We’ve been going non-stop for 7 days, packing, lifting, loading. Moving boxes, unloading, unpacking. Organizing, cleaning, eating crap food. Stressing. And I can’t do anymore tonight. All I can think about is alcohol, and drinking lots of it. And the rum balls I want to make but can’t because I left the Karo corn syrup at the other house. I was over there all day cleaning, and I’ve got my slippers on now, and I don’t want to go back. Not even for rum balls.
I wish there were a rum ball fairy, though. That would be awesome.
The kitchen is unpacked, and my husband assembled the dining room table, so at least we can eat a real meal when we get up the gumption to make one. Which I’m doing now, despite my exhaustion-induced delirium. I’ve got sweet potatoes in the oven, I blanched some green beans, and when hubs gets home, I’ll broil salmon with honey drizzled on it. Hopefully I won’t be three sheets to the wind already when he walks in the door. I made sure to plan a meal that doesn’t involve knife work. Just in case.
I’m sure I’m not making sense, and you know what? I don’t care. I just want to tap the keys on the keyboard right now. I’ve got bits and pieces of a week’s worth of essays in my head, but they are swamped in a quagmire of to-dos. It’s been a challenge to not run away from all the work of moving so that I could write. But our daughter’s birthday is Monday, and we want more than anything to get “settled” so we can give her a decent, stress-free birthday where she gets our undivided attention.
Then there’s the small matter of Christmas. The tree, the lights, the four bins of decorations that are tapping their feet, waiting to be released. And we’re down to two days now before birthday, tree, and decorating are upon us.
So I have abstained from writing, until now. I’ve got nothing left for the art to hang, for the bins of Halloween paraphernalia, those last boxes of odds and ends – wrapping paper, the paper cutter that doesn’t fit in the desk, the bin of fabric that doesn’t fit on the shelf, the tape and clothespins and spare keys and rubber bands when we haven’t designated a junk drawer. The suitcases we are living out of because we don’t have enough furniture or closet shelving.
Instead I’m just going to drink my wine, and dream of rum balls, and listen to The Nutcracker while the screen goes blurry and the keys go clackety-clack.
Butterfly Mind 