i should be packing...

...but i don't wanna. i know. i know. just enjoy the pics and stop looking at me like that. i'll pack tomorrow.

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it's time to change my pants

O.K. So I'm driving on the interstate this morning on my way to work on our never gonna be ready to move in next week no matter what we do to it, latest money-pit, lovely brick home with loads of potential.

I'm jamming to some Christmas tunes on the radio, enjoying the quiet of my van because I am alone. I'm almost giddy because I'm rarely alone. Being alone sounds sad and lonely, but when you have four children, being alone has nearly the same effect as eating large amounts of chocolate that you don't have to share or spending a day at the spa. Let me say it again while I bask in the beauty of the words themselves...I'm alone! Eeeek! Fantastic!

I hired a babysitter for the day in order to actually get some work done which inevitably includes running to our neighborhood home improvement type store for "stuff" and being the lunch-getting person to feed our friends who come and volunteer their time because they feel sorry for us, are biding their time until they can find better friends, they love us and just want us to finally settle. Somewhere. For the love of God and all things holy, could you just get somewhere and stay a while, they plead? But I digress.

So I'm driving on the interstate and notice a blue truck up ahead, pulled rather far off the shoulder of the road in a semi-gully. Hmm. Wonder what he's doing down there.

Well.

As I get closer, I see that he is changing his clothes. His pants to be specific. Right there on MY side of his blue truck. The side where all the cars with PEOPLE in them are whizzing by.

After I realize I've just been half-mooned by some stranger wearing tighty-whities, I begin to laugh. Out loud. For a long time. I am once again glad I'm alone. I begin to think about why someone would choose to change their pants on the side of the road because that's just the kind of gal I am. And I continue to laugh. Why? Because y'all, it's just funny.

I wonder why Mr. Gottachangemypantsrightnow has decided to take his clothes off on the side of the road for passersby to see. Has he spilled some boiling hot McCoffee on his lap? Does he suffer from incontinence, poor thing? Perhaps unbeknownst to Mr. Gottachangemypantsrightnow, a family of ants have moved into his truck and are marching up his leg in search of a new place to conquer and call home, and Mr. Gottachangemypantsrightnow in an effort to save himself, has decided these pants have got to go. Right this instant! Or maybe he's fashion conscious and just realized that his pants just don't go with his shirt. I just wonder why, that's all.

Well, I guess I'll never know for sure. But if I may, I'd like to offer a small bit of advice to Mr. Gottachangemypantsrightnow or anyone else thinking of whipping off the side of the road for a wardrobe change.

1. Kindly step around to the side of the vehicle NOT facing all the known world.

or


2. Invest in a snazzy pair of boxers.


Thank you. That's all.

On the Road Again

I feel the need to sing this loud and proud as we embark on yet another move. In less than a year. During the Christmas season. To another fixer-upper lovely brick home loaded with potential. On Possum Hollow Lane. In Mississippi. Can you really get more redneck rural than that??? At least I'm not pregnant this time, but I'm cranky nonetheless.

You see, in nearly 15 years of marriage, we have moved...let me see...how many times? These timelines are approximate. Not exact. But close enough. Get off me, ok? I think a have a mental block when I try too hard to remember.

* out of our 900 sq ft dump honeymoon haven which we lived in for a couple of years, to the first home we purchased (while pregnant)

* 3 years later to an apartment...after being struck by a tornado (pregnant again)

* 3 months later back to the repaired house (still pregnant)

* 1 year later, out of state

* 2 years later, out of state again

* 3 years later we moved our stuff 5 times (mini-moves) until our money-pit fixer-upper was ready to inhabit. (preggers again? yep, soon)

* 2 years later, we evacuated (moved) out of state with a 2 month old for that little storm, Hurricane Katrina (Our second natural disaster, third if you count the blizzard. In March. In the South. The day we were married.) It should have been a beacon, a herald, a harbinger of things to come. *sniff sniff* But I digress.

* 3 months later, another move in state

* 11 months later, out of state and knocked-up pregnant again

* and here we are, "On the Road Again"

Counting this move, we will now have a grand total of 14 moves. That is insane. Do you hear me? You would think I would be good at it by now. I'm not. I hate packing. And worse, I hate unpacking. The best I can hope for is a huge purge of junk perfectly usable, 'donatable' belongings. And for those of you who are wondering, NO! I AM NOT PREGNANT! That is so not funny. Did I mention I hate moving?

I know I am not in control here, but I am not kidding about this. As far as it is up to me and barring another tornado, hurricane, volcanic eruption, earthquake, ozone evaporation, nuclear meltdown, apocalypse and rapture, I AM NOT MOVING AGAIN. I plan to raise my ungrateful urchins precious children here. Our family can come visit. One day, our grandchildren can come visit their favorite grandparents us here. I plan to rot grow old here. You will find my cold, dead body on Possum Hollow Lane.

Aw man! That sounds about right awful. I don't want my obituary to say Possum Hollow. We may have to move just one more time. I don't want to die there.