I want you to close your eyes for a moment and transport yourself to an empty home in Los Angeles – a home where the echo of a baby’s bouncing feet is near deafening; a home devoid of worldly possessions; a home where a tall, unshowered woman is weeping not-so-quietly in a corner; a home where a man is standing in the kitchen, cooking eggs using a piece of bread (the butt end no less) as a spatula , and eating a wedge of cheese as if it were an apple. Straight up palming that hunk of cheddar like a baseball.
Welcome to my world.
I may be sitting in the center of an empty room drinking table wine straight from the bottle. I’m doing my part, like James and his improv utensils. There is a reason that moving is one of THE most stressful life events – up there with death, divorce, job loss. All those awesome warm and fuzzy things that people SO look forward to in life. Oh wait…
Let me walk you through the events of the past few days as I nurse this bottle, shall we?
Thursday night James sliced off the pad of the left pointer finger cutting an avocado THROUGH THE PIT. Don’t even get me started on that decision-making process. I came into the kitchen to find blood splattered across the counter tops and James hunched over the sink, white as a sheet, bodily fluid pooling down his arms, whispering, Ash, I need a chair. I need a chair, now. You see, James experiences a vasovagal syncope, as in he PASSES THE FUCK OUT!, when exposed to needles and/or blood. So near slicing off a piece of anatomy = *James**Head**Floor.* Like that one time, when I was in labor, and the nurse decided to change my IV line right in the middle of a contraction, a contraction wherein I was sent straight to Hell, do not pass go, do not collect $200, and James keeled over because HE couldn’t handle it. Yeah. Yeah, that was some fun ass times.
So basically James can now go rob a bank whenever he pleases thanks to his lack of fingerprints, but can’t lift a finger (har har) to move, oh I dunno, THE WHOLE HOUSE, the day before said move is to occur. His timing is like a white kid at a sock hop. Impeccable.
Then, this morning, the day before we are to wave goodbye to our lovely, eco-friendly Prius and bestow the glory of her carpool stickers to some fellow Angeleno who similarly spends days of her life stuck on the parking lot that is the 405, our soon-to-be-only vehicle won’t start. So as the movers descend on our home, we similarly welcome a AAA tow truck.
And then, THEN, it pours rain. RAIN! As in, precipitation, in Los Angeles. THE DAY OF OUR MOVE! And it rained all. damn. day.
God is taking one giant crap on my face for evening mentioning the A word on this here blog, isn’t s/he?
Back to polishing off the pickles and lunch meat and jar of sour cream and other assorted perishable goodies in the fridge before we truly check out tomorrow. TUMS are in hand in preparation for this dietary adventure.