august 15, 2002.

I can't believe we're moving tomorrow. We're drowning in kipple with no end in sight. For some reason, this always seemed easier before...but I suppose that I can't really compare moving in to and out of a single room with moving out of a 5-room apartment (7 if you count the storage room and the music nook). Even when we moved here, we did it with a single van. Everything else has been purchased or fetched in subsequent trips - and I have to say that, judging from the state of our living room, we did an awful lot of purchasing and fetching.

Sigh. My morale is low right now. The heat wave rolls on and on, ignoring our pleas to knock it off for just a few days. And dinner is 20 minutes away from my plate. It's our last meal in this place, so I decided to do it up nice: chicken breasts stuffed with pesto-couscous. Unfortunately, as we began this culinary masterpiece, we quickly discovered that the Boy had packed several essential items: blender, pan, shortening. In his defense, I didn't think ahead either. I'm just concentrating on packing things carefully so that once we land in Mount Olympus, I don't have to rip everything apart to find a washcloth.

break for dinner

I keep finding hair elastics strewn about the house, like I was seeding them everywhere in case of an emergency.

The worst - the absolute worst - is when I have to sort as well as pack. When I have to go through a ream of paper just to make sure that I'm not unwittingly transporting three or four copies of lesson presentations I wrote two years ago or tourist pamphlets from the Maritimes (by the time I get back I can pick up a new ones). Sorting in this heat makes my head hurt.

break for packing

The worst part is that we're yet two days from moving. The Boy theorizes that we've left ourselves too much time to pack, as the problem of "what will we need on the journey" has been compounded by the additional problems of "what will I need today" and "what will I need tomorrow". As I said to Stacy earlier, packing today is like trying to solve a complicated mathematical equation while two people shout at you.

At least I'm allowed to knock off for the night. When I'd rather smash things than pack them, I consider it a pretty clear sign that I need to be away from the boxes, writing and listening to Catherine Wheel on headphones.

you need to give me more texture...

I need to get this done tonight; who knows when I'll next have the leisure to write n' edit n' post? I may be in computer hell when we get there. In fact, it's quite likely considering how many things I'll need to do in the city...before I start teaching...and don't forget, I revert to a monitor-less state tomorrow, and will remain in this state until my dad comes through with the hardware.

I smell a hiatus in the future...

Ok. Something weird happened two days ago: Mr. Shoreleave found my Concrete Blonde concert review and wrote a chatty letter about it. I feel really slimy, as many of the things I wrote about him in that review were blunt and nasty. They're certainly not comments I would made to his face. Now I feel like I was found out for the bitch I certainly am. The fact that he's being nice only shrinks my self-esteem further.

Blah. I don't need this during Move-apalooza 2002. This is the time for me to be drunk on self-confidence, not apologetic and humble. I need to crush all those in my path! I need to hear the lamentations of their women!

I need to go to bed! (obviously...)