Murphy's Law: Whatever will create more stress, that's the shit that happens.

I should be packing right now.  I spent 5-6 hours yesterday packing, and a few hours in the days before that, but I'm still nowhere near finished.  I've cleared out the bathroom (minus a few candles, some cleaning supplies, my basic toiletries).  I've cleared out one of my closets, my office, and some bits and pieces from the living/dining room.  I've gone through my clothes to get rid of whatever I haven't worn in a while and what doesn't fit anymore, and I've taken done all the art and pictures from the walls.  But I haven't touched the kitchen or the storage area above my closet, and some things are only half done, like my piano bench: the music is put away, the random stuff in the drawers is not.

I've chosen to write tonight instead of pack, though, because I feel the need to document the insanity that is this Week Before The Move, so that one day when I look back on this, I won't incorrectly remember it as a joyful or easy time.  Because it has been neither of those things.  My sister once wrote in a college essay (before I forced her to edit it out) that her life is like a roller coaster.  Well, if life is a roller coaster, then this is my week:

I don't even like normal roller coasters.

I spent pretty much all of Sunday and Monday either laying floors or packing.  And then by the end of Sunday, we finished laying the floor, but we hadn't touched the quarter round.  So I asked my contractor to do it the next day.  Then I get an email saying that the gaps along the wall (between the flooring and the baseboards) are too large for the quarter round in some places.  So then I freak out because he doesn't offer any solutions.  And then my insurance agent wants to know what kind of insurance I want (we haven't already chosen??).  And then my mortgage person wants to close (for the second and final time) on Friday.  And then my contractor comes up with a solution for the flooring.  And then my insurance person helps me choose and pay for a flood policy.  And then Capital One's online banking system won't let me in, and I don't know if the check written to me for my washer and dryer has posted yet.  And then I spend an hour on the phone with Capital One.  And then my cleaning people go to clean today and the workers won't let them in to clean because they're not done yet.  And then the cleaning people aren't sure they have a time before the weekend.  And then Capital One confirms the check deposit.  And then I have no idea who is going to move my stuff on Saturday.  And then I think I have a lead for movers.  And then it falls through.  And then my cleaners figure out a plan, so that they can come tomorrow afternoon.  And then I find a mover.  And then I find out that no locksmiths work on the weekends.  And then my insurance agent tells me that I only owe 600-something bucks toward flood insurance right now, not the $1300 I thought it was.  And then I find extra time to clear out the closets in my new house so that people can clean the space and work on the quarter round more efficiently.  And then I still need to figure out what in the hell to do with that huge piece of pretty-thin plywood sitting in my bedroom.  And then my real estate agent surprises me and drops off a mardi gras candle.  And then my mom agrees to help me get to UHaul to rent a truck early Saturday morning.  And a friend promises to leave out the dryer she's giving me, so I can pick it up even though they're going out of town.

As I write this, it seems like I should be all set.  But I can't shake the deep, troubled feeling that everything is going to bottom out.  Because I felt all set on Monday and then this paragraph happened.

And I'm sad to leave my house, the place I've called home for the last four years.

And I'm excited to arrange and decorate.

And I'm nervous that I won't get to sleep that first night.

And I'm relieved to have a place to call my own.

And I'm afraid that I'll be lonely, living by myself for the first time.

I hope that as the weeks pass, and I settled into the new place, that some of these fears and anxieties and time-consuming phone calls will subside.  And I'll finally get to use my midday planning period for planning again.

A few more pictures...

Bedroom Dec 27th

Bedroom January 10th

Bedroom January 15th

Bedroom January 18th

Bedroom January 20th
(still looks like this, but with a big piece of plywood propped against the wall)

Some of the packed boxes in my "office"

My mountainous Goodwill pile-in-progress

Ain't Nobody Got Time For That

It feels like I don't have time for anything not related to my house these days.  I guess it's good that work has been slightly calmer this week and that "Jack" works most hours that I'm not sleeping or working myself.  Luckily, when I do see him, he's very patient; my house is all I talk about, but he has yet to complain.  It's all I really talk about anywhere, if I'm being honest.  I seem to be becoming relentlessly single-minded in my conversations.  Recently, I've started to worry that I'm boring my friends, coworkers, and family when I go on and on about the house, but they all seem pretty interested in hearing about the progress and they ask about it, so they're either really great actors or they're actually interested.  And based on the number of actors who are terrible and get paid for it, as well as the fact that I can't help from constantly bringing up it anyway, I'm going to say that my friends are genuinely interested in the proceedings of my home renovations and let that be that.

As the time between the present moment and the first night I sleep in my new house quickly winds down, I find my stress level inversely ramping up.  My mom said over winter break that I was the calmest new homeowner she'd ever seen.  And in defense of her statement, I felt pretty calm about it at the time.  But she hasn't see me in a week or two, not since my contractor gave me my keys back and the leftover work was mine to do and finish before move-in.  It's like getting dropped off at school for the first time.  No, please, contractor, don't leave me! What will I do without you?

And then I realized that I couldn't find the right dryer vent to match the hole he put in the wall for it, and then I realized that I really needed my door fixed, and now my contractor is picking up the keys from me again tomorrow night.  I feel better already.

The amount of time I have spent at my new house has been ramping up as well.  This past Saturday, I spent about eight hours painting my house with my dad and some amazing friends.  I went into avoidance mode (my favorite stress-coping mechanism) and stayed away on Sunday and Monday (though I did get talk about it way too much and get supplies at Home Depot).  But Tuesday night I was back over there, and we finished the painting (yay!).  Today I stopped by to check out the dried paint, and tomorrow night we're ripping up the old carpet.  Sunday we install laminate in two rooms.  Tuesday, the house gets cleaned.  At some point, my door gets fixed.  And after that point, it's moving in and decorating, dealing with washer/dryer stuff, getting the subfloor and attic insulated, and then slowly tackling the little things that kind of drive me crazy.  Like the backyard.  And installing lattice between the foundation piers.  And outside lighting.  And so many other things.

I apologize for the long time gaps between posts and the brevity of this post, but I hope that upon move-in, things will slow down, and I'll have a few moments to reflect.  In the meantime, here are some "Before" and "During" collages to keep your renovation-update appetite sated.

The Seven Year Cinch

Seven Year Cinch

By cinch, I don't mean easy.  Teaching is never easy.  I mean it like the cinch of a belt: tightening for a better fit.

Yesterday marked 6.5 years that I've been teaching.  It's pretty amazing, considering the fact that I would wake up every morning during my first year and spend my time in the shower slowly opening my eyes and considering other career options.  But first year of teaching is hard.  For pretty much everybody.  I would be lying if I said that I had any non-work-related friends during that first year.  And despite the fact that I have incredible colleagues whom I love dearly as coworkers and as friends, we were terrible about avoiding shop talk back then; sometimes even happy hours ended up being stressful.  So I found solace in books and their fictional characters, and I took frequent walks through the park, trying to alleviate the need for adult contact with smiles from passing strangers and overheard conversations.

If that sounds pathetic, that's because it was.  But I made it through, like I'd done in other less-than-wonderful moments in life.  Like I did in high school.  I would take my 60-70 hour rookie work week over my sixteen-year-old self any day.  Between classes and homework, I probably spent just as much time working.  And on top of being awkward, lanky, shy, and severely plain, I didn't get paid for ANY of it.  (In fact, I think high school might have traumatized me.  While student teaching in Virginia, I once had to go to a seminar at a high school, and I literally could feel my blood pressure rising as I stepped inside.)  Then again, I had friends in high school.  So maybe first year was worse.

Six years later, teaching looks and feels very different.  I bring no work home.  I write my lesson plans a week ahead of time.  I manage children with greater ease.  (I admit to my classes that they're driving me nuts, and they only seem to like me better for it?)  Most importantly, I realized this year that for the first time since I started teaching, I can wing it.  Like Project Runway, I take the time and resources that I have, and I make it work.  And it works well.

Let me give you an example.  Yesterday evening, I looked at my lesson plan skeleton for today, dug out a couple of pieces of paper to copy, and left it at that until the morning.  Okay, if I'm honest, I looked at the skeleton, thought "Shit, I wish it was still vacation," copied some papers, and then threw some newspapers in my bag when I got home.  But that's my point!  I got there this morning with newspaper weather maps, came up with a basic framework for my lesson within five minutes, jotted it down in my plan book, and then taught it without a hitch.  Truthfully, it surprised me how well it went.  I've pulled this half-assed planning thing a few times since August, and every time, I go into it resigned to a mediocre lesson for the day.  And then the kids love it.  Sometimes they love it better than my carefully planned lessons (jerks).

I would worry about all of this procrastination and laziness--am I getting bored or losing satisfaction with my job?--but then I actually teach one of my potentially mediocre lessons and I find myself in a state of joy as I do so.  Maybe that sounds crazy.  Joy is for births and weddings and Christmas songs.  But really, when I'm in it with the kids and things are going smoothly, or I find an article about stars that I know they'll love, I find myself enveloped in that moment, aware of how wonderful it is to be there.  And for me, that's what joy feels like.

While some days I wish I had a job that let me surf the internet for hours on end, I am incredibly thankful for the fact that teaching requires full mental commitment.  I remember a few years ago when this guy I liked (I mean, really liked--I'd had a crush on him for over a year) finally went out with me, and then broke up with me two weeks later.  I was devastated.  That night, I cried myself to sleep.  I walked into work the next day like a zombie.  But by the time the kids walked into my classroom, he wasn't important anymore.  He couldn't be.  There were twenty some-odd faces sitting in my chairs, waiting to feed their intellect, and I had to give them myself completely for the next four hours until lunch rolled around.  And when lunch got there, I was fine.  You can't be preoccupied when you're teaching.  You simply don't have the time.

I do find myself thinking about "Jack" at occasional moments during the work day.  At lunch.  Walking in the hallway between classes.  Worrying about running into his mom.  But with kids, he disappears from my consciousness.  Because there are weather maps to be read and class clowns to be shut down.  "Jack" can't compete with that.  Nothing can.

I told my parents about him, by the way.  Well, I told my mom, and I let her tell my dad so I didn't have to endure the embarrassment of going through it with both of them.  I've suffered that embarrassment plenty enough times in my life to know better.  Like the first time I got my period.  At the dinner table that night, my mom and I were having an unrelated argument about the connotations of the terms "girl" and "woman."  At one point, I said that I wouldn't feel like a woman until I got married or had kids (I was wrong), and my mom responded, "But you're a woman now."  My dad perked up: "Since when?"  Mom: "Since today."  And then I died for the thousandth time since puberty had begun.  Have I told you about the time I had to write my mom a letter to get a real bra?  Or to teach me how to shave my legs?  They are wonderful parents and exceptional human beings, and they are severely lacking in tact when it comes to responding to awkward moments in my life.

I broke the news to my mom one day last week while I was over at their house looking at paint cans and eating their food.  We were in the kitchen talking about my house.  There was a break in the conversation at one point, and I went to tell her about him ("I--"), and she cut me off with her own new line of thought.  Lose the battle, win the war.  So I waited and mustered up the courage later.  Despite plenty of consideration, I'd found no smooth way to transition to talking about him, so I just blurted it out.

Me: So, I'm seeing someone.
Mom: [pause] Like a male?
Me: Yes, mom, like a male.

As people had been trying to convince me for weeks, telling her wasn't that bad.  She was genuinely excited for me.  Genuinely unconcerned about the fact that he's a bartender.  Genuinely interested in meeting him.

Of course, she was probably also letting her own interests cloud her judgment.  You know those cartoons where someone sees an opportunity to strike it rich, and they get those big money signs in their eyes?  Well, imagine my mom's face like that, but with cute little babies in her eyes instead of money signs.  Parents and their obsession with grandchildren.  Sheesh.

I did lie about where I met him.  I'm not overly concerned about the fact that people know that we met on Tinder, but I feel weird about telling my parents that.  Actually, what I feel weird about is explaining to my mom and dad what Tinder is and worrying about them sharing it with their golf buddies, who I imagine are more "in the know" and will tell them about Tinder's reputation.  Obviously, I didn't use it to hook up.  But they don't know that.  They once found a thong in the laundry when I got back from studying abroad in France, and despite the fact that I hadn't even been kissed by that point, they freaked out on me.  I got lectured.  That was ten years ago, and there has been at least one shotgun wedding in the family since then, but still.  I'd rather not talk about sex with them, if I can help it.  So we met at kickball.

I do want them to meet him.  I don't know what my mom would cook if he came to dinner--she doesn't tend to make vegan food--and I don't know how that would work with his work schedule, but I do want it to happen.  I want him to become more a part of my world: more familiar with my friends and family, more familiar with me.  Via text today, I proposed that he see my new house when we see each other on Friday.  He hasn't been there yet--though he's heard more about it than he probably ever wanted to--and I feel like it would be a shame for him to only see the finished product.  There's already a lot of work that's been done (foundation and plumbing and electricity and AC and roofing), but most of that's pretty invisible.  The painting and new floors will make the visual difference, and I want him to see it before those happen.  Because this house means a lot to me.  And what's a relationship if not sharing the things that mean the most to you?

Alternatively, thank God for the Seven Year Cinch.  I don't know how I'd have time for a house and a a male someone if I were still a new teacher.

Progress, guys.  It's a-happenin'.

You've got a better bet with the daughter that's getting married, mom.

Mine

Yesterday made something like the seventh week that "Jack" and I have been dating.  I still have plenty of moments of hesitation, times when we disagree or one of us is in a mood.  But for the better part of my moments, I am enamored.  I go to sleep wishing he was there.  I wake up excited that I'm a day closer to seeing him again.  And it's become comfortable between us.  We tell each other stories.  We share in each other's quirks.  I apologize when I realize I'm giving too much navigation advice in the car.  He offers me bottled water so that the fluoride in the tap won't collect in my pineal gland and damage my brain (but shhhh, I still drink from the faucet when he's not around).  I get a little worried sometimes that we're becoming too comfortable, doing the same things every time we see each other (dinner and bottled water and a movie), but I know that it's just as much my responsibility as it is his to keep things interesting.

I think I've mentioned it before, but my roommate put me on to this great science-based blog called Barking Up the Wrong Tree.  In said blog, there's an article about a set of questions created and studied by a scientist that have been proven to create a quick bond between two strangers.  The article presents the questions as an opportunity to bond more deeply with a romantic partner.  In the spirit of mixing things up, I'd love to have a night where we skip the movie and answer these questions instead.  I don't know how to bring it up, though.  I mean, I know it's as simple as saying, "Hey, I have these questions. What do you think about answering them?"  But I worry that he'll look past the simple statement and see the vulnerable intention behind it: "I want to know you, and I want you to want to know me, too."  Despite our increased level of comfort with one another, I find myself worrying about coming on too strong.  About investing too much too fast.  About liking him more than he likes me.

I know it's stupid.  I know he's a lucky guy.  But I am the queen of anticipating the improbable.  Despite the fact that I spend more than a week every year teaching my students about inferences (logical, evidence-based conclusions), in personal situations, I still give a heavy nod to the imaginary and the irrational.  For example, "Jack" is not always as verbally expressive about his feelings as I'd like.  The most likely explanation for this is that he is an American male and therefore is not socialized to be open with his feelings.  Perhaps he's even had relationships or experiences in his life which have caused him to be hesitant to share said feelings.  But after a while, I start to wonder if maybe it's something else that's holding his tongue.

This is usually when my therapist talks me off the ledge.  "Do NOT break up with him," she repeats.


Meanwhile, I am falling in love.  Not with "Jack"--there's plenty of time for that--but with my house.  Up until now, she has been a combination of a non-entity, a distant investment, and a pain in my butt, but she's growing on me quickly.  Over the last week, I have spent something like ten hours under her floorboards, cleaning out trash from the crawlspace, and another ten hours picking out colors and painting walls.  I've spent hours scanning items to reduce the amount of paper clutter being carried over to her closets, and I've spent just as many hours imagining where furniture will go, and how things will fit.  And I'm in love.  I may need to buy hundreds of dollars worth of caulk to close every gap in the house, and I may need to wear noise-canceling headphones at all times so as not to be a part of my neighbors' conversations, but she has taken a hold of my heart.

And it's not easy to leave the house I'm currently in.  For the last four years, it has been the place I have called home.  It has felt like home in a way that no other house has in my adult life.  Letting go of places and people has never been my strong suit, and I've found myself already missing its screened porch and glass doors and columns.  It's strange noises and fifty-year-old appliances.  But like old boyfriends and old not-quite-boyfriends, I know these things will pull more and more gently on my heart as time passes.  Until eventually, they'll settle into place as fond memories of somewhere I once lived, of a place I once called home.

Because this new house, she's mine.  Today, while painting, I accidentally scratched one of the walls with a ladder, and my first thought was, "Well, there goes part of my security deposit."  But the deposit has been replaced with a down payment, and the house is mine to decorate and damage as I see fit.  When I first made the offer, it was just a nice-ish place I could live in for a while.  A financial move and an opportunity to try and live on my own.  But she's begun to take on life and personality.  She's begun to look like me.  To feel like me.  To be a place I want to go, not a place I'm forced to live.  And like me, she is a work in progress.  I cannot completely change her; I can only make her the best version of herself.


Trees are sanctuaries....In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfill themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves....Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.  --Herman Hesse