Nearly Normal

We are 98.7% moved in. One giant Clyde Butcher and one heavy wood-framed mirror to go until we are completely out of the Punta Gorda house. Then we have to patch and paint and clean -- but that's it!

Here on the other side of town, I have decided we will just live out of boxes. It's so much easier, really. You always know where everything is -- it's out in the garage, in that great mountain of cartons -- and it forces you to be more creative with the few necessities you have on hand. Dressing requires no thought, you wear the same outfit every other day, unless you're my children, then you wear the same outfit every single day because somebody, and I won't say who, but somebody under four feet tall, somebody with a knack for misdeeds, left red and green contraband crayons in the pocket of her pants. I have been avoiding the laundry room all afternoon because the sight of an entire load of whites and khakis, including all but one set of school uniforms, streaked with Christmas colors, soaking in the tub, is just not putting me in any sort of festive mood.

Moving Tip: Leave the iron on and go for a long drive.

Friday night was the big office street party. The weather was perfect, cool and cloudless, the food was scrumptious, especially the sushi bar, there was never a wait at the open bar, where I became reacquainted with a taste for tequila, and the band was lively. Rich snowbirds, local shopkeepers, blue and white collars from over the bridge, fisherman, everybody had a grand time mixing it up. One of the local ministers mentioned in his sermon Sunday how great it was to see people come together as a true community. He announced that he would like to host a similar event to celebrate the reopening of the church after major renovations are completed, but with a lot less alcohol. I sensibly skipped the red wine, which I love but never fails to give me a raging, instant migraine, and decided to have one margarita. What harm could just one do? Well, one led to two and then a third after finding that they were not disgustingly icky sweet. I knew it was time to quit when one of the other parents from the school came up to introduce himself to my husband, after first putting his arm around my shoulder, and telling Jorge, "Your daughter is the sweetest thing ever..." and I nearly blurted out, "I'm not his daughter, I'm his wife!" before realizing he was indeed referring to my ten year old. Instead, I cracked myself up, leaving him wondering what was so funny about his sincere compliment. Discovering today that he was an English major, I'm going to consider his actions a misplaced social modifier.

The best part of the evening actually occurred the following morning when I woke up and rediscovered tequila does not leave me with a blinding headache.