I didn’t die, I just moved.

It’s a big blur, the last few weeks of my life.

“No, just one layer of pepperoni.”
“It’s a two-topping special and so double the pepperoni..”
“You can’t make the pizza with just one layer of pepperoni?!? You can’t sell me that?!? I hafta just pick it all off?”
*hands phone to The Mister* “Talk to this man, I can’t deal with this shit.”

Garage sale lady, why you show me your nipple?  *tsks* That won’t get you a discount.

Throw us a barbecue? Yes, please, I would like to eat today.
Did I eat yesterday? Oh yes, the pizza.
Too many chocolate cakes gave baby a 1am tummy ache, of course.
Now the dog wants to go out to pee.
Who would call me at 1am?
“Sir, I do not know who you are, but I am not parked in the garage, and I will not move my car.”
“Jolene Michael, this is your father.  I dialed the wrong number.”
Oh.  Coincidence was uncanny.

Why are there no fast food chains with veggie stuffs? Must I eat meat just because I have no pots and pans and no plates or flatware? Must all the salads come with chicken and egg? What kinda genocide is this? I need some life force.  I would pay $20 for a Caesar salad and a banana, for fuck’s sake!

Share a twin mattress with husband on the last night in the house. Want to tell him to roll over and get offa me, but there is no over.  We were much younger (14 &17) and thinner (100lbs each) when we last shared a twin bed.
When morning comes, I just say “no” over and over again, but The Mister will not go away.  He keeps saying 6am.

Starbucks manager, I order this drink allthedamntime, why can’t you make it right?

Walking to school, we ache.  We wobble and lunge to the cafeteria.  We do not know when we got so old.  We see the lunch lady.  We only thought we hurt while walking.  Standing is worse. Lunch lady reach toward me, to take money from a woman behind me.  I hand her my phone.  I laugh.  We are brain-dead.  We are exhausted.  We decided zombies don’t really lurch about lookin for brains, they probably just need sleep.

Can’t find anything.

Errands.  Three days of errands all day and work all night.  Couple in search of documents.  Our life is very document-based.  We need renewed driver’s licenses and military ID’s.  Like True said, a military transition is much like a row of dominos.  We think we will never be done.  Finance, school records, shot records, vet records, dental records, pick up the truck, load the truck, insure the truck, move money, forward mail, check out of every building on post.

Why do we all need so much proof that we’re who we say we are? It makes me want to go build a shack in the woods.  Except that getting satellite installed in the shack in the woods can be difficult, and I love me some dvr. We are spoiled and do not understand why we can’t find channels on our tv in lodging.  We fall asleep watching the TV Guide Channel, about what films bombed.
Don’t forget to walk the dog, pat the cat and hug a child.
Don’t ask me what’s for dinner.  I will cut you.

If you use bad toilet paper for a few days, your bottom will complain.  You will dig out the good toilet paper and try to make nice with your bottom.

Look! The girls are climbing trees!

Why would anyone close the launderette at 10pm? Don’t they know I was busy all day?

“Name?”
[long pause]
I can’t remember my name. Gimme a minute.

I’m so tired.  Have I been this tired before? Yes, I think after I had a baby I was this tired. No one made me move this much. And they brought me broth, tea and orange juice. Man, I want some broth and tea and orange juice…

Can’t find anything.

Wake up with a motherfucking UTI.  SRSLY?
Spend the morning at the ER.  Cipro.  Sometimes people’s tendons fall apart when they take Cipro, the doctor tells me.  Clearly he missed the part of my chart that read, “Ativan for Anxiety Disorder.”

Go up to the maternity ward. See new baby. Aww, beautiful baby.  Love you, hafta go.  Gotta drive lots.

Drive, drive, drive. Georgia is long.

“Atlanta, gimme some music, you’ve yet to fail me!”

Subway is outta tuna, fuck my life.  *grabs a banana and some kettle chips*

Rain, at night, in the mountains. Barricades?
When I see barricades while I drive, my immediate reaction is panic.  My first instinct is to take my hands off the steering wheel and use them to cover my eyes, like, “Okay, I’ll just die now.”  I don’t, but I want to.

Chattanooga, pretty lights in the valley.

Nashville can’t be far.  EXIT 97! EXIT 97! Time to stop.

Wake up to the smell of hickory burnin, sausages and morning dew.  Life is better than the coffee at the Red Roof Inn.  Must drive farther. Still magnolia trees.

Drop dog off for grooming. Dog will never be groomed, ever.  We will hafta live in Tennessee forever.  Does my dog look like she needs bows? Does she?

Oh noes! Bows!

Panda express.  Rice is close to the life force, right?

Drive, drive, drive.

OMFG, is that a Starbucks? Om nom nom!

Big expanse of road looms ahead.  Must pass The Mister. Must get the lead out. Vroom! God, that felt good!

Hills are my friend.  The girls think the foothills are still the mountains.  They enjoy the horses and cows.  I do, too.  I see you, green plants sewn in rows, telling me Spring nears.  I feel like I’m home.  I cry a little.  A small cry of relief and joy.  Sweet cry of happiness.  I thought this day would never come.

I am excited to see the world through their eyes again.  I look forward to blooming Bradford pear, Dogwood, and Redbud trees, tulips and daffodils.

I-65 meets I-465 and I’m home.

I drove more than 850 miles behind The Mister, with his box truck.  I drove all that way with two children, two cats, a bladder infection, anxiety disorder, poor wiper blades, and a pretty shitty disposition.  Yes, I am fucking fabulous, thank you for noticing.

Now, I’m at the home of my in-laws.  You should expect much humor in coming posts.