Moving Day

Okay, I have 5 hours to get ready to move. I am reading the paper (apparently someone named Anna David already re-read Sex and the Single Girl  and wrote a book called Falling For Me: How I Hung Curtains, Learned to Cook, Travelled to Seville, and Fell in Love about following Helen Gurley Brown's advice. She says Gurley Brown's ideas are "really about self-love") and trying to figure out a plan of attack. The renovator guy will be in this morning to finish my bathroom, which looks not bad after a couple coats of Shaker Tan. E and I were able to avoid bickering and paint last night. I feel contrite.

Today, I have to tackle last minute packing and packing and organizing my basement. The basement has been the second biggest bane of home ownership for me (the first is my uncontrollable lawn - my neighbour/saviour said to me last night, "That's good soil there in that lawn - wow." Yeah, wow). The tenants want to use most of it, so that means I have to get my stuff (books, trinkets, toys, clothes, camping gear) out or orgranized. I am a closet hoarder, so all of this is hard for me. E doesn't really understand my pain. He'd get rid of it all, given a chance, especially because he doesn't want it all coming over here to his house.

All my books and excess stuff is going to be packed in his garage by the end of the day, so he has reason to be afraid. The only furniture I'm taking are a couple of bookshelves (for the numerous books) and A's white princess bedroom suite. Otherwise, everything stays. Luck tenants - they'll have a new bathroom and the fruit of all my labour on All For Nothing, the show that just about did me in.

What doesn't just about do me in? That is my question to myself. Maybe I should retire to an Ashram. Maybe that's all I'll be able to do, if I survive this blended family experience.