Sponsor me in the 2005 MS Walk! Why? Read here.
It was a long, long weekend.
Friday, my mom and I left the house at 8:15. She sat and talked to Gene (her grief counselor) for an hour while I hung out in the waiting area and wrote thank you notes. Not an easy task. Each one that I�ve written thus far has completely filled a note card. Which is good in that I�ve avoided the �thank you for the ______. We will treasure it always� syndrome, but bad because it�s taken me SO FREAKING LONG!!! And, of course, I forgot them all this morning, so I still haven�t mailed any of them, but that�s a minor technicality. Or something.
We left there and headed for the Emerald Square Mall in Attleboro to meet Carla and Spencer, hopefully to find something for the little boys to wear in the wedding. Mom and I walked in at 10:15 am. We left at 8:00 that night. Any longer and I would have needed hoodsie hair, platform shoes and a half shirt. It was a marathon shop day. Among the multitude of purchases we made, we did manage to find mini-usher outfits, which was good. The thought of naked little boys in the pictures might have pushed my future mother-in-law over the edge (although it might have been fun for me!). I have a newfound sympathy for the mothers of little boys. Their clothing options suck. First, we had to locate the boys� section in the stores�no easy feat, since it was about ten square feet surrounded by racks of clothes to turn your average six-year-old girl into a budding Britney Spears look-alike. Then we had to sort through the three options presented to see if there was anything that was a) the right size, b) not already falling apart in the store, and c) not totally hideous. Eventually, we ended up at J.C. Penney�s, where we managed to find four shirts that matched in the approximate right sizes. In the Boyfriend�s honor, the mini-ushers will be wearing blue Hawaiian shirts and khaki shorts and brown sandals, and will all look like teensy versions of the Boyfriend. This was excellent news and a huge relief. One more thing to check off the list.
Saturday was Move Day. I spent the rest of the weekend packing, lifting, carrying and unpacking. I am dangerously close to being out of the apartment.
I stood on the porch, reminiscing about the first night I spent in that apartment? It was a Sunday--August 20th, 1995, I believe, the night of Phil Walgreen's going away party at the Irish Embassy. I drank too much Ciderjack and threw up the whole way home, resulting in what the Artboy affectionately referred to as "the puke dance." We rode home with Scott, much to his disappointment. He�d spent the last 15 minutes or so of the party convincing me to have sex with him in the back of the truck while Brendan drove home. My vomitousness put an end to that theory. He stayed with me in my too-small This End Up bed in my new teensy bedroom, afraid, I think, to leave me alone. It was the first time I'd ever gotten sick from drinking.
Doesn't FEEL like seven years ago. And yet, it unquestionably does.
Almost all my stuff is now in the condo. I'm practically the Artboy�s parents' neighbor, which strikes me as awfully funny. At 1:30 Sunday morning, the Boyfriend made me stop and go to bed. I hated leaving things still in boxes, but sleep was an absolute necessity. I was up again at 8 and moved things around, trying to find homes for all my stuff. It�s not easy. The Condo was almost full before I added any of my belongings to his, let alone the gifts we�ve received. Getting it all in there is going to take some creative stashing, along with some selective attic storage at my mom�s.
When I woke up on Sunday, I was facing toward the right, looking out the windows. The back wall of each room in the condo has two giant windows that give us a great view of the city (hence the ability to watch the 4th of July fireworks), and it�s a nice way to wake up. My first thought was, �oh, I�m at the Condo� (my first thought every morning these days establishes where I�m waking up, since I can never be quite sure from day to day). Then I turned to the left and was confronted by my Longaberger shelf, covered with my Longaberger baskets. My second thought was, �oh, and so is everything I own.�
It may not be my home yet, but it certainly looks like I live there.
The music on the radio is a pretty good indication, too. I�m certain it�s the first time the Ghost of Tony Gold has ever graced those walls.
Soon, it will feel like I belong there.
I really do believe that.
I�m just not quite feeling it yet.
---------------------------------------------
Something to say about this entry?
Add your comments here (1 people have spoken already)
< A stolen survey, of sorts... | In flux >
