So... I've been out for a while due to other projects that have vied for my time. After finally completing my application for the J-grad school (it only took me two tries to get the stupid package dropped off), I traveled south to try to finish packing up the Sullivan homestead.
Let me tell you where things stand right now, before backtracking over the preceeding events:
Physically, I'm still largely drained by the engergy spent on carting out prized family heirlooms into storage (and a number of less liked family keepsakes to a dumpster) as well as subsiding largely on $1 fast food items. When the only major appliance you have access to is a microwave, because the refridgerator and and oven have already been dragged out of the house, and your cutware primarily comes from plastic mills in Taiwan, culinary options are limited.
"Want to hit Hardees, again? We haven't had them since Thursday, and I'm really sick of McDonalds" "Is there anyway you could pick up some Jack in the Box tacos too?" - conversation I wish were fictionalized, but I regret to say, wasn't
Thanks to all the painting, sanding, rebuilding, and general polish, our house looks nicer than it did when we moved in. This fact is both uplifting, due to the sense of seeing a job well done, and depressing, since some other family is going to take advantage of us fixing all the little quibbles that bothered us for years.
The rickety porch? Torn down and replaced? The long-standing siding project? Completed after two years of work? The weed infested "wildflower garden" that had gone too feral? Torn up, replanted, and now filed with more docile marigolds. (I have more examples I can list, but it's already starting to work on my nerves? I can take some perverse pleasure in the fact that the natural wood trimming [as in unsanded] is still in place and will likely continue to give others as many splinters and scrapes as I enjoyed over the years.).
The house is almost empty. We still have a number of items waiting for their final sorting in the basement, but the upstairs is finally cleared - at least the floors are now that they're awaiting carpeters arriving later this week.
It's all meant a lot of sweat, a bit of blood shed (stupid fish gigs being positioned prong out in the trailer), and some crazy paint-fume influnced dreams. In retrospect, I almost wish I had slept outside rather than have my consciousness messed with. To file away in the pyschotic dream file, being on a crowded wagon train, circa 1880s, when a violent shoot out begins. Did I mention every person in the passenger cabins were relatives of mine? Freud would have a heyday with me, especially concerning the fact I didn't survive. No I'm not saying who killed me. No, my dream didn't end; in fact I had a serious verbal arguement all the way up to heaven. Yes, I was more relaxed when my next set of dreams involved dealing with flesh-eating zombies. - Once again, I wish I was pulling your leg, but I'm not. It's sad when other people talk of being sleep deprived and you slightly envy them. My subconscious has a twisted side that should not be messed with)
Anyway, once the painting stopped, sleeping got better. It certainly became easier each evening.
There is some comfort in finishing a good, hard day's labor. I'm proud of the number of items moved, of the fact I know a few more stories about Smith family history (now I know why we hung on to that old sewing maching in the basement; apparently it had a cross-prarie wagon ride of it's own in the past), and the fact that my personal contribution has sped up the moving process. Everyone's stress level will be improved when the house sells and the final box is unpacked in a new home base (hopefully without natural wood trim lining the place).
So, even as I reconsider the new skin growing on my formerly raw hands and the hues of my bruises (some becoming more colorful, others loosing their intensisty), I'm glad to have had a good long weekend.
Now, I'm looking forward to a vacation. I think I'll start now.
