in the Napoleonic era to American soldiers battling through the streets of Mogadishu.  There are also plenty of fantasy- and science fiction-themed games, from Star Trek to Star Wars to Battlestar Galactica to Warhammer 40,000.

Of course, I attended this convention alone--couldn't have paid B to go with me. :)


There were sea battles:

...and desert battles:

The Light Brigade charged:

...and Sevastopol was defended:

There were city battles:

...and battles in space:

...and even battles on Mars:

Beaches were stormed:

...and hills were defended:

There were battlestars:

...and war elephants:

...and it wouldn't be miniature wargaming without tanks, tanks, and more tanks:

One of the neat things about this hobby is the passion that the players/game organizers have.  I know the guys who put together the games and terrain tables to recreate the Light Brigade's charge and the siege of Sevastopol from the Crimean War; they know all the history behind the events and could talk to you about it for hours.  There are guys at the convention that know everything about Napoleanic-era infantry regiments, and have carefully painted their 15 millimeter infantry formations to match the exact uniform colors that specific units wore in the early 1800's (a 15-millimeter infantry model is about a half an inch tall).  The attention to detail is amazing.

This was my third time attending Historicon, and will be my last due to our upcoming move.  So I tried to make the most of my time there, playing in 3 different Battlestar Galactica-themed games and assisting with some Dystopian Wars demonstration games.

Here's a shot of the inside of the convention hall, at the height of the activity on Friday afternoon:

A good time was had by all, and now I'm home again, with a little less money (thanks to the flea market and the vendors' hall), but with some good stuff and some good memories.

Farewell Historicon!

Is wine a complex carbohydrate?

Moving sucks.  It's the process and the logistics of it all.  I have been packing, sorting and cleaning all morning.  With help from Jesus, Coldplay, Adele and the Ting Tings.

I'm munching on sweet potato fries (just a few!) and cranking this out while I wait for the junk dudes to get here.  While I try to keep my remarks on this blog fairly neutral and light, I have to say that I'm at a low point right now.  It feels like despite the fact that we work on the house constantly, we are never. going. to. finish.  There is no. light. at the end of this tunnel.

And to make matters worse, my work life is getting stressful.  I've been handed a huge blessing - I've been promoted and this is a good thing.  But it is coming with so much responsibility and so many moving parts, that I feel the tide dragging me out to sea.  And I roll over and over in the waves of anxiety and the fear that this time, it really will be my undoing.

Despite working harder than a one-armed paper hanger yesterday, I did not sleep well and that's a bad sign.  Sleep is not only a hobby of mine, it is something at which I excel.  I have mastered it completely and can practically do it standing up, so last night was a bad, bad sign.

I was thinking this over while scrubbing out the fridge this morning, and my iPod shuffled to the song "More" by Matthew West.  These lines - that I've sung a million times - came alive to me, as if spoken by God:

I want you to know

that I'm not letting go

even when you 

come undone.

Thank God for Christian songs and for the Holy Spirit's timing (I fully and completely believe that God works by using modern technology in my life).  I can do this.  This is my chance.  This is our chance.
And I'm so not going to cave now, or squander this blessing.

The other thing about moving is that it pushes your patience to the extreme. Our marriage is a malleable thing, which comes in handy at times like this.  I may or may not have told G today: "I just spent an hour cleaning the fridge.  If you mess it up, I'll kill you."

Orca, on the other hand, is living the dream.  Because we have moved the furniture around in order to paint, she is able to reach all the places she has always wanted to.  She spends her time underfoot, sniffing and sleeping, lost in peaceful bunny dreams.

TGIFFFFFFFFFFFFF

Reality Check (or: How to be a grown-up)

I have been debating whether or not to post about this.  My Day of Reckoning with Trainer Ben did not go well earlier this week.  Remember the pound and the body fat that I lost the first four weeks?  Well, I gained it back.  I was not a happy camper.  There may have been some despair.  There were definitely some cuss words.  And there has been a slew of anger and mental processing since then.

Aptly put:  a sign posted in my gym

The problem is not lack of exercise.  The problem is overeating.  As it turns out, food combinations really, really matter.

Here's what I can't reconcile in my mind:  I'm a disciplined person.  I'm determined, resilient and smart. I'm energetic and motivated and I try try try to give it all I've got, as a state of mind and as a way of life.  And I have been overweight most of my life.  I am certainly overweight now.  But it's not because I pig out on Snickers Bars all day long.  It is because I have YET to figure out a more controlled, calorie-restricted food system (I don't believe in diets) to consistently follow.  On the days I nail it, I really nail it.  On the days I don't, well...here we are.

I think there are some underlying reasons why I turn to food not only for fuel but also as a coping mechanism, and I'm exploring those reasons.  Let me tell you how much fun I'm having.  But also, at a deeper level, I think I keep expecting it to get easy.  Like, one day I'll wake up and life just won't be hard anymore.  And I think it's this base thought - this completely flawed assumption - that is messing me up.  It's not going to be easy.  If it were easy to control our cravings and food temptations, everyone would be thin and Krispy Kreme would be bankrupt (although I would never wish that on them in a million years).

I think that my mind is in a tizzy because I associate progress with doing something.  With studying hard; going to work every single day; fighting the good fight.  And the solution to my overeating would be to stop the doing and start the stopping.  It's hard for a Type A with my driven personality to cease activity.  It is not hard for me to work out because that's the doing.  It is hard for me to stop shoving food in my face because that's the not doing.  You know those control types who starve themselves?  That's so not my problem.

Me at a healthy weight

My "normal" weight these days that is driving me bananas

So I feel like after eight weeks of training, I have learned all kinds of exercises that I am implementing.  I have not learned what to do about food.  So, it's back to square one for me and, so help me God and Jesus and the heavenly host and Orca, I'm GOING to figure this out.  And I'm going to do it in a healthy way - I refuse to live on protein shakes and chicken breasts.

I once saw a Beth Moore Bible Study video (this was forever ago) and she was talking about beauty being on the inside, and she was joking about the lengths women go to for their looks.  She stared intently into the camera, waved her index finger "in my face" and said, in her sweet Southern drawl, "May there not be a chicken breast in Heaven.  Am I right sisters?  Amen!"

A.M.E.N.

Bye Bye Birdie

Today is a classic Monday, let me just tell you.  It took me almost two hours to get to work.  And you know what I was thinking, in between my lamaze-style breathing and banging my head against the steering wheel?  I SO WILL NOT MISS THIS.

Then, we had to get our last round of Hep A/B shots (pre-Africa).  Fun for the pocketbook AND the upper arm!  As we were paying, I briefly thought that it is probably cheaper to actually contract and then treat some of these diseases than to inoculate oneself from them.  Death factor aside, of course.

And, to top it off (!) I have The Reckoning with Trainer Ben tonight.  It's time for my next weigh in.  Somehow I do not feel quite as prepared as I'd hoped to be - what with the 900 glasses of alcohol I consumed over the weekend (let's chalk it up to "stress management" regarding the move) and the nine bowls of berry & oat crisp I just inhaled.

Tonight I'm gonna be like, "Geez, Ben.  I think something's wrong with your scale, man!"

On the good news front:  yesterday we took the boyz to their new home.

While we were not super close to the little guys, we were wringing our hands a bit, trying to find them a good home.  After a few calls to local shelters, G ended up on the phone with a woman who loves finches, has a few, and was ecstatic at the thought of adopting our little feathery dudes.

When we met her, we were ready to grill her on how she takes care of her pets, but then we found out that she has rabbits, so we knew she was cool.  :)

It's all good.

Thank God we're over Manic Monday!  Have a good one, peeps!

Upping the Ante: Week 3

After three weeks (though it feels like forever) of packing and sorting fervor, things are starting to look different around here.  Which is to say, they are starting to look empty.

After finding out that we only have a couple of weeks to sort through our remaining crap stuff and stage the house and send pics to our realtor to use in the listing, we upped the ante.

This week we:

**Made two more enormously packed trips to goodwill.  Where did all this stuff come from?!

**Got our gutters cleaned.

**Got some minor wood repairs (aesthetic) made to the front of the house.

**Packed and packed and packed up our stuff.

**B started interviewing possible replacements at work.

**Picked some summer books to keep out as we packed the rest of the library.  B's choices:

**Found a home for the boyz (the birds).  Will post about this shortly.

**Arranged a junk furniture pick up for this week - getting close to emptying the basement.

**Began "depersonalizing" the inside of the house - for staging.

Amid the boxes and bubble wrap and tape and wrapping paper and stacks of stuff to sort and pack, things are starting to look...empty.