Diary of a move, 5: Uncharted waters

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I am approaching this move like the innate and forever student I am. Lists and spreadsheets, folders and a calendar, color-coded stickers and a definite action plan. I am excited and ready and feel like I'm definitely contributing to a smooth relocation process.

And yet I find myself in uncharted territory. These waters are unfamiliar and bumpy; I lost my sea-legs weeks ago. 

For as we draw closer to closing and moving, I struggle to articulate much of anything. My concentration is running at a seriously subpar clip, so much that I put our newspaper on hold this week because really, what's the point?

February is never my friend, even in the best of years. It's a chilly gray speedbump on the road to spring. If it weren't for Valentine's Day, it'd be a total wash of a month; thank goodness for hearts and roses and an excuse to drink pink champagne.

I'm cold, and I'm tired. I'm not sleeping well, and my GI tract is taking the brunt of various stressors. I'm sick of the old, dirty snow (except for the neat melt) and the misshapen foliage that's not weathered the white stuff's weight well. Just after we seemed to get back on track from the many snow days Snowzilla offered us, Ol caught another virus and was home sick today. It's not strep -never is- and my mother meter tells me that he'll be home for at least the next two days.

My sweet boy- he is the most darling, easiest sick child there is. But he has things to learn and friends to see, and I have my own things to do too. And both of us need sleep.

The one who never struggles with sleep.

The one who never struggles with sleep.

I have sat down to write these past couple days and looked at the stark white screen and the blinking cursor that so often promise the world. And I have cowered. And frozen. And closed shop.

This is the most unfamiliar -unwelcome!- aspect of this February's chop. To want to write but to feel dry is beyond uncomfortable. It's scary and worrisome. It's as if I've been unwillingly corked, and I don't like it one bit.

I showed up here tonight with no expectations but with a determination to simply start. I don't have a tidy beginning, middle and end for you. I don't have wisdom or insight. I don't even have a laugh to share. 

If you're interested, I can tell you about easy and good chicken shawarma (made tonight) with juices that dribble down your arms. I can tell you, via Jack, that per Chinese tradition, I, born in the year of the dragon, could possibly have been a great politician (wrong), talk show host (wha? maybe.) or artist (possible).

I can tell you that a seriously feverish child will scare the pants off the most sanguine of us and that it's extremely hard to see your spouse stressed to the nines. 

I can tell you that if the Republicans have any sense, neither Donald Trump nor Ted Cruz will get the nomination and that if they don't and Trump or Cruz does, he would lose. I can tell you that's a triumph for this country; the glimmer of hope that hate won't, ultimately, prevail.

I can tell you how to organize pretty much anything, and I can tell you that even when it's uncomfortable, asking for and accepting help really is a beautiful thing. 

Maybe what these rough waters are teaching me is that sometimes, showing up is what counts.

Thank you for being here, with me and in my periodic absences. I can tell you that I'm grateful. 

Diary of a move, 4

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I needed to go to the 2nd District Police Station today to print the moving van parking permits I'd applied for online earlier this week. My confirmation said to simply go to the station and use the lobby kiosk to do so.

I hadn't been to this station since Jack's 5th birthday. He was heavily into law enforcement at that time and in addition to a police- and crime-themed scavenger hunt birthday party (complete with badges, rear view sunglasses and walkie-talkies), he wanted to suit up in his police outfit and visit our district's police. 

Bemusedly, we obliged, and costumed Jack dragging Oliver into the station by his tiny, two-year-old hand remains one of my favorite pictures. 

Back then, the front doors just opened; you didn't have to be buzzed in or show ID or anything. So today, when I got there, dressed cutely in workout pants and my Patagonia puff jacket, I yanked on that door with such confidence that it would open that I nearly fell over when it most definitely did not. An officer standing outside, talking on her cell phone, called over. "You have to press the button on the right of the door."

"Thank you," I said, as I noticed a sign saying the very same thing hanging high in the upper left corner of one door. 

I pressed the button but nothing happened, and finally, the chatting officer took pity on me and came over to buzz me in.

Because I am an instructions follower and because my instructions clearly said to use the kiosk in the lobby, I walked to the kiosk in the lobby. I started tapping on the screen but didn't see any information except that related to sex offense. 

A gangly man was weaving in circles throughout the lobby, screaming the f-bomb in an exceedingly jovial manner. Another man lounged at the front desk, talking to the female officer behind the thick glass. She had a fountain of brown and pink braids and did not seem to mind the cussing beanstalk in her lobby.

"Excuse me, ma'am, are you a registered sex offender?" boomed a woman's voice. "Are you a registered sex offender?" she repeated. It occurred to me that she must be asking ME. 

I looked at her and said, "No ma'am," and she replied, "Because that is the kiosk for registered sex offenders. Are you a sex offender?"

"No ma'am, I'm just trying to print parking permits."

"Well, you need to sit at that desk over there!"

Cussing beanstalk was laughing his ass off at this point, still cussing and weaving. Lounging man was definitely chuckling under his breath, and I was still focused on not being a sex offender but also wondering why the permit station was an old computer on a desk and not a freaking kiosk.

I went to Crate & Barrel after leaving and  called one of my best friends to regale her with the experience. We cackled so loudly I had to hide in a corner behind a recliner.

People, this story cracks my business up. I am still laughing and this happened three hours ago. Can you even imagine what all those people said when I left. It's too hysterical to even consider. At least I have my permits.