And Time Gets Somewhat Muddled Here

Sweet Mother of Monkeys, I am frayed. What a week. Or is it three?

We got notice of our closing on a Friday, passed papers on the house the following Thursday, then spent a long, brutal Sunday moving all our furniture, just the two of us (the piano was a bitch). From there, the past fourteen days have been a welter of trying to get unpacked and settled here while simultaneously mopping up at the old apartment—moving the last of our belongings in carloads, spackling, priming and painting, stripping and cleaning the kitchen floor, shampooing the carpets—all the stuff we’ll need to do to get back our security deposit.

We’ve got the luxury of time, in one sense, in that our lease isn’t up ‘til the end of the month; but the sooner we do it, the sooner it’s done, and it can’t be soon enough for me. This house, this house is beautiful, a home, a sanctuary of peace, and it thrills me to my toes in those odd quiet moments—having morning coffee on the deck, looking out over miles of hills; lying in bed listening to the cry of trains, the ceiling fan whirling lazily above; watching the shadows of the maples stretch and grow soft as the sun falls—but the nagging guilt of a rubble-strewn apartment just across town poisons the enjoyment. I just want it done before moving on to the next thing. Multi-tasking may get more done (or not), but linearity is better for peace of mind. And right now, I’m all about peace of mind.

We’d hoped to knock the bastard off last week, when D had the week off from work, and indeed we got off to a great start. Then, on Tuesday, I got a call for a freelance job; old friend, hazard pay, 72-hour turnaround time. Tore me right up, that did. It was the best possible time for a job to fall into my lap, as we certainly need the scratch—but also the worst possible time, since my attentions were needed elsewhere.

I took the job, and so found myself in the unenviable position of simultaneously busting my ass and feeling like I was getting nothing done. I was so bummed and angry at myself that initially I wanted to spend Father’s Day humping boxes and swinging a trowel, rather than lovingly ensconced in the bosom of my family. Saner heads prevailed, in the end.

Anyway: This week, for sure. Decks are cleared, and I’m ready to rock.