Temple Tantrums

I think its safe to say that this move has been particularly emotionally draining on me. I had the equivalent of 7 Temple Tantrums yesterday. This is what my maternal side of the family affectionately calls our own style of hissy fits. They can be endearing if you look at them in the right light, but for the most part they just draw more attention to how the crazy genes get passed on through the generations.

I had to call my Mom several times through the day for coaching through these. Only the very stupid little things would push me over the edge. For example: wearing shoes in the house, or art supplies in the bedroom closet not the hall closet, or my personal favorite is the recycling "system" J put into place. It really consisted of him piling garbage around the trash bin according to material. This was truly unacceptable. For my first few tantrums, J would wander over and put his arms around me. But by the last one he was just rubbing his head and wandering away.

Typically these Temple Tantrums indicate that I am hungry. I don't register hunger. I register bitch. However, as I was fixing "lunch" at 3:00 I was convinced that I shouldn't be eating because perhaps I was soothing my emotions by eating which could then potentially yield a food addiction. Can you see how crazy this is? I can...24 hours later.

At dinner my husband looked as if he was going to crumble. He mentioned that this was supposed to be his "vacation" and that moving is hard on both of us. I immediately felt quite ashamed of the way I had been carrying on and on and on. Here we are: broke, new to the area of crazy drivers and amazing history (we stumbled upon Sam Adam's grave just the other day), and both are essentially "camping" at home until we get things unpacked. The only difference was, he has a deadline of when to report to work and as he put it: go back to where my time is no longer mine. He will once again be a slave to the system only this time, the 80 hour work week law doesn't apply. That one only protects residents, not fellows. I felt lower than low once I realized the full picture.

This morning one of my girlfriends called and explained that moving last August was her relationship test from hell. We both married and moved into our husband's existing spaces. For the first time we were moving into neutral territory. I had never thought of it like this, but it makes complete and total sense. The dynamics completely shift! No wonder I'm frustrated. I'm in uncharted territory. Somehow her explanation alone downshifted my anxiety.

When Math Geeks Move

There were several stressful points along our move and again, more stylistic differences. This one exemplified that whole “apple-doesn’t-fall-far” theory:

“If we make this the plane and this the hypotenuse then we only need to rotate it on the axis 180 degrees to get it in the door, see?”

“But the isosceles triangle will only work if the side is 8 feet and we have 7 feet 8 inches instead.” Both father and son pull their handy dandy tape measurers off the belts to check.

“Right, but that’s why we’re flipping it 180 degrees not the 150.”

I, myself, would have just shoved the couch through the door. See? Stylistic differences.

This morning J held math class 101 for N=1 (just me as the student). We were trying to hang the mirror. I actually employed the Pythagorean theorem to figure out the length of one side of a triangle for the exact length the piano wire needed to be cut. You know that whole, A squared + B squared = C squared? Turns out, my 8^th grade teacher was incorrect when she stated I’d never have to use this in real life. Again, this would have not been my method. I would have just strung up my mirror, prayed to the Gods to keep it suspended, and called it good.

J never knew that my artistic hanging of three hooks to hang his wool caps wasn’t done with math. It was actually done while he was on call and I had have several glasses of wine. He praised my abilities the next day when he came home and liked the outcome mixing the masculine English driving caps with my feminine Anthropologie wrought iron hooks in a nice “equidistant” triangle. Um, ok. Again, I think I was groovin’ to some 80’s tunes and using hardware to the best of my tipsy ability that December night.

Now, I too have some anal qualities that drive him nuts. For example: I alphabetize our spice cabinet and CD collection so I can find what I want in a timely manner. I also do this according to genre and/or types of spice. You would never find the garlic powder next to the fennel seeds. Oh no! That would be an atrocity. Those faux powders, lemon pepper, and other flavored salts/seasonings would never be found next to the tried and true dried leaf variety. Blasphemy, I tell you! Again, with that apple-falling-far theory, I can go back generations and actually attribute this quality to my mother’s mom, Ginny.

You would also never find Tori Amos in the same alphabetizing system as LL Cool J. I can’t see angry white female next to a black man who prides himself on seducing women…perhaps that is just my issue because I was that stupid angry white girl who was seduced by a womanizing black guy. Ok, well, perhaps I should be finding a good therapist instead of organizing my CD collection…note to self.

Another odd quality I have is the color-coding of my pillows when I’m making the bed. We have several types of pillows and it is important that they are in the corresponding pillow case cover that matches our preference and way their fluffiness standard goes when I’m making the bed. You can’t have a mushed up flat (although well loved) pillow at the back of the pillow stacking…it needs to be in the front of the line against a more firm background. Also, our two favorite pillows that we sleep on need to match in case cover as well. J remarked last night that he is never making the bed again in fear that he would do it wrong according to my standards.

As I’m finishing this entry, J’s expert arranging of piano wire and molly bolts culminated into, “Well, even though I used math to get this done, I completely forgot about physics. Oh well, let’s see what this does.” I suppose this quote is equivalent to me just shoving the couch through the door.

Stylistic Differences

Well, several of you have been kind enough to ask how the box count is coming. Its coming. Slowly, but surely, our house is being disassembled. The pace is not matching my expectations, mind you. I'm a kind of get-up-and-go-girl. My husband is not. We have "stylistic differences." I think that is the nicest way to say: You drive me absolutely fucking nuts.

Have you ever noticed that you can get away with saying just about anything if you add on the phrase: "Bless his heart," or "God love him"? Well, you can. Its a phrase that has crept into my vernacular since living in Hoosierville. For example: "Him had to go beat der dog wit' a baseball bat n' bashed his skull in after he bit my hand. I is grateful. Can't have nones that wit da baby comin', bless his heart." I wish I was exaggerating, but this is pretty much verbatim what J and I heard riding the short bus from our take out point in the Blue River back to our cars with our fellow canoe adventurers. Thank God the Lord loves all sides of the bell curve.

Yesterday morning there weren't enough "God-love-him's" to get me through without having a minor Chernobyl experience. It just doesn't work as well when you try to say, "God love him, he spent just as much time picking through the garbage looking for his to-do list as he could have spent just typing up a new one." I appreciate my Tetris man, I do. (Bless his heart) I also just want to kill him at times. Very normal feelings in a partnership and marriage, I know.

J spent time arranging space saver bags in an empty box to just see the spacial relations and then pulled them all out again. He has also spent time "supervising" my packing skills to make sure I maximize the space and am padding the layers correctly. I have told him that we would get a lot more done if he would just go do his own thing. So he did: he sorted through his sock drawer to match socks (again, not helping the packing cause) as well as sorting through papers from medical school (again, not sure if anything got thrown away) and then decided it was too anxiety producing so he surfed the internet to look up the latest J porn obsession: the iPhone. I realized I needed to leave the house. It was either that or say many attacking things that I would regret. The whole time I'm storming away he kept saying things like, "You are so adorable when you are mad." And, "We should talk about this." Fucking no! No more talking! Action! Do Something!! That was all I had running through my brain.

I vented to friends, got lunch, and went to the mall to feel like a normal being. About 2 hours later I got a trepidatious call from my husband.

"Honey, are you feeling better? When are you coming home? Bubba dog and I will be here and we would love to see you. I fixed the money problem, so you don't need to worry about that any more. Have you had anything to eat? I love you."

Really, how can you stay angry at this? You can't. Bless my heart.

Denial isn't denial when you know what it is

T minus 7 days and counting.

Here I am on the supposed "day of rest" and thinking, "Gee, all I've done is rest." One would think I would be swimming in a sea of cardboard and chaos. Oh, no. Life is pretty much status quo denial. I've discovered the miracle of space bags (think vacuum sealed sweaters condensed down to the size of your dog). They are lined up nicely by the door. Last night over a mojhito I began to disassemble my summer sand scape with shells and votive candles on the living room table. Didn't get too far with that.

I was honestly counting on and looking forward to my mom coming out. She is a wonderful and willing companion when addressing insurmountable tasks like refinishing the deck at 5 AM before scorching heat hits when the sun rises and breaking down long arduous processes like packing a whole house. Often, as a bonus, she'll show up with fun food like bagels and coffee. She also always makes me laugh through the whole process. She is a 5 foot package of humor and encouragement all in one.

I haven't seen my mom since Christmas. This makes me incredibly lonely and sad as I used to spend every Saturday with her when I lived out West. The plan was for her to come out and help, but circumstances are what they are and I suppose being alone with this process is just another step in christening me into adulthood. It totally sucks and I am angry that I didn't get my way and rebelling as much as possible. I know, super mature, right?

My rebellion isn't going as well as it should. Rebellion should be fun! Like binge drinking when you are a freshman in college or driving 10 miles over the speed limit. Nope, this rebellion is losing its appeal quickly. My body is in the process of breaking down and I have for the very first time in my 32 years, a cold sore. I feel like the Tide commercial that was run during the Superbowl. Its worth viewing. Thank God I only have two more days of work. I love my work, but I feel like I'm 14 with my hyper self-centered outlook and hyper hygiene. I also managed to rack up another $500 in vet bills this past week by being over reactive to Edgar's nausea. It also cost me 3 hours of potential packing time.

I spent another 2 hours in the new Indy film...yes, there was flooding involved just like in real life Indiana. We tried to get our friend to drive up from Seymour, Indiana to join us. Apparently none of us had watched the news because we were all baffled when he couldn't get onto I 70 due to the police blockades. Then again, none of us live in areas that were hit with 10+ inches of rain.

Other time suckers include, but are not limited to: playing the Wii, reading and completing 3 novels, more work, surfing the internet, sleeping, going to J's graduation, drinking, more obsessing about my lip sore, beating myself up over being so neurotic, deciding to make elaborate meals, researching HSV1 on the internet and medical school texts, freaking out about selling my car, listening to tornado sirens, the Sims, wondering if I should actually heed those tornado sirens, researching a/c units for Boston, deciding that it must be a hoax of the tornado warning as it doesn't look that bad outside, going to Costco, waking up to Mom asking me about the tornado to which I reply "what tornado?," applying to jobs in Boston, researching my car price online, helping my husband decide which internet provider/medical texts to purchase/cell phone/etc to go with (I know nothing about any of these subjects by the way), wondering if we have enough boxes but not doing anything with the existing empty ones, playing with Edgar, and being chided by my neighbors for not watching the weather reports.

I realize that blogging this post, for example, is just another way of delaying the inevitable. I don't know if I'm expecting tiny organized elves or packing fairies to appear when I'm sleeping. While I am tempted to go pick up my book and finish "just one more chapter....or twenty" I should probably go find the packing tape and take the Nike commercial advice of "Just Do It!"