Sigh. We're finally moved in. Most of our stuff in unpacked, all of our various deliveries have arrived, and I have never been this exhausted in my entire life. My legs are killing me, and I'm starting to think we should have purchased a ranch instead of a two story. Chris is working on installing a pneumatic tube that I can use to transport myself from up to down, down to up.

This house doesn't feel like home yet, except for our loft area, which has all of our old living room furniture from our last place. I like it up here; I can fool myself into thinking I'm paying rent and not a mortgage payment, property taxes, homeowners' insurance, PMI.... Oh, life was so much simpler a week ago.

The neighborhood is really nice. I have a feeling it's going to be one of those neighborhoods that hosts block parties. The neighbors smile and wave, and I've already met one of them. In four years of renting, I never met a single one of my neighbors, aside from the Tubmans, who I secretly worked to get evicted. I guess homeowners are different from renters like that. Also, I have yet to see any kids over the age of three. Or, come to think of it, adults in the age range of 35-55. It's definitely young couples and retirees around here. Score.

We did some shopping yesterday in McHenry. I apologize in advance to anyone in McHenry that I may insult, but the whole outing felt like we were on vacation in some small, backwoods Wisconsin town. It's different out here, but I think mostly in a good way. People smile. People move a little slower. People don't dress up as much. The Meijer is shaped like a barn. Not that my old house was located in some kind of social and cultural hub- it wasn't- but it felt more like a suburb of a major city. Out here, it feels like Chicago is the kind of place you only go to on very special occasions. Like Chicago is a place you only hear about on the news.

Of course, I've only been here three days now. But I'm just telling you my first impression. I could be wildly wrong about this area being so removed from the hustle and flow. I know I will feel wildly wrong when I go back to work and join the legions of commuters. I shudder to think.

Overall, not too bad. We're in, we're alive, no major catastrophes to speak of. Chris' little brother and his girlfriend were MAJOR helps on moving day. I am eternally grateful. Now if only they'd come back and mow my yard.

I have a yard. But no sprinkler or lawn mower. Oh well. It's almost winter, right?

Shit, that reminds me. I need to buy a shovel.

Lordy. We have the closing bright and early tomorrow, and then we're moving on Friday. I feel like the more we pack, the more I find to pack. I'm also mildly concerned about getting our security deposit back on the rental because it seems that I have completely stopped caring for this place I've called home. The kitchen is a mess, the rugs are dirty, the bathrooms are a disaster, the walls are getting more and more banged up with each box of crap we drag through the hall and down the stairs, and I just don't have it in me to make much of an effort to make the place presentable. Also, our last Garbage Day has come and gone here at ye olde rental unit, and it appears that I have many more bags of trash to dispose of. I don't believe I will be packing bags of garbage to bring to my new house, so I am seemingly forced to just leave them in a heap in the garage. Surely they will dock fifty or sixty bucks from my deposit just for that. I have some fish in the freezer that I will likely place into one of those bags, and fish in a bag in the garage is the kind of stench that will surely linger.

Ugh, I am not looking forward to moving day. I am looking forward to life in my new house, but the actual movement of belongings is going to be rather taxing. And then there's the tedious task of unpacking, of finding new spots to put my things. There's much to be said for living a minimalist lifestyle. From now on, I will not buy any more items than I absolutely need. Soap, food, socks. That's IT.

My packing skills leave a lot to be desired, and I think we will end up being surprised when we open each box. I'm not the kind of person that packs items according to category and/or room. I don't put books in one box, shoes in another, dishes in yet another. I know of one box for sure that contains the following items: George Foreman grill, three bras, VC Andrews books, alarm clock, nail polish, and a tax return. I've been wandering around my rooms, box in hand, just trying to find things that will fit inside, like Tetris pieces. In the box that holds my printer, I've also put a few tubes of lotion and some shot glasses. I clearly remember throwing a can of green beans inside a box of mostly sweaters and candles.

Sigh.

I won't be going back to work for a week and a half. My poor MV, I left her with a stack of half finished loans, the password to my computer, and a heartfelt "good luck." She'll be fine. If not, she can call me, and I will answer my cell phone, if I can find it. There are going to be many things in the coming days that I will not be able to find. I just hope my cashiers' check for the closing isn't one of those items.

Okay, who wants to see a picture of my house? You? Good!


There it is, Casa de Jackie y Chris. Look at that adorable railing! I can't wait to put a little bench on my porch area and sit and enjoy a good yell at the neighborhood kids. Also, don't you love the red door? Very "American Beauty," except without the mid-life crisis and, well, you know. Let's just hope.


This is the Nicor guy. He didn't want his picture taken, but I said, "Listen, Jim, you're a part of this day too, and I'll be damned if you stop me from documenting this." They dug a big hole in my front yard. And they didn't dig very neatly. But I'm sure somebody will fill that hole, otherwise Chris will get his basement after all. Only this basement will be wildly inconvenient to access.



This is Chris in the kitchen that I feared would be ugly, scoping out the pantry space and planning where he'll put his chips. The kitchen isn't ugly, I don't think. It's not stellar, and it's probably not what I would choose to do had I the opportunity to make those decisions all over again. I'm a little worried about the checker board floor, but I do love board games, so hey. I think the kitchen will look really nice once I paint and put all of my "accessories" in. Sidenote: when did we start calling knick knacks and curtains "accessories?" I'm not sure I like it. A vase of flowers is nothing like a belt. A bunch of candles is to a necklace like raisin bran is to a hammer. You know?

Now it feels especially real. I should be packing right now, but instead I'm drinking wine (it's four in the afternoon on a Monday, which is a new personal low, thank you very much) and daydreaming about the house. Let's not mention the fact that I got an apocalyptic glimpse this morning of what my daily commute will be. So what if I'm stuck in the car each day long enough to bring a baby to term? I'm going to be a homeowner. And it's a pretty nice home, too.

Party in a few weeks. Only clear beverages will be served, and if you don't take your shoes off at the door I WILL be forced to take a shit in your car.

What? What did I say?

I am so NERVOUS! It's 6:30 AM, and we have our final walk-through of the new house in 2 1/2 hours. Actually, I don't know why they call it the final walk-through, since this is going to be the first time ever that we see our completed house. I guess some of these construction type assholes have walked through it a million times; maybe this is the final walk-through from their perspective. I hope they pick up and dispose of any beer cans that we might find along the way.

I'm nervous because I'm afraid we designed an ugly house, or at least an ugly kitchen. How many times during these past five months have I held up the swatch of the flooring next to the swatch of the cabinet next to the swatch of the countertop next to a piece of white paper (pretending that the piece of white paper is the refrigerator) and felt a little like crying? A lot! A whole lot. In fact, I started carrying the swatches around in my purse (along with the white paper) just so I could whip them out and make myself feel bad in any place, at any time, during virtually any activity.

Of course, it could have turned out beautiful. Or my anxiety could be spot on. I wish I knew what to expect for this "final" walk-through. I wish the construction manager had called instead of sending a letter in order to schedule this holy event, just so I could try to read the tone in his voice. Would it be pride, disgust, shame, pity, joy, ambivalence? What? Instead, I couldn't dissect the tone of the letter. Of course, if I were to find out that they NORMALLY call and only in MY case did they send a letter... well, gosh, that would tell me everything.

I'm shaking! But I have to get up, shower, drink a gallon of coffee, and then- let the morning of reckoning beginning.

I was working at the Home Depot to earn some extra cash, only I somehow ended up working the night shift as a cashier. The Home Depot is not open twenty-four hours, but for some reason my supervisor liked us cashiers to be available, just in case. At night, we would lock down the doors and then I would find a way to sleep at my cash register because I had to be well rested to go to my regular 9-5 job in the morning.

One night, I'm asleep at my register when an armed gunman breaks in. I wake up because of the noise, but all of the other cashiers are fast asleep. The armed gunman runs over to me and tells me that I have to figure out a way to get the money out of all of the cash registers without waking anybody up. It's a challenge, but I'm up for it. I give him the money out of my register first, and then we move on to the sleeping cashier next to me. He's drooling all over his register, but I manage to slide his head over to the counter and then slide open the cash drawer. The register makes a little dinging noise, and the gunman gets pissed even though the dinging didn't wake anybody up. He wants to know if every register dings. I tell him yes, that dinging noise is how we tell our customers at the Home Depot that we love them. The armed gunman gets pissed, and then he says he's hungry and he's going to go to Taco Bell. I lock the doors behind him and then go back to my register to finish sleeping.

In the morning, I'm changing out of my Home Depot smock and putting on my normal work clothes when my boss bursts in and wants to know why we're short by fifty-six bucks. I'm completely naked, but I try to act casual, thinking he won't notice if I don't draw any attention to it. I pretend to put my hands into a set of nonexistent pockets and shrug nonchalantly, saying I don't know anything about fifty-six bucks but I will open an interest bearing checking account for him at the bank and transfer the exact amount of funds into this account so that one month's worth of interest in 30 days at 4.60% APY will yield the fifty-six bucks and then we won't be short anymore. My boss is impressed, but he wants to know what the exact starting balance of this account will need to be. I don't have a calculator, so I can't tell him. He fires me, and I quickly run out of the Home Depot. The cash registers are dinging behind me.

I end up at my office, and I find myself explaining to my co-workers that I was abruptly fired from my night job because of an armed gunman and a lack of a calculator. And they say that they're sorry, but they still don't understand why I don't have on a single stitch of clothing except for a pair of invisible pockets.

I think I'm severely dehydrated. I can't remember the last time I had a glass of water. Sure, every once in a while, I have a SIP of water, but when I have a drink? It's coffee or a Red Bull or wine. For Pete's sake, I'm turning into the kind of person that has a cup of coffee with lunch. Today I had a Lean Cuisine lasagna and a cup of coffee. For a moment, I felt a bit like my grandmother. But my grandmother would ask for a Sanka. I had real coffee.

And then, five minutes after the lasagna and coffee had been consumed, my stomach started cramping up something awful. It cramped up to the point where it distracted me from my telephone conversation, and I momentarily forgot who I was talking to. That's starting to happen all too often as well, speaking of turning into my grandmother. I dial the phone and can't remember who to ask for. Halfway through a conversation, I have no idea who I'm talking to, or why. Or I just space out for thirty seconds, long enough to miss a vital part of the conversation, and next thing you know I've committed myself to doing something- something- I just don't know what.

Yesterday, driving home, I stopped at a stop sign and found myself waiting for it to turn green.

I think water could fix all of this. I need to stay hydrated, need to keep my organs nice and moist and fresh. And afloat.

I love Steely Dan. And I found this artist, Nina Pallot, and she does a pretty damn good cover of an old favorite, "Peg."

Listen to Peg.

Here are a few other things I love:

Shuffling around the house in my robe and my slipper socks with make-up smeared all over my face, my hair in a tangled pony-tail, and some kind of mixed drink in my left hand. Makes me feel classy. Well, not classy. But comfortable!

People getting hit with things, and subsequently falling down. This instantly makes any movie, or day at work, just plain feel-good funny!

Eating butter right from the stick. Unabashedly delicious!

Hiding objects from my cart inside other objects when I put them on the conveyor belt at the store. Then, the cashier doesn't ring them up BUT SHE STILL PUTS THEM RIGHT IN THE BAG FOR ME. It's the perfect crime. I mean, yes, it's a crime. But I just spent fifty bucks on sweaters. Least they could do is let me have the pack of gum I put in one of the pockets.

Have I gone too far? Just listen to "Peg!"

Chris and I are getting a landline for the new house. He thinks that any and every respectable homeowner should have an actual telephone, and not just cellulars. I think he's living in an antiquated era. In fact, I know he's living in an antiquated era. He wants to get a rotary phone. Rotary!

To be fair, the idea of a rotary phone somehow sounds insanely attractive to me. Dialing a rotary phone would be fun, although I can only imagine the sort of hell that would break loose when I couldn't "press one" when calling my credit card company. I'd have to scream "Operator!" into the phone and just hope and pray that their system was also voice activated.

Of course, I could just use my cell for those important phone calls.

The other problem with the rotary phone plan is that these phones are expensive. Super expensive, because they're so retro. I could get a plain old push button phone at Wal-Mart for five bucks, but the rotary models all seem to start at about sixty bucks. And it appears that you can only buy them on the internet. That, I understand, but the higher price points for these monsters is really irritating. Basically, I'm going to pay more in order to be greatly inconvenienced. I have to pay more in order to then spend ten minutes dialing one phone number. Pay more for no Caller ID, no "flash" button for call-waiting. What do they think I am, a sucker?

Well, they're right.

We also thought about getting a pay phone (you know, for guests), but I could see that turning into a real problem.

Now I am beginning the process of reducing my life into appropriately sized boxes. Whenever I pack, I think of that George Carlin bit where he talks about our "stuff." Sometimes you gotta move, gotta get a bigger house. Why? No room for your stuff anymore. Did you ever notice when you go to somebody else's house, you never quite feel a hundred percent at home? You know why? No room for your stuff. Somebody else's stuff is all over the goddamn place!

All of these items from my life, I'm throwing them into boxes. Big boxes, small boxes, boxes that once held wine bottles, boxes that an eBay seller once used to ship me a board game. My favorite sweaters, now they're in some shitty box. My wedding gifts, my movies, my photos, my surplus toiletries. Boxes, boxes, boxes. And it's depressing. In the end, what else is our life but a collection of stuff that can fit into a box?

Meanwhile, the closets and cabinets and shelves become bare. We live here now, just barely. Soon, we won't at all.

I'm moving in two weeks into a house that I will own, a house larger than my parents' house (excluding their basement). I'm going to have a mortgage payment that's six hundred bucks more than my current rent payment. I'm going to have a yard, and the responsibility of knowing that if I break my dryer, I can't just call the landlord. Oh no. If that fucker breaks, it's all me.

It's scary. But I can't think too much of the harsh realities of homeownership. I have to concentrate on the fun things, of cooking in my new kitchen, painting my walls, setting up all of my rooms. But even before I think of the fun things, I have to concentrate on the boxes. On my stuff.

Lord, do I throw away the cans of diced tomatoes in the pantry, or should I put those into the boxes as well?

Starting tomorrow, I will resume my role as Football Widow. I wish there was something Chris hated that I could wedge into his life for a season. Besides my incessant bitching.

Chris wrote a really funny blog entry in response to my entry below. I'm mostly referring to the last paragraph, which really made me laugh. I don't even own a notebook.

Notice to all men over sixty:

Never, under any circumstances, say the word "gynecology" to me while lightly touching the small of my back.

Never!

Addendum: Let's just make that a rule for everybody.

See entry below.

And today? Today, in my car, I lit my cigarette with a match- a nice, safe match- and somehow I dropped the match. It tumbled to my skirt, safely dropped off when I shifted my legs, and then fell onto the upholstry of my driver's seat and burned a hole- another damned hole!- right through it before the flame extinguished.

What the fuck.

I give up.

I had a terrifying experience today. I lit a cigarette in my car, and the lighter burst into a ball of flames. I threw the lighter and the ball of flames into the passenger seat, when I probably should have thrown it out the window. The fireball kind of hovered above my seat, and I started screaming. I screamed for help, but nobody came. I jumped out of the car and then I grabbed a binder that was in my back seat and started batting at the fire, which was now settling into the car seat, burning through it. I kept batting at the fire with my binder, and then some of the papers in the binder caught fire as well. I screamed louder. Still, no one came. I had a jug of laundry detergent, but I didn't open the jug. Instead, I used that to continue to beat the flames into a sort of submission. The jug melted, and the detergent started leaking out. I grabbed the binder again and used that once more. Finally, after a few moments, the fire was out, but now I don't think anybody can ever sit in my passenger seat again.

And I will never- NEVER- light a cigarette in my car again. Or, at the very least, I will invest only in quality lighters that don't melt in the sunlight and explode upon first touch.

I think I'm lucky to still have my eyebrows.