7 weeks (and 3 days, 10 hours, and 56 minutes, but who's counting)

From an 8/22 draft entitled "coasting":

It's official. Well, official-ish, really, because nothing is ever "official" with the Evil Empire until it has already happened. And then it still might be undone, so don't get too comfy or involved in anything that can't be suddenly stopped or handed over or walked away from. So really, "official" is just an honorary placeholder of a word that describes nothing concrete or certain. Does your head hurt, too? Um. Okay, let's try again.

The shades of officialness of That of Which Naught Must Be Spoken have shifted to slightly less grey; the great Invocation of Total Silence About All Things Worth Blogging (ITSAATWB) 2007 moratorium has been lifted. So, without any further ado, it is with a distinct sigh of relief that I announce to you, dear internet:

We are moving. Duh! Didn't you post, like a million years ago, about having put the Treehouse on the market?

To California. Wait, wait, I want to Google your new location. Was that Road, or Avenue, or Boulevard?

As in the state. Ha ha. You're so funny. You know that "St" is the abbreviation for "Street", right?

On the other side of the country. Um. Er. Okay. You're for real?

Yup. Before the end of the year and probably as soon as the beginning of November.

Please note the upbeat, playful tone. The general excitement overriding an undercurrent of sadness. Excitement at the prospect of reuniting with friends who quickly became family as we started out on our own 10 years ago. Excitement at getting a "second chance" to see and do all the things we didn't see or do because we were too busy doing all those things that keep you so busy when you're young and still trying to impress everyone else and each other and naively believe "there will be time to do that later" but still haven't learned the hard lesson of how quickly "later" comes and goes and before you know it 6 years later you get a call on your cellphone right in the middle of a staff meeting and it's your husband telling you to meet him at such and such steakhouse so that you can discuss the "news" that he just received that will wind up taking him 1,751 miles away to a place that truly believes that the words "State of" were just accidentally placed in front of the word "Texas" and no one has had a chance in the last 162 years to get out that pesky bottle of white out that keeps drying out at the top so you have to really shake it and maybe even chip away at the clump at the top to get the little brush out and make the correction and anyways, isn't it much easier to just adopt the annoying habit of while flying the state flag at the same height as Old Glory? And so you find yourself left to finish out the school year in the new Kindergarten position that you just got shifted over into because the district had to make budget cuts and it was determined that there weren't enough 2nd graders to merit having 4 separate classrooms and since you were the last one hired, your class is the one that gets shuffled to fill in the vacancies in the other classrooms but you were hired as a full time employee so they have to honor your contract before the contact of the long-term substitute who has been fulfilling the role of "teacher" to the 20 not-quite 6-year olds in the classroom down the way so, hey!, let's see how many lives we can disrupt as we shuffle you here, place you there, do the hokey-pokey and turn yourself around because that's what its all about! Right?

Um, wow. Guess that had been building up in there for a while. Back to the point...

So we left CA in a bit of a blur. Now we had been presented with the rare opportunity to go back. And we're were excited about it. But the excitement was tinged with that familiar hue of regret. Because as much as we tried to use the lessons of the past to our benefit, we knew we simply hadn't been here long enough. We hadn't seen all there is to see. We hadn't heard all there is to hear. There are smells and tastes and textures that we wouldn't get to embrace, to absorb, to saturate ourselves in and take with us as a part of the "new we". Our time here had just begun to brush the outer edges where "guest" becomes "guide", where "hearth" becomes "home". We would just have to take the time we had left and check as many boxes as we could, recognizing that we would have to limit ourselves to the flavors that we could inhale as we rushed from one "must see" to the next.

Please notice that the publish button on that draft was never pushed.
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BG's phone would ring over the weekend. My mind raced "Is this it? THE call? Is it official?" And it would be a little more official. Sort of.

An email was received. My heart began to pound "Okay, here it is..." Um, well, kind of. The offer had come in and BG had accepted the terms. But the terms didn't specifically state the date.

Another phone call. Another email. A week... two weeks... And while the tension was unspoken, it was palpable, steadily pushing us both beyond the brink of civility.
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Yesterday, BG emailed the Powers That Be and his Hail, Mary! finally brought about the desired response. We have a start date. November 1st. Disclaimer here: Although we have an official start date that has been blessed and anointed in the obligatory frankincense (or is it mir?) by all the hands that must do the blessing and anointing, it is still subject to change. Hopefully by no more than a week on either side or the bag that I keep running to put my head in is going to be in serious need of replacement.


7 weeks.
A month and a half.

Imagine waking up in the OB-Gyn's office (did I schedule this appointment? How did I get here? Are my panties securely hidden in the toe of my shoe? Because, omigod, I will positively DIE if the doctor sees my panties!) and receiving the news "Surprise! You're 32 weeks pregnant!" Give or take a week or two on either side, of course. That rasping sound? That's the sound of trying to breath through a trachea that has shrunk from it's normal 20-25 mm diameter to less than the circumference of the point of a needle. That's pretty close to how I'm feeling about all this right now.

7 weeks.

To sell, find, and buy a house. Or if we can't find one to buy, find a place that allows month-to-month leases and cats and then figure out which items of our day-to-day life we absolutely need to have with us while everything else, including the boots that you couldn't imagine ever needing in Northern California because, hello, it's California, but then two weeks into having all your earthly belongings that you didn't think you'd ever need packed up and tucked neatly in some warehouse that you couldn't get to even if Google and MapQuest and the GPS in your car were all to suddenly agree on the best route, a freak snowstorm hits and you suddenly realize that flip-flops aren't necessarily all-terrain footwear, but until Target opens and you can tunnel out of your front door, you're gonna have to just deal.

7 weeks.

To figure out if we should all go out at once or if he should go by himself or if he should go with the cats or if I should go with the boy or if I should go with the boy and the cats or if we should all go and then he should come back or if we should all go except for the cats and then he or I and the boy or some other combination should come back for the cats or if it's even possible to make a move when there are so many possible combinations or has our life just inexplicably turned into a giant Rubik's cube and we must now fall on our knees and pray to the great Stephen Hawking to come save us from impending doom. Drama much?


7 weeks.

It's enough to make this little tidbit from another draft laughable. Melancholy echoes? Fait accompli? Seriously, what was I whining about?
so it begins... dated 9/2
And that's the big secret. Of course, since the eventual outcome has been declared prior to posting this, making this into a big announcement is rather anti-climatic. The wringing of hands and sleepless nights needing someone, anyone, to offer insight and help list the pros and cons of such a life changing event have long since passed (um, hello! What did you think I spent August doing?) and now I'm just left with the melancholy echoes of fait accompli. Unless, of course, something changes between now and then - whenever then is - and all the deep sighs and the opening of The Notebook to scratch out of this or add that on the ever lengthening list of "Should We/Shouldn't We" have been meaningless drama.

Seriously, Mom? Chill.


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3 comments:

Lora said...

I knew this was coming but I didn't beleive it. I thought I'd at least get you through Christmas. Lunch. Soon.

The Curmudgeon said...

I can't imagine moving cross country.

I've only moved my family across the parish -- seriously, one side of the parish to the other and we're not talking Louisiana counties here either -- and that darn near killed me.

So I say: Wow.

Amy Jo said...

Well, I'm glad for you that you finally have a date. I'm sad for me that it isn't a little later. You guys will figure everything out and I'm sure everything will progress with ease. If I can do it, you can! You are about 1000% more organized than I am!

Good luck, and SEE YOU SOON!