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The New Year In Review
2005-01-03, 11:20 p.m.

The past week of my life can be summed up in one word. One exhausting little word.

Paint.

Two rooms to go, and we shall commence to move. If I can get my body to function after utilizing muscles unfound since youth, that is. I am unable to sleep, as my right arm moves on it�s own in a repetitive up-down sweeping �v� gesture of pigmented grandeur. What little shuteye I get is a veritable Technicolor nightmare of errands undone, surprise bills to be paid, and the unending treadmill of loading boxes. The more you pack, the more you find you have left. I�m Alice through the looking glass, running faster and faster to stay in the same place.

Dear God, I hate moving. Amen.

So far, we have painted the dining room, both halls, the expandable living room (the walls grow 3 inches for every inch you paint), and the children�s bedrooms. Only the kids� bathroom and master bedroom to go, the very large master bedroom, the master bedroom that looks less like a bedroom and more like a gymnasium when you ponder painting that sucker. *sigh* At least everything is fresh and clean, and I must brag on the superiorly cool paint/border effect in Daughter�s room. The walls are mostly a medium shade of grape, but about a third of the way down there is an inch-wide white stripe, then an 11-inch wide stripe of shocking lime green, then another inch-wide white stripe. Centered in the green stripe is the wallpaper border, an aloha explosion in fuchsia, purple, and neon lime. To say the least, it�s bright. Waking her up in the mornings should be far easier; indeed, the child might never sleep again in those surroundings. She�s thrilled with her design and that�s what counts.

What has kept me vigilant regarding the decorating task at hand is the carnage that could ensue should I let down my guard. That�s right, I�m talking about that dreaded entity: The Male Idea Of D�cor.

Now, some guys do a decent job. Not Hubby. He decorated his first apartment in dark brown, because �brown goes with everything�. He was mighty proud of his ability to match dark brown with more dark brown, completely ignorant that it was like coming home to nest in a giant turd. So when he tried to assert some authority with paint chips, I had to smite him with my mighty scepter of estrogen. A man with a haphazardly burgeoning sense of color is a dangerous thing and must be neutralized. Fortunately I was able to distract him in Home Depot with a fluorescent lighting display, and while he was salivating over kilowatt hour calculations I loaded up on gallons of non-returnable custom paint. First battle won.

Now comes Part Deux: outside lighting. Hubby is determined to once again install fluorescent bulbs in the exterior lights. They�re fine on warm nights, but the second a chill hits the air you could get more lumens from a birthday candle. This shouldn�t be too hard to overcome. Every time he starts yapping about the cost of incandescent light I�ll remind him of my bra size. He�ll be in his happy place and won�t give a rip about lighting for awhile.

I have not only painted at our new home, I have taped miles of trim, scrubbed, hauled heavy furniture and boxes, hung pictures, and performed numerous other minor handy tasks. Therefore, Hubby has upgraded my worth. No longer am I valued at simply two sacks of flour and an axe; now any potential buyer has to throw in some yak butter and a yurt. And it has to be a really good axe. Real good.

I went to the cable office today to arrange for our cable tv and internet service to be transferred to our new home next Monday. After nearly an hour, the rep thought she had it straight. I expect our service to be transferred sometime next October, never be disconnected here, and we will be charged for 7 hours of porn from someone else�s account. Why am I so confident? Because that�s what happened when we moved into this house 2 years ago. I am not so foolish as to expect all services to be transferred smoothly to the new domicile. It is The First Law Of The Universe: That which can be screwed up, shall be done so royally.

Speaking of screw-ups, this morning I had to smack the sense down on the insurance agent handling early December�s fender bender�rather, my car being sliced open by a vehicle too big to be allowed on public roads, piloted by a sweet but distracted lady. My beef was thus: Today is three days shy of a month since she plowed into me. It is not unreasonable to expect that sometime, during that month, he would have called me and made arrangements for a rental car. When I was contacted by someone from their main office right after the wreck, I told them I would need a car for at least a week. I called their office on several occasions, left my number, and never received a return call. The number he provided the body shop was invalid, one digit off the true phone number. But this morning he got the �nuh-UH, wasn�t MY fault� crap going, and it set me off. Five minutes after our enlightening conversation, I got a call from the rental car agency informing me a car was ready. Light a fire under the boy and he can scramble. I won�t have to drive to Knoxville and ruin his sh*t after all.

Daughter returned to school today. Son goes on Thursday. Yes Virginia, there is a Santa Claus, and he delivers to parents in January.

A Happy New Year�s to all, and to all a good night.

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