A brief and profane essay on moving

It's taken until now to get "moved in." I started in June. I found the Doc Marten today, in December.

As soon as I found out, in May, that the mortgage was approved, that my closing day was set, I started with strapping tape and sharpie markers and cheerful ambition. I packed books and out-of-season clothes and dishes I use only occasionally, neatly wrapped and appropriately labeled. I ended in July with my sister and me humping boxes and tubs down the apartment building stairs (no elevator, of course) in the dark hours of the night like a couple of criminals on the run, sweating and swearing. Of course by that time we had approached van load 8,645 to the house, and were simply exiting with plastic tubs full of random crap--tubes of hand lotion, a handful of orphaned socks, a stack of unmatched Tupperware lids, and a basket of cleaning supplies from under the kitchen sink.

It was at this time the Doc Marten went MIA. One of a pair of thick-soled maryjanes, my go-to basic black winter shoe. It went out of the apartment in one of those aforementioned random assortments of crap, and was never seen again.

Doc Marten: missing in action. It went in-country. Well, more like in-carton.

I noticed it missing when I was getting out the fall/winter shoes in September. Leave it to me to lose one half of a $100 pair of shoes. Why couldn't I have lost a flip-flop? No, no, I have to really lose where it hurts. It turned up, today, in a box of infant clothes, which I likely may never have opened again, my ovaries being on permanent hiatus. I just happened to be sorting boxes in the right closet, karma met destiny met Doc Marten.

My move was complicated by multiple locations. I had to move what was left of my belongings out of my former home; I had to move from my apartment; and, I had to move stuff I'd stored at my mother's house (thankfully, in the same town). At any one point I had my Man Friend, some girl friends, a random assortment of Guy People from work and from around, my mom, my sister, and my son, making a few trips up and down the stairs (did I mention no elevator? I want you to know. Because we suffered).

Here's the top five things I learned from moving:

1. I'm not moving again. They are either carrying me out feet first, or dragging me out by my hair.
2. I'm not a saver; I'm more of a thrower. And I just divided up belongings in a divorce (I was heartbroken to leave the beer stein collection behind. Heartbroken, I tell you). You'd think I'd be traveling pretty lean. Nope. What I learned about myself is that, like every other American:

Truer words were never spoken.

3. If your Man Friend's Best Friend is nice enough to help you move, it's best not to crush said friend's spleen with your sofa.

4. It isn't going to fit. It isn't going to fit in that van load, it isn't going to fit in your front door, and it isn't going to fit in that dining nook just like you pictured. Forget it.

5. If you didn't label the box when you moved, and you didn't unpack it in the first three weeks, and you still haven't looked in it, you probably don't need it. Except for that missing Doc Marten.

Getting the keys

June 2010

In June I got the keys. The keys!

I like to think that I'm a mature person. I did, indeed and in fact, read every document and ask lots of questions and run lots of numbers during the entire mortgage loan process, the inspection, and the last nerve-wracking flurry of paperwork, the walk-through, and the signing. But closing day was inner child time. I had to prevent myself from skipping like a third-grader out of the bank.

A small thing. A symbolic thing.

It is also true, however, that we dream in the stratosphere and get our hands dirty in the here and now. I decided to make the purchase in April, and my imagination went into overdrive:

• I bought a sofa without knowing how big my living room really was.
• I spent hours browsing Overstock.com for area rugs for floors I didn't yet own.
• I stockpiled curtains, secondhand furniture, and thrift store finds in a corner of my apartment.
• I shopped for lamps. (I buy ugly lamps, remember?)
• I ransacked the paint chip displays at Lowe's.

I was pretty sure that I'd unlock the front door, waltz in, spread some paint around on some walls, plant some petunias out front, the place would be adorable, my problems would be over, and I'd be, all glossy magazine like, hosting some party while holding a swanky looking drink in my swanky living room.

Reality is more complicated. There were the reasons I bought the house:

Linen closets in both upstairs and downstairs.

Corner cupboards in the dining room.

Beautiful oak fireplace.

Period light fixtures.

Then there were the other things:

Once the first plumbing leak (yes, this is foreshadowing) was found, the wall was toast.

They either kept goats in here or sacrificed them. Maybe both. 

Did I buy the house? Yes. Do I love it? Yes. But...... There are some really, really gross things about this house too. Time to get to work (after a very, VERY large and therapeutic glass of wine....).

Ever notice “what the hell” is always the right decision?

They brag about liquid make-up concealing flaws. Not so much.

In my search for a home, I started out with two things: a depressingly tight budget in a town not known for cheap real estate, and a sort of dreamy idealism. This is not a good combination. It is in fact grounds for a head smack. I couldn’t do anything about the budget, but the idealism I could rein in with large doses of practicality, obsessive worry, and blunt assessments of my prospects. And when all else failed, I resorted to bouts of hysteria and stubbornness.

I’d done this before. There was the first house, the Arts and Crafts bungalow in Michigan that had a fabulous telescoping back yard where I grew buckets of tomatoes and armloads of peonies and lady’s mantle. There had been the 4 bedroom 2.5 car attached garage Beige-O-Matic in Subdivision-Land, where I made great friends and drank great (and much) wine but loathed the generic-looking rooms, the white vinyl floors and builder’s grade everything. Then there was the dark and depressing 1970s colonial, chosen for lack of better options in a tight market, which turned out to be the harvest gold stage upon which my marriage failed.

This time, I wanted to get it exactly right. This time, I wanted and needed a recipe made up of one part memory, one part new beginning.