new kid in town

We did it! Our relocation to the city is complete. Well, if you can call 32,049..oops, I mean, 32,053 people- a city. Oy, heavens, vey, what an exhausting last couple of weeks. I am bruised, battered, blog-deprived and broke. Big Daddy? I’m amazed he didn’t pull a quick left in the U-Haul and admit himself back into ICU to hide away from all the boxy shenanigans. No wonder “moving” is on the Top Five list of the most stressful life experiences. They say death and divorce is worse, but I don’t think so. Why is it, that ya think you've gotten rid of all that junk in the last move only to find it is still there...tucked away in the musty corner of your Fibber McGee closet? I am still trying to figure out why I kept 200 of my headshots when I moved here to the Ozarks from L.A. Uh, hello. It's not like Hollywood will be calling anytime soon. I haven't even had mascara on in the last four years, for criminy sakes. And don’t get me started on my significant other. He has no less than five boxes of what he calls “memorabilia”. Basically, it is every script he has ever held in his hands and enough copies of his demo reel to run well into the next century or stretch itself out to the Space Station, whichever is longest. All I know is this...I am beat, I have paint brush in hand, I'm gazing at a lawn full of beautiful green grass..rock-free, I can get to the store in five minutes flat and I'm close to a Linens & Things which has given this budgeted mom a killer deal on a cast-iron banana holder and a mod pillow sham. The irony of it all though? Mama is fully ensconced in a dry county. Oh, yeah. Scary, isn't it? No need to worry our little heads about that though. even with gas at $3.89 a gallon, I’d drive across the friggin’ Sahara in a Hummer to get a bottle of wine. I mean, please.

Yes, indeedy, we are settling right on in to our brick abode very nicely, thank you. The Mag union was on the brink of disaster but now that we can both brush our teeth at the same time, side by side..while doing jumping jacks if we want to- all is working out just fine. The girls are enthralled with their Craig’s List bunk bed, having a sidewalk to finally ride the trike they’ve had, unused, for three years now, and, hey, the 8x 10 bruise on my right leg has even begun to heal after kicking an empty Wal-Mart sack out of my way, with all the might I could muster, mind you...only to end up bashing the 75 pound piece of daybed I was carrying. That one spawned quite a few colorful words, folks. Thank goodness, my kids were sitting in front of the T.V. in the brain-dead, drooly stance that they've held for about three weeks now. It's a wonder Child Protective Services hasn't come knocking. Now if I only had the bucks for a massage therapist, I might just make it out of this whole thing in an upright and locked position again. Instead, I will hobble across my fabulously tiled floor, help myself to a frosty one out of the stainless steel ice-maker fridge that conveyed, enjoy a luxurious dip in my stand-up shower, resume mothering my two children, tuck my visiting pals into their very own room instead of a blow-up mattress in front of the fireplace, dance a jig in my walk-in closet and, unfortunately, grab my industrial-sized box cutter and start slashing up the two tons of recyclable cardboard I have sitting on my back porch.