A little sincerity is a dangerous thing, and a great deal of it is absolutely fatal. -Oscar Wilde

Monday, June 28, 2010

Panic time

Down to under 72 hours until moving day. There's so much to do in so little time, and everything I do eats up s o m u c h t i m e. Just dropping off NuJeep at the dealer for minor work (Jeepzilla has finally reached the end of its run with me-- at 215,510 miles and damn I wish I'd driven just two more miles before deciding to take NuJeep-- and there is NuJeep which is basically Jeepzilla but silvery grey, 5 years younger, and with 143,000 fewer miles. Oh, and with air conditioning) took two and a half hours out of my day. Printing & faxing papers took another hour plus. Hell, it took three and a half hours at the dealer's Saturday, another two hours to pick up la mère's gift from my brother, probably four or five hours shopping for car insurance (plus another hour and a half to actually buy it after comparing the coverage with les parents).

Of course I'm panicking. Because on top of that, every stupid little thing that can go wrong has. NuJeep's tachometer mysterious dropped to zero while on 76 in Ohio and again while trying to go through a green light. Instead of getting it back today, I'll probably get it back tomorrow (in the meantime, I have a convertible loaner-- on a rainy day, natch). I can't find anything-- and I mean anything in my apartment. And believe you me, there is little more difficult than trying to pack in a studio apartment of a certain size. Where do you put the boxes? Frankly, I just want to toss out so much stuff just to avoid having to deal with it. Clothes, plastic food containers, you name it. I've had the misfortune of discovering such a severe moth infestation that I had to toss most of my not inconsiderable fiber and yarn stash (basically, anything not cotton or synthetic-- and I hate synthetics and knitting with cotton). There was simply too much damage and not enough time or space to try to treat the problem. And yes, it is exquisitely heart-wrenching. I will never, ever accept an unprocessed fleece unless I have an outdoor chest freezer where I can debug it.

My poor cats have born the brunt of my flipping out. Dashing away while I pull my hair out, trying to find the brand new scotch brite pads I JUST SAW, then curling by my feet when I need to just stop for a moment-- I'm really lucky to have these monsters. I'm dreading how they will react to the move, but I hope that they appreciate how much space they're about to have.

I think I need to listen to some angry, energizing music.

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