Moving on up...or over.

Seriously. I never want to move again. Or until I forget how hectic this has all been. Whichever comes first.

Everyday something new pops up. A problem at the new school (although, I have to admit, I am kind of in love with them. Two phone calls, and a major crisis was averted. Two phone calls. Less than an hour. That never would have happened in our current district, which also happens to be good...just HUGE.), a problem with the loan, and problem with the move. You name it.

Our moving day is fast approaching. Thursday. Kenny brought the first load up today, while he goes to meet the cable guy. All of our framed pictures and breakables are going ahead of the moving van. Tomorrow, I am going to stock the fridge, finish cleaning, and bring a few more things. Then the actual move begins. I am already ready for this to be over.

Somebody stop me the next time I think this is a good idea.

Boundaries

Let's discuss boundaries.

See, I sometimes wonder if it just me. Or does everyone around me really lack boundaries, and something is wrong with them.

I know that because I work (I use the term "work" loosely. I now answer the phones and do the billing for Kenny's company. Work = 2 - 3 hours per day. But still, these things must get done.) from home and Kenny has his own company, people tend to think we are available all the time. Sure, Kenny is home a lot during the day, but that doesn't mean he is camped up on the couch watching TV. Sometimes, he is doing work from home. Imagine that. But none the less, we are home. So we get called upon to babysit during the day or unclog drains or whatnot. Either that, or my friends want to come over and hang out all day long, like I was just sitting around with nothing to do. Hardly. And probably this would not be an issue if it was just one person, but someone asks something of us everyday. I have taken to not answering my phone. Which one would think would solve the problem.

But no. Because apparently nobody has manners anymore. Did you know if someone doesn't answer the phone, you should call them back immediately. Maybe even four or five times in a row. If that fails, send a text message. Don't even think about the fact that you might be interrupting a phone call with a client or an appointment with a doctor. No way! You have something important to say, like, "Let's do lunch!" And? If you can't get through by phone, well just stop by. I mean, someone not answering the phone is not a clear indicator that they are busy. Nope, it means they are craving an unsolicited visit from you!

You would think that my friends and neighbors would have figured out by now that I have a formula. The more times you call me in a row, the longer I take to call you back. Seriously. I add two hours for every additional phone call. For real. Ask Kenny. He laughs at me when I actually time it. Just doing my part to teach people boundaries, since, obviously, their mamas didn't.

But maybe I am expecting too much of people. Maybe this is normal. The cell phone age and instant message era and so forth.

Send more boxes.

The move is quickly approaching. A few days ago, I was talking about how it was a little over three weeks away. Then, while checking Jill's assignment sheet and looking ahead at her test schedule, I realized it was two weeks away. TWO. As of today, one week four days. I had not done anything. Not one box packed.

This weekend? All about packing. For three hours, I pulled everything off the shelves in our bathroom. I cleaned out old makeup, shampoo, and crap. I packed clothes. I packed shoes. I left out only what I need for the next week. Three hours.

Then, I stepped back, surveyed my work, and realized it looked I had done nothing. Three hours of nothing.

I am never going to finish.

Grass Emergencies

I have always managed the billing and scheduling for our landscaping company. But since recently becoming unemployed, Kenny decided I should take on a few more duties. Like answering the phone calls. You know, for all the grass emergencies.

Most of our clients are great. Our commercial clients never even bother to call. They fax in work orders, and I do nothing more than schedule the service for the appropriate crew. I never even have to talk to anyone. Awesome. The residential clients? Oh Lord. They call for everything under the sun. Some just to tell me they mailed their payment. Great. I'll figure that out when I receive it. Some to tell me to schedule extra services. Score! Extra money! And some? Because well, they have a landscaping emergency. Like a blade of grass out of place. Or a rogue weed. Or oh my God Santiago mowed in a circular path instead of straight lines! For real.

We have this one customer. Let's call her Sally, because, well, that's her name. Let's also hope Sally doesn't read this here blog. If so, Hi Sally, I swear I am saying all of this with love. Anyway, Sally calls me, I kid you not, at least three times a day. We mow her yard once a week. That is fifteen phone calls per mow. At first, I thought Sally might be a bit lonely, so I humored her and talked to her. Then, I decided Sally is actually crazy. But crazy still pays the bills, apparently. Yesterday, Sally called to tell me we should not mow, because it had rained. A few days ago. Fine. Then she called back to tell me we should mow on a later day. I scheduled it for another day, just like she asked. Then she called to ask me to trim her hedges and the hedges at her daughter's house. Then she called to tell me not to trim her hedges, just to trim the hedges at her daughter's house. Whew. Done.

Today, she called to tell me they were getting a new company, since we did not show up to mow.

Um. Okay.

Do you think this means she will really quit calling me, or do you think she will call me next week and wonder why we didn't show up?

Zany

Emmi's kindergarten class had their first project today. They picked a word, defined the word, made a poster showing the word and the definition, and then dressed up like the word.

Emmi's word?

Zany.

Her poster?

A bunch of crazily patterned papers cut into odd shapes all glued haphazardly to a poster board with ZANY in bold letters.

Her outfit?

Remind anyone of anything?

Anyone?

Perhaps this is coming to mind?

Pie.

The pig flu? It was nothing for Jill. She was sick for approximately 1.3 seconds. Just long enough to get her banned from school until Monday. Then Emmi got sick, and it seemed like she would follow Jill's pattern. Plus she got the much sought after Tamiflu (even if it took me and a very nice pharmacist forever to track it down). I thought we were golden when by day two she was not horrible. I emailed one of my friends that I thought Emmi was on the upswing. I obviously cursed myself. Upswing, it was not.

She was up all night, coughing. Which meant I was up all night listening to her cough and analyzing her breathing deciding at which point I used which medicine. At three am, she finally fell asleep just in time for a storm to roll in. Kenny and I were up another forty minutes with Jill the dog that was shaking like a damn leaf. Sometime around four I slipped into glorious dream land, only to be woken at 5:45 by Emmi.

"Mommy. Mommy. Where's my pie?" She was crying. She was frantic. I needed her to calm down, because her breathing was already not great. "Pie, Mommy."

I searched. I looked through her covers, under her bed, in her closet. And I had no idea why she wanted that stupid pie toy. Perhaps some strange dream? Maybe something Jill and her fought over. While Jill was sleeping, was Emmi dead set on getting the upper hand? I didn't have a fucking clue. All I know is that I searched for that stupid pie toy for forty-five minutes.

We gave up. Jill woke up. I made hot chocolate for the girls. Jill requested a movie. I set them in front of the TV with their hot chocolate, Emmi still wheezing away. I grabbed Emmi's Kenny's that Emmi claimed for herself ipod, loaded with the latest movie downloads.

"Mommy you found my pie!"

Pie. ipod. She had been trying to say ipod. I searched for a fucking toy pie for 45 minutes on less than three hours of sleep, and I knew where that damn ipod was the whole time.

Slippity Slide

Not for the faint of heart.

Or ones who do not enjoy pictures of broken bones and dislocated fingers. LAURA, I am talking to you. Remember when I tormented you by describing my stitches to you. Not even showing them to you. Just telling you about them. Those were good times. For me.

It's a good thing I can handle a little broken bones and stitches who am I kidding I cover my eyes during Grey's Anatomy. Because my kid's finger? It's not right.

She fell during gymnastics last week while walking to the next event. Genius. Her finger jammed into the springboard floor, and the cry that followed definitely said hurt. But then she cried for about two minutes and was done. I thought about taking her to the ER just in case, but I didn't want to expose her to the swine flu. Awesome planning on my part, because now she has a broken finger and the swine flu. The next days she seemed fine, there was no bruise, nothing.

Then yesterday I noticed her finger looked like this.

Of course, I brought her to the doctor, who sent her for an x-ray, now infecting all of the radiology department at the nearby hospital with the swine flu. It's cool. Everybody can use a healthy dose of swine flu, right? So they x-rayed and poked and prodded and talked about surgery.

And then this morning. Her finger looked like this.

Almost normal. Slippity slide right back into place.