WAR needs to get here already!
I've allowed myself to become completely and utterly obsessed with Warhammer Online. The past month has sort of been like that last hour of work on Friday before the weekend starts; the fabric of time slows down and forces you to endure the most excruciating hour ever, but at the same time there's this feeling of relief in knowing that there are only a few minutes between you and 48 hours of doing whatever the fuck you want. Waiting for a release date of a game is a lot like that, with each day that passes getting you closer to the time you can finally log in and play. But that only does the trick until you realize you'd rather log in right now.
Getting hyped about Warhammer Online has been a great way to pass the (ample) downtime I have at work, but it's a fine line for someone like me to walk. Addiction runs in my family and there's no denying that I'm a product of that gene pool. However, going against the grain, I was never as much into substances as I was concepts. I become addicted to games, events, information. It's been like that since I was little, and if anything, has only strengthened as I got older. MMOs in particular have proven to be a bad match for me.
The first MMO I played was Dark Age of Camelot back in 2002, and back then there couldn't have been a worse time for someone line me to pick up a game like that. I was young (19) and unemployed, so it was all too easy for me to stop going outside or avoid seeing my "real life" friends in favor of spending more time playing the game. Who needed all of that stuff when I had ingame friends in an ingame world, where I could do anything I wanted without the limitations I had IRL? Add in the fact that my boyfriend at the time played the game as well and I was pretty much set. I thought it was a pretty cool setup at the time, but it caused me to lose contact with most of my High School friends and encouraged a lot of my social phobias.
But, I'm older now and I'd like to think that I know better than to fall into that trap again. I may have played World of Warcraft for 4 years, but I did myself proud by keeping myself from getting too "into" the mechanics of the actual game. I'll admit I fell head first into the nightmare that is guild management, making myself sick under the pressure of commitment and responsibility, but it was yet again an opportunity to learn how not to do something. I think I'm ready to dance the line of involvement again without sacrificing myself or my life. My name is Chrisy, and I am a recovered gameaholic.
That being said god damnit Mythic, get your Collector's Edition closed beta servers up so I can log in and get my fix!
On the Subject of Starting Over
As I go into the 6th year of owning this website and likely the 3rd year of passively wondering why I continue to pay for it, there is the occasional moment where the expense is forgiven and I actually feel the need to write. Despite it's rarity it's an unfortunate occurrence for everyone involved, not only for myself and the struggle it puts me through but also for those whose obscure Google searches somehow lead The People of the Internet into thinking that this site could contain any information that they actually wanted to find. Whenever I look at my very small referral list I wish I could apologize to all 5 of them, to the point where the idea putting a disclaimer across the top of this site has has crossed my mind numerous times, as there's nothing of note worth finding here - just the whining and complaining of an overall uneventful person, even by blogging standards - but there comes a time when I have to risk their disappointment and refresh my standing on the Google search results by updating this page out of need and not obligation. And that distinction deserves emphasis, as over the past 3 years I can count how many times I've updated this site out of "need" on a hand that's missing a thumb and maybe a finger or two.
I have always been an extremely cautious and reluctant person, despite what some of my decisions may suggest. There is nothing that I say or do that isn't a result of hours of thought and planning, and I am extremely uncomfortable and stubborn to do anything that doesn't follow that routine. This is not only my personality but more importantly it is my safety net; while most people struggle to overcome their shortcomings I have chosen to protect mine and avoid their agitation at all costs. Therefore, if stress and surprises make me panic and result in physical illness, I simply avoid the stress and surprises rather than work toward overcoming panic and experiment with medication for illness. This approach makes complete sense to me, and while it is still my preference to live this way, I'm finding more and more that the world doesn't have much tolerance for anything that could be qualified as weak. That is something I've always known to be common sense, that the world is unforgiving and yadda yadda yadda, but when it comes to the point of making the realization that you are the weak one they've been talking about and you're visualizing the inevitable uphill climb before you it can be a little bit daunting and pretty fucking depressing.
This coming August will mark 2 year anniversary that I have lived in Phoenix, and sometimes when I look back on it I am nothing short of amazed that I was able to accomplish it. As I just mentioned, I could never do anything of this magnitude without careful planning, so it should come as no surprise that my move to Phoenix was the result of 4 years of preparation. I spent the time between mid 2002 and the early part of 2004 in self-imposed isolation in order to figure out the interworking of my IBS so that I would no longer become deathly ill just because the wind blew in a different direction. I feel I successfully accomplished the goal of regaining control over my body and felt confident that my efforts would enable me to take the stress of starting a new life in Phoenix head on without a hitch. To date, my IBS has not been a notable problem while living in Phoenix so consider that "mission accomplished." I also spent an additional year getting a Certification in Computer Information Systems which, despite its technical title, would simply grant me the credibility that I can make a spreadsheet and word document that doesn't completely suck. I know this seems a little underwhelming for a career platform, but it was another careful choice; I have a high tolerance for repetitive tasks and take a deliciously nerdy pleasure in data storage, reporting, and manipulation. Given those natural abilities, perusing a career in Data Entry and mild Database Maintenance seemed like a match made in heaven. It took a few months of searching, but I have held 2 different jobs in this field while in Phoenix and so far I've been extremely happy with my choice
In addition to all of the above, during my 4 years of planning, there was always a very specific piece to the puzzle that was key to making it all work: I had someone I intended to spend the rest of my life with. Out of all the places in the world, I was moving to Phoenix because this was where Matt was born and raised and where he wanted to continue to live. I had fallen in love with Phoenix, too, so while he was the one that planted the idea I was most certainly a willing participant. My life philosophy, almost entirely derived from watching my parent's misery, is that happiness would always be my paramount goal which is why I felt comfortable picking Data Entry as my career, despite the fact that it is not necessarily the money powerhouse that I had once dreamed myself to become. Over time I became accustomed, and admittedly comfortable, with the idea that I would be a support income for the household, as by the time we moved out to Phoenix Matt would have his Mechanical Engineering degree and making $50k+ a year. I was also leaning toward the idea of one day becoming a stay-at-home mother, like my mother had been for me, so at times it seemed like a wasted effort to bust my balls for a career that I would one day walk away from, likely by the time I was 30.
Sometimes I wonder if I should consider myself lucky if all the plans that I made for my life in Phoenix was the first time that everything blew up in my face. Overall, though, whenever I think about the magnitude of the risks that I took all I feel is foolish for not taking the time to consider what I would do if it didn't work. For all my talk about planning and precautions, how could I have not once considered that Matt may realize that he didn't want to spend the rest of his life with me once I moved out here?
In September 2007, I found myself in a position that was best put as being "stranded in the middle of the ocean in a rowboat." I was 2 thousand miles away from anyone that I could look to for support, as both Matt and especially his family were now unavailable alternatives. I was making roughly $1200 month, which doesn't quite cut it when rent is a minimum of $600, utilities $100, gas $200, school loans $200, credit card payment $50 or more, car insurance $100, cell phone $50.... if you add it all up it doesn't leave any money for food, let alone "luxuries" like TV or internet. For a few months my name remained on the lease for the apartment that Matt and I shared, so I was fortunately only having to pay my $400 portion of the rent - but most of my expenses were still ending up on my credit card in order to make ends meet. I watching my debt grow during a time when my emotional state put me at risk of becomming a prisoner of depression and illness all over again, carrying with it the potential to debilitate me to the point that I could lose the small source of income that I did have. Then the little rowboat that I was clinging to would be gone as well.
The past year has been an eye-opening experience for me, and overall, I still haven't come to the conclusion if I like it or not. I do know, however, that I'm not comfortable with the fact that in the grand scheme of things it doesn't matter if I like it or not. This is what it is and I can't figure out how to approach it, let alone take the reigns and move forward. Sometimes I think I can almost feel myself standing still as the world rushes by and leaves me behind.
While before I had a very clear vision and determination of where I was heading in life, now I am left with foggy fantasies and ideas that change from week or week. This type of uncertainty would usually drive me absolutely batshit, but I haven't come out of this experience completely unphased - my calm acceptance of "living for today" is proof that this experience has changed me, and again, I have not determined yet if it was for the better. I am turning 26 this year and despite my newfound numbness I do still feel a progressive amount of pressure to come to some sort of decision of what my career will be, since apparently, my beloved Data Entry isn't good enough to cut it. It's hard to put the gears in motion when I'm perfectly content where I'm at despite the fact that the rest of the world deems it not good enough to survive.
To further add to my confusion I know how difficult it is to change from one established career to another. At my current source of employment, there is the opportunity and promise of advancement, but at what cost? This is a payment service company, dealing with credit cards and bills and residuals, but that has never the career I wanted to peruse. I've worked in finance-related companies and departments because they were the ones offering entry level positions for Data Entry, so my reason for being here was to have access to the technology, not to actually do what I'm using the technology for. In the 3 months that I've been working here I have tried to keep an eye out for what positions would be available to me as the "next step up", and from my current vantage point, my best option will likely be the Call Center and as much as I fought to get above that type of job I can't help but see it as a form of defeat to progress there now. There's always the slim chance I could venture into the underwriting area, where I would help analyze merchant applications to determine if we want to do business with them but after having researched it a little bit I've realized that that may be taking a big step into the hole of a finance-oriented career. It would be a specific job requiring specific training, and I wonder more and more how wise it would be of me to peruse it when it might do me more harm than good for it to be my last credible source of employment on a resume sent in response for a technical position.
For nearly a year now I've flirted with the notion of getting into SQL somehow. I've said I love databases, and if Data Entry doesn't cut it, why can't I be a Database Administrator? When I was unemployed during February and March, my boyfriend helped me set up a side computer with Microsoft SQL Server so that I could start testing it out. And I really did try to make it work - I loaded up the program, I spent a few hours reading over the information sites, tried to follow the steps in a few tutorials but for some reason it wasn't clicking with me. If I'm supposed to be doing this because I want to do it, why wasn't I feeling as though I wanted to do it? I've thought a lot about it and done even more research in my free time at work, and I keep coming to the same conclusion that it wasn't what I thought it would be. It requires a much more technical understanding of computers and networking than I currently possess, and while that is an interest of mine it's not exactly to the extent that would be required in order to get a MCDBA like I had hoped for. In short, I was interested in this career because I thought I already had a respectable foundation of knowledge to build upon only to discover that I likely know more about the Amazon Rainforest than I do about Microsoft SQL server and relating software.
I know this may sound like I'm giving up on a MCDBA because it's "too hard," but that's not exactly the case. It's not the challenge that bothers me as much as the fact that I was hoping to find a career where I wasn't starting over from the very beginning. I feel confident that I do have some worthwhile skills already, things that I've spent the time to learn over the years, and I'm looking for something that builds off of them rather than letting them go to waste. Especially when I'm starting to feel as though I'm running out of time, the less I need to spend backtracking and learning basics the better.
And by a mere fluke I think I may have found something that seems so obvious that I feel a little silly that I didn't make the connection before.
After years of debating whether or not to do so, I'm finally learning PHP (and, hey, maybe while doing so I'll finally figure out how to make the archives on this site work). Once I tackle that, I am going to work on learning how to make PHP and MySQL communicate. So, in short, I'm going to go back to the same dream I had when I was 16 but with a slightly different twist; instead of making the appearance of a web site look pretty I'm going to see if I can make the code that powers them beautiful. I'm going to forgo any professional schooling on the subject and focus on teaching myself, much like I did for HTML and graphic design, and use respected and official certifications to prove my knowledge. I can only hope that this level of self determination and motivation would be respected by a future employer cause that's all I got to give. Classes and degrees take more time than I feel I have.
I'm afraid to give myself a timeline on this, because I always rebel against any form of pressure-inducing structure. so lets make it modest. Lets see where I am 6 months from now. Ideally I'll have the PHP thing mastered and be working on MySQL. It shouldn't be too hard right? My ability to have fancy things like cable TV may depend on it.
At That Particular Time
Today, for the first time since I began taking steps away from you, I felt a quiet sorrow for what we once were. "It was never meant to be," as a canister romantic comedy would say, but I will never forget that I would not be here now if it weren't for the decision we made 6 years ago today. Thank you for being with me when I needed you.
you knew you needed more time time spent alone with no distraction
you felt you needed to fly solo and high to define what you wanted
at that particular time love encouraged me to leave
at that particular moment I knew staying with you meant deserting me
that particular month was harder than you'd believe but I still left
at that particular time
Matters of the Heart
When I first heard that my mother was in the hospital for tests on her heart, I didn't feel anything other than a slight suspicion as to why an overcrowded hospital was going to keep her overnight in order to do a test the following morning. I talked to my mother while she sat in her assigned room and she sounded like she always does: nonchalant and casual, as if it was perfectly normal to not be able to leave the hospital on doctor's orders. I tried to get more details out of her, drilling her with point blank questions, but she answered them all calmly and convincingly. She seemed more interested in hearing all the details on how the deal for the new house fell through than she was in explaining why she been suffering from chest pains for the past 2 months but had chosen not to go to the doctor until that day.
It wasn't until the following morning, when my father called me to tell me the results of her tests, that everything started to fall into place. My mother had been kept at the hospital because her heart rhythms suggested that she had suffered a minor heart attack over the past few days and her doctor did not want to risk her over-exerting herself before they knew what condition she was in. The test they performed, a Cardiac Catheterization, showed that one of the main arteries to her heart was 80-90% blocked. My mother had emergency bypass surgery scheduled for the following day and once again she could not leave the hospital, as this time they knew for sure that she was at risk for a severe heart attack - the type they would not be able to save her from if it started. The doctor told my parents that considering the amount of blockage and the amount of physical activity she continued to do even while experiencing chest pains it was nothing short of a miracle that she was still alive. Even taking a routine stress test, as it was first suggested by her regular physician, likely would have killed her.
I was at work when my father called me, so I went outside to the parking while we talked and once we hung up I continued to stand there for a while longer in silence. I did not cry, panic, or become angry. I was not shocked or confused; if anything, at that precise moment, the primary emotion I was dealing with was surprise. In all of the years I spent planning to move to AZ and in the nearly 2 years that I have lived here, never once did I consider what I would do if something happened to my parents. It's not that I am one of those people who are still under the illusion that my parents are invincible but just that, outside of a freak accident, my parents were healthy enough for it not to be an active concern. And even still, on the topic of the mortality of my parents, never once did I think that my mother would be the first of my parents to face a life or death situation. With my father turning 70 this summer and being 15 years my mother's senior, even he himself has no problem not only accepting that he would die first but he also constantly talks (no - brags!) about the great lengths he has gone to make sure that my mother would be financially taken care of after he passed away. I have even fallen victim to that assumption, telling my mother that once my father was gone that I wanted her to live with me so that I could take care of her.
The next few hours seemed to go by in a blur. Despite my hesitation of booking a ridiculously expensive last-minute flight, my boyfriend told me that "if you need to go, I'll get you there" - and by noon that day I had an 11:45PM flight booked and a rental car reserved. Because I work for an amazing company and have an awesome boss, not only was I granted as much time off as I needed to be with my family but I was also given access to my PTO even though I was still within my 90 day evaluation period. Before I called my father back to let him know that I was coming to VA I tried to muster up my most authoritative voice, as I fully expected him to tell me not to come; not necessarily because he didn't want me there but because he has never been a fan of spending large sums of money, no matter how good the reason or cause. However, to my surprise, when I told him that I would be there the following morning he responded with a short silence and a simple "ok." He offered to pick me up at the airport the following morning but I stressed to him that he needed to stay in town with my mother - we didn't know when my mother was having her surgery and he needed to be there encase something happened. Before I hung up with my father I made sure to tell him not to let my mother know that I was coming. The last thing I wanted was for her to be worrying about that on top of everything else.
I hardly got any sleep on the redeye flight from Phoenix to Cleveland, where I had a 1 hour lay over before my flight to DC. At around 7AM EST, as I was sitting outside the terminal waiting for my second flight, I took the opportunity to call my father and see how my mother was doing. As my luck would have it she was going into pre-op around 8:30 or 9AM and my flight would not be landing until 9AM. After I hung up with my father, I called the hospital in an attempt to talk to my mother, since cell phones were not allowed in patient rooms. I had to talk to three different people and call back after an accidental hang up, but my mother's nurse was eventually able to track down a portable phone that my mother could use. Her voice sounded faint and tired, a complete 180 from how she sounded when I spoke to her two days ago. I asked her how she was doing, a question she was probably sick of answering, and she said she was tired but fine. Even then, hours before her surgery, she still was asking me questions about how work was going and more details about the house debacle. I wanted to make the conversation with her substantial and for it to mean something, but I also didn't want to sound as though this was the last conversation we would have. The truth was there was no guarantee that after I hung up the phone that I would ever hear her voice again, or that my time in Virginia would not be spent helping my father plan her funeral. Anything could happen during the surgery and I knew I needed to talk to her before she went in but nothing seemed like the right thing to say.
While we were talking, she asked what the noise in the background was - apparently someone thought it was necessary to eat the microphone as they paged someone over the airport intercom, to the point where I was having a hard time hearing my mother's voice - and I lied and said it was the radio playing after the alarm went off. It was so hard to not tell her that I was sitting in an airport on my way to Virginia, because what if this really was the last time I spoke to her? Would I regret not telling her I tried to be there, even though I didn't make it in time? What if the last feeling she had would have been looking forward to seeing me, but because I chose not to say anything, she instead would feel regret that her and I didn't spend enough time together when she was here in February? In the end I chose to stick with my original plan because doing otherwise was planning for something I wasn't ready to accept yet.
After a turbulent flight into DC and taking a crash course on how to keep a Kia Sportage within the white lines as I drove down 95, I arrived in Fredericksburg and promptly went into Central Park to find a hotel. I knew my father wasn't really capable of making preparations for me to stay at their house and I figured that if my mother was going to be in surgery when I got there that I would take the opportunity to nap for a few hours. However, after a fruitless search of finding a room that would be available before 1 or 2PM I ended up grabbing lunch at Camille's Sidewalk Café (ugh, how I've missed that place while in AZ) and went over to the hospital to wait with my father. My cousin Penny was actually in the waiting room as well, since her husband was having quadruple bypass surgery at the same time as my mother. I had not seen Penny in years (read: I was likely 10 or so the last time we were in the same room) and if I did not remember what my uncle and aunt looked like I probably wouldn't have been able to pick her out from a crowd. I was so exhausted from the trip and running on my last reserves of adrenaline that I primarily listened while her and my father talked about family and the surgeries we were waiting on.
During the 3 hours that I spent waiting with my father, I lost count of how many times he told me how glad he was that I was there. I told him how much my flight + rental car had cost and he surprised me again by saying: "I'm sure it's worth every penny, especially to your mother." From just looking at him he seemed to be fine and put together, but he had hardly gotten any sleep over the previous 3 days. The more he spoke the more I realized that for the first time in both of our lives that he was looking to me for support in order to get through this. It wasn't something he was conveying in an obvious way - he didn't say anything out of the ordinary and he sounded like he always does. It was something so subtle that probably only my mother and myself would have picked up on it and again I found myself unable to think of anything to say that was appropriate. This probably marked one of the few times in my father's life that something happened that he had not exactly planned on and I can only imagine what was going through his mind. He comes from a generation of men who toast themselves to be the primary protectors of their families, yet if anything were to happen to their spouse they would be lost and completely unable to take care of themselves. On a day when there was so much already on my mind, I now considered for the first time that it might be my father that I took care of in his old age rather than my mother.
Around 2:30 PM, right on schedule, my mother's doctor came in the waiting room and walked very deliberately toward my father. Even through both of us stood up as he approached, he only made eye contact with my father as he spoke - I could tell he was deliberately avoiding my gaze - and I was focusing so much on his reserved and cold body language that I almost didn't hear what he was saying. Despite his demeanor, he had good news: the surgery very went well and we would be able to see her within an hour.
My mother was still asleep when we were allowed in the room so I didn't need to worry just yet as to how we were going to let her know that I was here without surprising her too much. Despite all of the monitors and tubes around her, she looked peaceful and eerily just like my grandmother did the last time I saw her alive, when she was also unconscious and in a hospital bed. Since my mother would not be awake until around 8PM that evening my father and I only stayed for a few minutes. We both agreed that we would meet back at the hospital later that night and take the time inbetween to get some much needed rest. My father got a room for me at a new Hilton hotel that had recently opened and I managed to get about 3 hours of sleep before it was time to head back over to the hospital.
I watched my father walk down the hall and slip into my mother's room. I know he was letting her know that she had a special guest, if she was up to seeing them, but I couldn't hear exactly what he was saying. After a few minutes, he came back out into the hallway and waved for me to come forward. I kept a slow pace as I walked into the room and quickly locked eyes with my mother. She was still laying in the same position she was when we had left her, and even though her eyes were obviously puffy she had them open wide - wider than I had ever seen her open them before. I took a few steps into the room and managed a meek "hi" before she realized who I was and abruptly closed her eyes.
While we were standing there, I tried to be as casual as possible - making an effort not to gawk at my mother by acting as though I was interested in the monitors or other miscellaneous things around the room in between stealing glances at her. Then, for the first time since I my father had told me my mother's test results, I started to feel a weight on my shoulders. The room seemed to fill with a very strong chemical smell and I started to feel dizzy. I watched my mother's face as my father and I talked, watched as her eyes would fly open at the sound of her name and then quickly close a few seconds later, and I started to feel nauseous. As casually as I could, I asked where the restroom was and as soon as I was out of sight I rushed down the hall and closed the door behind me. I sat down on the floor, my head in my hands, and tried to focus on my breathing so that I wouldn't get sick or black out. I'm not sure what caused it - if it was the sight of my mother struggling to come out of the anesthesia or if my subconscious had chosen that moment to rush me with all of the emotions I had so far been numb to, but I think that if I had stood in my mother's room for a minute longer I would have passed out.
After I somehow collected myself, I walked back to her room and sat with her as we watched TV. I'm not sure how long I sat beside her, trying to make small talk, before I reached out and touched her hand. I had intended just to rub the top of her hand as a calming gesture but she reached (as best she could) and took my hand in hers. I was probably still a little girl the last time I had held my mothers hand, but at that moment, looking at my mother so immobile and vulnerable, I somehow felt more like the parent than the child... even though I felt completely helpless in protecting her from all of this.
My mother recovered amazingly well, looking like a new person each day I went to see her, and after having her surgery on Thursday, April 24th, she was allowed to go home on Sunday - 2 days earlier than expected. She rode home with me from the hospital and I spent the evening at home with them. We got to-go food from a nearby pizza place and watched movies on TV. I went back to my hotel that night and came back the following day, Monday, to spend my last day in VA at home. It was a pretty boring day, raining and cold outside, spent sitting in the living room watching TV and getting more takeout from Clearwater Grill (who, to my disappointment, had changed their salads from what I used to remember and love). Around 7PM I left my parents house for the last time, saying goodbye and whispering in my mother's ear to make sure she took care of herself.
Outside of all that happened pertaining to my mother and my family, my trip Virginia was reassuringly frustrating. One minute I would be drunk on the nostalgia, particularly around 7PM when the sun was setting and a humid mist hung low in the air, and the next I would be furious; randomly sent into a tirade because waiting at a stoplight reminded me of how trapped I used to feel in this little town. Whenever my mother would need to take a nap, I would take a trip around town to see what had changed and what had stayed the same. One day I treated myself to an expensive haircut at a new salon and another I walked around Spotsylvania Mall to see all the new stores and construction that had happened since I left. Stephen and I went to dinner at Olive Garden, and while I was out with him I saw that the Pizza Hut my mother and I had always driven the 20 miles from home to go to, the one Stephen and I had always eaten at after we graduated from high school, had closed in my absence. I felt a tinge of guilt that they had lost my business after I had moved away.
There are no words to describe how good it felt to fly into Arizona and know that I was home again. My boyfriend and I had texted each other and spoke on the phone each day that I was in Virginia, but even after all that contact, it was so good to see him waiting for me after I walked out of the security checkpoint. He was the one who made my trip to Virginia possible and I am so glad I was able to be there for my family during that time. I've never really had someone like him in my life before - someone who looks after me and does what he can to give me the best that's possible - and most of the time I feel like I don't deserve it. I certainly hope that one day I'm able to find a way to pay him back for being as wonderful as he is.
Moving on Up
The weather here in Phoenix is finally in an official upswing, with the forecast promising that for the next week and a ½ the temperature should climb up to 80 degrees or more. I am so ready for the warm weather to get here; I'm tired of wearing coats and worrying about how my long legs make my jeans to look like high-waters when I wear sneakers. It's this time of year that makes me feel as though I'm on a vacation every day, as ever since 2002 Phoenix was the place that I went to get away from rural Virginia until I finally left for good in 2006. The only time I find myself missing Virginia is in the winter, since it actually gets pretty cold here despite what the over-exaggerating natives will say. I remember Matt telling me that it would be 70 degrees on Christmas, but for the two that I've spent here it's been a bitter 40-50 degrees each time. When I first moved to Phoenix and mentioned that I recently moved here from Virginia, it was inevitable that I would be asked the question: "Have you been here for a summer yet?" Yes, I have actually - the dry heat is nice - but have you been to the south for a summer? Because if you haven't, pack some flippers, cause with that much humidity you'll get where you're going faster if you swim through the air instead of walk on the ground.
But as much as I'm loving the weather right now, I have a feeling that in 9 days I'm going to be cursing how friggin hot it is outside. On April 26th, my boyfriend and I are going to be moving into a new house. He has already reserved a UHAUL truck and (thankfully) hired some moving help with the hopes that almost everything we own will be in the new house by the 27th - so, going by his master plan, almost everything needs to be packed and ready to move by the 25th (which is the day we should be getting the keys.)
I'm going to start doing the necessary packing on Saturday, but thankfully I don't have that much stuff lying around the house. I had known from the beginning of our relationship that he was looking to buy a house so I had kept the majority of my things in the same boxes that I used last November to move out of my old apartment. He, on the other hand, has been living in the house we currently rent for 2 years and has shit everywhere, so I'm guessing that most of my time will be spent packing his stuff. I just hope we can be "on the ball" about it and get the majority of it done this weekend rather than scrambling on Wednesday and Thursday to get everything ready. In a perfect world I'd like to move over some of the small stuff on Friday, things like clothes and DvDs and other non-necessary items, so that we can take full advantage of the hired help and more the big shit on Saturday.
I can't say I'm that excited about the idea of moving again. For someone who lived in the same house from 18 months until 23 years old, it's a little surreal to think that I've changed my address 4 times since 2006. It makes me feel a bit like a nomad, which is the complete opposite of my nature - I am eternally opposed to change and always prefer the dependable and uneventful alternatives. I like the idea that the plan is to own this house for a few years before we try to sell it.
Although I have not officially asked "permission" to do so, the one thing I am looking forward to is the opportunity to do some decorating around the new house. Part of me feels old as fuck to be excited about that, as if hitting my mid-twenties has somehow caused me to suffer from some sort of Martha Stewart syndrome, but I've always wanted to live in a nicely decorated home. I tried to do some decorating in my old apartment with Matt but it was an endlessly infuriating experience; he didn't like anything I showed him and then couldn't give me a clear idea of what he did like. I loved going to IKEA and getting cool ideas for what to put in our apartment, but ultimately we would end up being "that" couple who was having an argument in the bowels of the store about how ugly the lamp this is, or how unnecessary those cabinets are. I'll admit that I'm a little bit worried of having the same arguments over the things I'd like to put in the new house, but who I'm with now is different - he might just let me do what I want as long as it's not freakishly stupid, especially if I use my own money to do it. And though do I tend to have freakishly stupid décor tastes I'm sure I can find some compromise along the way that satisfies me and allows him to bring over friends without telling them "my girlfriend picked out this lamp while she was high on crack."