Remember how Friday was all sunshine & smiles? Especially the sunshine part? Well Saturday was moving day, and I was desperately wishing for a digital camera so I could show you the sight that greeted me when I opened the front door.

It was snowing. Except it wasn’t just snowing, hell no, we’re not talking the fat picturesque flakes from your favorite Christmas movie, we’re talking a BLIZZARD, complete with howling wind and thigh-high drifts, the sort of weather that’s good for turning nose hair into icicles. And I couldn’t wait to move, because my crew was only available for that morning, and so off we went, packing mattresses and everything else through the muck.

Of course it only took us about four hours, and then when mid-afternoon rolled around the sun came out in force and the piles of snow started to turn to churning rivers of goo, and we all stood around looking at each other going, our timing could NOT have been worse.

But I’m officially moved into my new place, living in a maze of Huggies boxes and garbage bags, contemplating throwing away 90% of what I own to save myself the hassle of unpacking.  Note: I’m still happy and cheerful, in case this is making me sound all crankyness. However, there are two little problems with the new place.

1) The bathroom is not only cramped – when I say cramped I mean that in order to fit inside you have to be an Ethiopian child or invest in a jar of Vaseline – it’s a haven for spiders. Not little spiders either. Big, spindly black spiders that go CRUNCH and leave snot-like goo on the wall when you scream like a little girl and frantically search for a weapon because oh god oh god there is NO WAY I was touching that thing calmly seize the fly swatter and whack swing repeatedly pummel the thing take care of the problem. There has been not one, but TWO already, and I’ve only been living there for a day and a half. Ish.

2) I have a dryer, and no place to put it where it will work. There’s a 220 line in the kitchen by the stove, but no vent. There’s a vent in the tiny utility room off the kitchen (ideal, really) but no way to get the dryer IN there because the hot water heater won’t move it’s big ass out of the way, thus making the doorway two inches too narrow.

Lastly, I got up early to get ready for work this morning, thinking it might take me a while to find everything I need  because although I unpacked and sorted last night, I couldn’t find a few things. For example, ANY of my underwear. I looked for more than a half an hour, and all I found was a single pair of granny panties which…I even tried on under my dress pants. And let’s just call them form-fitting and say there’s no way I could have pulled that off with any leftover dignity. So I am bare-assed under my pants, people, and not thrilled about it. And I don’t have a CLUE how this happened, because I left most of my clothes in the drawers to make it easier to move, and they aren’t there. And they aren’t in any of the garbage bags. My comfort level is in the red zone.

So tonight I’ll be searching for delicates until I damn well find them. I hope you all had a peaceful, panty-clad weekend.

My pinprick of light at the end of the tunnel has become a blinding, all-encompassing glow. I’ll be finishing up moving for most of the weekend, but it is a gloriously sunny Friday afternoon, and so far NOTHING has been able to squash my incredible sense of optimism. I’m downright bubbly for the first time in about three weeks, and HELLO SELF how I’ve missed you.

Sometimes, I think my life is kind of fabulous – better still, I actually believe it. Today I’m there, soaking in the sun and smiles and generally thinking that even though I’ll be spending 90% of the next two & a half days packingcleaningunpackingshuffling everything I own, my life is more than bearable – it’s GOOD.

I’m getting a house with a yard. I’ll be able to have a dog, or host my too-cute-for-words niece’s 1st birthday party. I’m going to have managable rent and other costs. I might even have SPARE cash, and wouldn’t that be something? Given time, I can buy a car! Or a house to live in forever and ever, or TRAVEL (big wet drool)!

And this is the part where I reluctantly admit that some of my happiness and giddy joy may be resulting from things that have NO business causing me to feel this way, but I’m thinking happiness – no matter the cause – should always be a tally in the plus column.

Trust is a funny thing. Everyone wants to be trusted, somehow. You can trust that someone will do the right thing, or that they’ll drop you on your ass.

There are stages involved in getting to know someone. Asking questions, drawing conclusions, and from those conclusions deciding whether or not you intend to trust this person with your personal saga – hopes, ambitions, and especially insecurities. Because it’s been my experience that you’ll trust someone with your hopes long before you trust them with your nightmares.

I trusted someone with my nightmares, the things I’m ashamed to say even to myself. Facts and thoughts I would never tell my family. He’s particularly good at inspiring trust. Quiet, gentle, with a wry sense of humor. I saw him almost every day for most of my life, but only recently started knowing him. We shared things, most especially understanding. We understand each other.

The last time I saw him, he humiliated me. He was drinking, so perhaps not thinking clearly? I’d like to believe that – that his words were a mistake, and that he’s sorry. It was just a little thing, a conclusion he’d drawn from some of our previous conversations.

He said to me, and everyone else in the bar, that I idolize my sister, that I think nothing of myself.

I don’t know if this is true. I think not, but the point is, anything I said to him was a confidence. Not to be blurted out in darkened corners where drunks can jeer and laugh and maybe remember the next morning. Never that.

When I got quiet and in all likelihood turned an unpleasant shade of red, he must have known that I was uncomfortable. Mortified. Wishing I’d never opened my mouth, wishing I’d never said anything good about my sister, because WHAT made him think that? And then share it with the room?

I have conclusions of my own. I think I made a mistake, and I trusted someone better left in the dark about me. It’s better, sometimes, to let people wonder than to give them concrete knowledge. Wondering can be scoffed away or laughed at, or given a mysterious arched eyebrow. Words create ideas, ideas that can be used to blindside you when you don’t expect it.

I trusted an asshole. Or, maybe he doesn’t understand me as well as I thought.

I’ve been immersed in moving-related activities for the past two weeks, pretty much nonstop. I scrubbed until environmentally unfriendly cleaning products (which were definitely called for in some places) caused my hands to crack and flake and look gross and pitiful. I packed and tucked and hauled. And with the fond, wistful memory of one weekend-long exception, I did it all alone. I didn’t ask my family or friends for help, and thus they were spared the making of lame excuses and sat at home free and clear while I choked on toxic cleaning fumes and tried not to gag after seeing the inside of one nightmarish closet.

This moping, it’s turning out to be not so minor. (Apologies). The thing is, this move is more tiresome than most because first I had to remove the landlord’s furniture and pack it into their storage space, then clean the house I’m moving to, and NOW I have to pack all of my things and move them in before I can clean my apartment with vain hopes of getting my security deposit back.

The fragile pinprick of light at what’s starting to seem like a black hole of a never-ending tunnel filled with pointy boxes on which I continually stub my toes: My new job. My boss and co-workers love me (not that we’re surprised! *smug face*) and I love what I’m doing. And today, I finally got set up with the computer program I’ve been waiting for, so now the real slave labor can begin. There’s nothing like mind-numbing codes and continually fluctuating checkbook balances to make dumping pans into boxes seem like a nice, sunny vacation spot.

And, thank GOD, the weather is finally looking springy. I can forgive the gale force sixty-five mile an hour winds with a mere middle-fingered salute, thanks to the sunshine and cloudless blue skies of the last few days. I smell summer coming. I’m thinking barbeque’s and bikinis and choppy boat rides, possibly involving knee-boarding or skiing.

And better still, my new place has a huge yard so I can have a garden with vegetables and sunflowers and maybe even the floppy-eared golden retriever puppy I’ve been wanting for my entire life. And I’ll get to do yard work! Yes, I’m looking FORWARD to raking, mowing, pulling weeds. DO I MOCK YOUR HOBBIES? That’s what I thought.

As some of you might have guessed (having brains and all), I have what politically correct people refer to as ‘issues’. As far as the rest of us are concerned, I’m a certifiable nutcase. Further evidence to support this claim (as if you needed any)…

I can’t handle romantic touching. I haven’t had a lot of boyfriends, but those I did have usually knew better than to caress or stroke. They could screw me blind, slap my ass and walk away whistling, and I’d smile fondly while I watched them leave. But to touch my face, or gently take my hand…these were big no-nos. Not surprisingly, most of the men I’ve dated weren’t the type to take their time with tenderness anyway. Which suited me, and still suits me.

Recently, someone was tender – even caring – in my direction. Physically. Nothing sexual, just…sweet. Even after ingesting an unmentionable amount of alcohol, I handled it badly. All he did was reach out and tuck my hair behind my ear, and I froze like a terrified animal and battled a sudden onset of nausea and, in my typical fashion, made a DUMB joke about needing a haircut (GOD I need a haircut) and then promptly sought a topic guaranteed to squash any tender thoughts he could have been having about me.

No touchy-feely business here, people. Remember Kindergarten? Keeps your hands to yourself. Single file lines. Eyes straight ahead.

And for those of you who know me and are now planning to ask several nosy questions about this encounter, FORGET IT. My memory will terminate after this piece has been posted.

Assuming you have a burning desire never to hear from me again…

Repeatedly offer your assistance, despite my assurances of being FINE and GOOD and NO THANK YOU. Then, after assistance has been accepted (obviously in an attempt to drop subject for the love of god), LECTURE me on how fucking important it is to DO THINGS FOR MYSELF.

What? Whoa! Excuse ME, but didn’t you just INSIST on helping? Despite my repeated brush-offs? WHY YES, you did! I don’t recall ASKING for fire rings and lawn mowers and for some vital check on my fucking water heater – and NOW you’re suddenly telling me in a slightly raised voice with penetrating eyeballs how it’s ABOUT TIME I learned to stand on my ‘own two feet’ and ‘take care of things by myself?’

Listen, you ASSHAT (thank you Cheri), when I tell you that if you dare offer aid again, instead of politely telling you I can handle it and then stupidly caving in, I’ll suggest you take your oh-so-kind generosity and CRAM IT.

Happy Easter, everyone. Have a lovely weekend.

Actually, that’s a lie. I HATE to ‘move it’, assuming that the ‘it’ we’re referring to is the somehow large amount of stuff I’ve accumulated in the last two years. I spent my whole weekend moving my landlord’s furniture out of the house I’m moving into, putting it in their storage shed – they live far far away, so the task falls on me if I want to fit any of my own junk inside. Then, because the house has been empty and collecting dust for the better part of a year, we scrubbed and polished and vacuumed and I’m getting tired all over again just writing this down. I haven’t even finished the cleaning bit, and after that I’ll have to move my stuff (how did I GET so much stuff?) and then finish the whole mess off by cleaning the apartment I’m moving out of and then…then the dreaded and much-loathed UNPACKING begins.

I just experienced a full-body, bone-chilling shudder. If you’re thinking I intend to do this by myself, you are so very wrong. I have friends that are easily (thank god) manipulated into back-breaking manual labor with promises of beer, and even one or two of them who ‘just want to help’. (I know, I don’t get it either).

Tomorrow is Monday, and as much as I love my new job (LOVE) I’m thinking weekends should actually be three days long. Face it, Saturday doesn’t count – you’re still unwinding, basking in the great feeling of having a day off. And then Sunday you already have to worry about going BACK? Be honest, there needs to be a buffer of some kind. A middle day. Write your senators, people. Or whoever’s in charge of these very pressing issues.

Also, tomorrow is St. Paddy’s Day! And I’m only a teensy bit Irish, but I will be partaking in merriment and the whole green-themed tradition, right down to the completely nasty pint of Guinness. I hope everyone has a great holiday, oh yeah except for you SCOTTISH bastards.

The following conversation took place driving home from the grocery store, at sunset, with my friend K driving while I passengered:

Me: “DAMN, I look good in direct light.” (Sunset, anyone? Not exactly direct, is it?)
K, looking utterly disgusted, and flipping up the visor I’m using to admire myself: “Shut up.”
Me, after flipping the visor back down: “No, seriously, I should be in Hollywood!”
K: “At least then you wouldn’t be HERE.”
Me: “I have a movie star’s face! I could still get hired.”
K: “Good, go NOW.”
Me: “I’d take you out on my fancy yacht.”
K: “I wouldn’t go. I’d have to listen to you be WORSE than you are now.”
Me: “What!? I’d be a sweet, down to earth movie star! Generous!”
K: “You’d be twenty times worse than you are now.”
Me: “I’d be sweet. Sweet like sugar cubes.”
K: *makes a rude and doubtful noise*
Me: “Sweet like sugar cubes…in black coffee.”

It’s been a long time since I’ve been in a serious relationship – a very long, lonely time. I’ve dated here and there, but nothing even remotely close to waking up my desire to feel.

It’s not a good time to start fixating on my love life, or lack thereof – I have so much to handle, so much to learn and remember, and believe me when I say my brain is at maximum capacity and anything else could cause stuff to start leaking out of my ears. But this seems to be the time I always want a lover most – when I need to share my successes, or my concerns, or just a glass of wine and a giddy feeling that only good things are coming.

While I was away for training, I met a cop who was clearly interested in me. He was attractive in a country-boy sort of way, well within my age range, and kind of funny. And I was immediately critical and definitely NOT interested. I took one good look at him, and the list of reasons why not in my head was as long as I am tall. He was divorced, with two small children. He was slightly immature. He was trying too hard. He was a little bit overweight. His lips were too big. Essentially, he had a big red check mark in the NO WAY column of my brain.

He called me today to ask if I was interested in going on a date. Obviously the fact that we live an hour and a half apart was no bother, in his opinion. I blew him off – I tried to be nice about it, giving him a brief list of reasons why I’m much too busy to be in a relationship, but I think what it comes down to is that I’ve pretty much given up.

I’m not at all interested in dating anyone. The last few times I’ve tried, I’ve done the exact same thing – whether I went on a couple of dates or not, I had already decided it would never work, so why bother. Except sometimes, like now, I want someone.

And something perverse in me knows that if someone miraculously appeared and said everything right, I’d turn him down and walk away.

I’m knee-deep in my new job, and despite the fact that I unwittingly signed on to be a bookkeeper – long, complicated story involving me applying for one thing and then getting hired for quite another – I’m LOVING it. Even the math parts! In fact, I’m starting to think maybe I just didn’t give math a fair go in high school/college, keeping in mind that bookkeeping is fairly basic common sense type stuff, and it’s not like I’m configuring triangles or combining letters and numbers (fuck!).

I was all jittery on too much caffeine intake and a bad case of nerves at first, but now I feel like I’m actually learning and absorbing, and they are letting me DO instead of watch and that’s how I do things best. Tomorrow I’m taking off for a neighboring county to get hands-on training for the program I’ll be using, and won’t be back until Friday night.

BEST OF ALL (aside from my own desk, complete with colored note cards and an endless supply of post-its – WHAT? I’m easily pleased!), I FOUND A HOUSE! A cheap, cute little house with a huge yard so I can have a garden and a dog. It’s only $150 a month plus utilities, which is a STEAL, and it’s all mine – I went to take a peek on my lunch hour (I actually have a lunch hour! hee!) and then called the owners right after I got off work to seal the deal.

Color me ACCOMPLISHED. Damn I’ve been getting things done lately, and it feels good. Of course, the house was actually suggested to me, and to that person (who put in a good word with the owners) I say, I love you SO MUCH thank you!