I am going to quit writing forever


But it’s been a while, n’est-ce pas? I may have worried you. My last post was all Holy Mother of Depression, I submit, and then you didn’t hear from me for days and days. Well, this is what happened to me: I turned into a zombie. For real! Plus side: I didn’t need naps, and I didn’t need clean clothes. Buzz kill: I stayed confused.photo

Okay, that’s a little bit of April Fools, too. I wasn’t an actual zombie, but I did start shuffling my feet and drooling occasionally. Since I last updated you, we left the Dilapidated Beach House and moved into the Marriott because our house was supposed to be ALMOST READY! Three kids and two dogs and two parents in a one-bedroom suite at the Marriott would have been totes adore for someone with an intact sense of humor. We planned to stay there four days. But after four days, our house still had no countertops, no showers, no stove and no washer/dryer. So I tried to extend our stay at the Marriott. They were full, and politely asked us to make way for actual vacationers. As (my no good, accursed) luck would have it, I discovered this conflict one hour before checkout time. Hot Firefighter Husband was working. Go time, baby. Here’s what I did:

-Splenda the mini-minivan was still packed to its micro ceiling with crap, so I drove to the new house and unloaded it onto the front porch.

-Back at the hotel, I turned on NCIS for inspiration, then raced through the hotel room shoving stuff into bags and boxes, and pushed it all outside the room so I could make checkout time. Then I carried it all down a flight of stairs and stacked it next to Splenda.

-I called my friend Scottie who was out of town and asked if we could stay in her house, and delivered half the hotel room crap to her garage. I returned to the Marriott and loaded up the remaining crap to bring to the new house and unloaded it onto the front porch. Then it was time to meet the children and calmly inform them that we had moved into a fourth temporary home. The Pterodactyl looked as though he might rip out my heart with his grimy hands, so I quickly suggested a trip to Target in order to diffuse the moment. At that moment, Husband arrived home and asked me how the day went, and I killed him.

APRIL FOOLS AGAIN! I didn’t kill him. We had a tiny little enormous fight, then I drank some gin and felt a lot better.

We stayed in my friend Scottie’s house for several days, although her home is so adorable and perfect that I made everyone keep their stuff in the garage, and we moved into our remodeled home last Saturday in the midst of a torrential thunderstorm. And still the construction goes on. Yesterday the drywall guys patched some remaining dents and holes, and although one of them smelled like something died inside him and most certainly was part of a prison day-release program, I was happy the work got done. Last night the carpenters finished off the linen closets and hung some mirrors; today, the painters will clean up everybody else’s mess. Then, finally, we’ll begin to unpack, and really focus on the The Latest Plan – simple, clean, living.

First I need a pedicure. But then I’ll tell you all about this tiny expensive chaotic awesome house.

5 responses to I am going to quit writing forever

  1. Lauren Dunn says:

    Rock on! We’re in phase II of our renovation. Currently in day 4 of living in 450 square feet (the remainder of the upstairs is packed floor to ceiling with “stuff”) with limited access to the kitchen and REALLY hoping we didn’t leave any clothes we may need in the closets before they got shoved into trash bags and lugged upstairs… Fortunately, my crew called in sick today, as I had a lot of work to do. I find enough excuses to avoid getting work done without all that incessant hammering and “Do you think we should tell him about the _______?”

    • tricia says:

      OMG, Lauren, so familiar. Except for me it was more like, ‘Honey, should we make a big deal about the ____?’ Good luck to you. Pare down, brother.

      • Lauren Dunn says:

        Oh… There will be paring! Now I understand why people should move every three years… The standing rule is that no closet, cabinet, or drawer is unpacked or re-packed without a humongous trash bag present. Preferably a Goodwill bag isn’t far away, either, for those rare things that we don’t want anymore that we also aren’t embarrassed to pass on to someone else. šŸ™‚

    • tricia says:

      Ditto, darling Shriverness. Miss you all the time.

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