It’s been a long week.
Beginning November is a weird transition.
In one moment, you are contemplating what kind of monster or rock star you will grace Halloween parties with and the next moment, your sister-in-law is asking whether you’ll make the Turkey this year while you suddenly see a commercial that has jingle bells in the background with the new store hours to accommodate your shopping needs. Yeah, November’s weird.
And then there’s this historic election we just lived through. I can’t even begin to write how glad I am it is over. It’s a constant negotiation at social gatherings over what and how much you can talk about when it comes to politics. Never a fan of labels, I hate when people ask if I’m a Democrat or push the Palin love. I just want to talk about issues, not the blame, and I’m relieved that – finally – I can watch Grey’s Anatomy without political ads bothering me.
It’s raining yellow leaves in our backyard and our neighbors have probably pegged us the laziest Clevelanders in the history of yard raking. Yesterday, though, Nick took the day off (a nice benefit from working so many evenings and every weekend) and we took on the third floor of our house. It looked like our moving truck had vomited whatever was left in its belly onto the hard wooden floors. It’s been a little over two months since I’ve been back and yet, I confess, there is not one thing hung on our walls or box unpacked.
There is no appropriate measuring stick to adequately communicate how much I loathe packing and unpacking. I HATE MOVING THINGS. I hate the concept of it. I hate doing it. I hate it so much, I want to crawl into a fetal position and whine in a dark corner. Everything that goes into moving, I detest. The sifting through of all your junk and realizing you should drop off 1/2 of your life at a salvation army, the dust from boxes that I am allergic, the polite questions from Nick asking if I going as fast as I can – I HATE MOVING AND ALL THAT COMES WITH IT.
But, what must be done must be done. So, we tackled the third floor with a vengeance and I must say, it looks pretty darn good. It is a guest suite/Lisa’s gallery and writing floor/future children romping room. The greatest feeling was finally seeing all of my art supplies – canvas, brushes, paints, drop sheets, cleaner, paints, crayons, clear glue, adhesives, buttons, leftover denim, s/crap-booking materials, rocks, sand, rafia, paper, bows, old cards, and gift wrapping paper – in an enormous closet. For approximately 11 years, i have carted my crafty tools in beat up cardboard boxes. Much to Nick’s dismay, I have a hard time putting those things away. Since I derive much inspiration in simply looking at the vast array of my creative guns, I leave most of it out in the open, waiting for lightning to strike.
I shrieked, “LOOK NICK! I ACTUALLY HAVE A SPACE TO PUT AWAY ALL MY ART SUPPLIES! I LOVE HAVING A HOUSE! I FINALLY CAN THROW THOSE OLD BOXES AWAY AND KEEP MY ART SUPPLIES IN A CORNER OF MY OWN!”
Nick hugged me, “That’s great babe!”
But I could have sworn as he jogged down the steps, I heard him mutter under his breath, “…great for all of us…”