A class project goes awry.

75 parents pulled their kids for the day, even though the all-clear had been called. Think they skipped out to have lunch at Taco Bell?

You know, people warned me about what it’s like to live with family – particularly your in-laws. But nothing I’ve heard could have warned me about how I am being forced to live these days. I don’t know how long we can continue.

It all started with the laundry. I would put a load through the washer and dryer, only to come and find it neatly folded in the basket a scarce hour later. When cornered, my mom-in-law confessed, “But I really like folding laundry!” (A likely story.) She must love doing dishes, too, since I have to be quick if I’m going to clean up my own mess after supper. And she refuses to share her vacuum. Talk about stingy! But then, the final straw:

On Saturday morning, she got up at 6:30 am with the kids, and made us sleep in. No, really.

She also makes me eat cream puffs. I’m not kidding.

If I see her coming at me with cucumber slices for my eyes and one of those neck pillows, we are going to have to sit down for a family meeting. Because there’s only so much I can take.

This week, my Aunt Sandie lost her fight with cancer. This is expression fits her more than anyone, since she really liked to fight. She was one of the few women in that patch of relatives, and relished a good shouting match as much as any of her brothers. No one is ever wrong in this family. If you disagree with what they’re saying you’re wrong, or stupid. Not in a mean way…it’s just a fact. It was a kick to watch them all in the same room as a kid. They think arguing is a pastime.

She was a good broad, descended from a long line of broads. She was tough, loud, emotional, and yet thin skinned and soft-hearted. She was Sam, and I think it tickled her when I took a male nickname when I got the chance. She died single and without children, but to her The Family was IT – something you stuck with. She loved us all, whether we deserved it or not. And she loved owls.

Her hallmark was that nothing embarrassed her, even if it mortified everyone around her. Her raucous voice was not built for telling secrets, but for announcing opinions.

I miss her, though I hadn’t been back to visit since The Princess was almost two. Last time we saw her, she laughed and told Mr. MG, “I don’t know what happened, but that baby doesn’t look anything like you. She looks just like her mama!” Our daughter was a new shoot on the family tree, and so she felt some ownership there. I wish she’d have seen our son.

So the grownups of the family will gather for the service. (Even in my thirties, I’m still considered a kid. But that’s only fair; around most of them, I’d feel about twelve and in the way.) She would like it that everyone is getting together because of her, to talk and think about her. Without having to say a word, she will be the center of attention. She would be very pleased. And she’d say it was about damn time.

Well, it’s done. We’ve moved. Not into our own place, but the old one is gone. (The good news: The day we handed over the keys, we found our new house. God is so good. So we will get our cats back, and my in-laws will get their house back. Just not yet.) The move was just as horrible as you’re imagining, and terribly exhausting, but I want to get down to the real heart of why moving is a big, honking pain in the keister.

It’s the hangers.

Every time we prepare to relocate, I swear I’m going to trash all those wire hangers and buy what we need in plastic, wood, metal, or whatever it will take to do the job without all the blasted tangling and hooking. And then moving day comes, and I shove them all in a box for the next house. I starting to think these boxes are the perfect mating conditions for hangers, because I keep finding more and more tangled orgies that will never be parted. They may have equal partnership rights in some states.

What to do? I can’t throw them away. I get this mental picture of landfills teeming with rusting wire hangers. (I’m not eligible for Catholic guilt, so I have environmental guilt, instead.) Can’t sell them in a garage sale. You can’t even give these stupid things away. Perhaps I can go around, hanging them on random tree branches everywhere, and if anyone asks what I’m doing…I’ll tell them it’s a public art installation. Or perhaps I shall dry out an octopus.

One week from today, we will close. Day after tomorrow, we move all our stuff. (And I’ll be offline for a bit, until I get hooked up at my in-laws’ place.)

It’s funny how a place creeps up on you. We’ve been here only fours years, but I still find myself standing and staring at the empty rooms and just feeling sunk. Or I close my eyes to remember what it looked like when it was still my home. The yard will be the hardest.
It’s a great yard. Between the wildlife sightings and the stuff we’ve planted, it will be hard to give it up, especially for the unknown – we still haven’t found a house.

You’d think all this moving business was actually not what I want, wouldn’t you? Sometimes it’s hard to tell. Just ask Mr. MG.

When we finally find a place and move in, it’s going to feel like Christmas! Some of my books have been packed since October. There are toys that have been in storage so long, the kids may have forgotten they exist. So I look forward to that, and to the adventure of a new living space.

See you in a few days, when I reattatch the e-umbilical cord.

I’ve got it bad. I have fallen in love with a jar of peanut butter. I’m usually not a straight-from-the-jar PB consumer, but this stuff is better than cookies and I can’t help myself. The situation is looking grim…I keep trying to think of reasons to sneak open the cupboard for another spoonful. I can only hope that there is rehab available, or at least a steady supply of celery.

Spotted some cute little lizards on the road the other day, and pulled the van over to rescue them. This little guy was so cute! He arched his little back and closed his eyes when I gently picked him up and carried him over to let the Princess and the Bear see him. He crawled all over our hands and we had a fine time. Then I set him down in the bushes and we went on our way. Got home, put the kids into quiet time, and made myself some lunch while I looked up our mystery lizard.

That was no lizard. It was a newt. A poisonous newt. And it was crawling aaaaall over our hands. And I didn’t make the Princess wet wipe her hands afterwards, because I don’t want to be one of those moms who sterilize their children down to the subdermal layer. Now I know better. Next time, I’m getting out the fire hose.

…

When I originally wrote this, I was going to make some flippant remark about cheating death, but somehow that’s not so funny now.