We’ve come to the conclusion that The Big House was planted atop an untapped iron deposit.

Sitting high on a hill that pops up out of nowhere, The Big House is part of an intimate neighborhood surrounded by large trees and sweeping views of a broccoli like forresta. It’s also just a smidge above the houses on either side, all of which converges at once to make said casa one. big. lightning rod.

In the past few years, The Mc has lost the following items to the wrath of the sky bolts: one expensive thingie that runs the jets in the jumbo tub, one giant TV it took two guys to move, one play station that crushed his nephews, one computer, and one garage door - twice.

Just a few short weeks after paying someone to come repair the mechanical bits of the right side garage door, she got capped again. Results: one broken door and a good deal of swearing and cursing the house that’s clearly already cursed.

Summary: this Mother-Nature-is-pissed shit is getting expensive. Were the past strikes recog-retaliation for the wooden hangers, or is she really just that anxious for me to set up a rain barrel?

PS I love my friends and I love pie!

Because the paper towel holder wasn’t enough, we cleaned his closet and moved him to big boy hangers.

Evenings after work this week, we’ve been going by the condo, loading up a couple of boxes at a time. There’s less to move now than there was a little over a year ago: I’ve purged, I’ve stored, and I’ve flat out failed to unpack.

The Mc has been attempting to prepare for my official arrival, and I’m attempting to adjust to being officially arrived. It’s a lovely home associated with an address that we in the Hot Hot would call OTP (with a hint of distain). I am not an OTPer by nature, but the commute isn’t all bad, I’ve made some great new friends out this way, the man is spectacular and sometimes you have to sing the Facts of Life theme song in your head and let it all shake out the way it will.

Cramps are threatening in the form of an extraordinarily uncomfortable lower back, my workload hasn’t slacked to make way for the distraction the move should be and through it all my gimpy finger and I are coming to terms with one another.

Evolution.

Wish me luck.

He’s evacuated a closet as big as my condo and moved his bits to the “man closet”. He emptied a vanity drawer as if that’s enough space for perfumes and prescription skin care items and brushes and depilatory cream and make up I never wear. He woke up at 4am yesterday with the cat (who we now lovingly refer to as “firecrotch” on account of she’s a redhead) because she was playing with a mouse I gave her and he didn’t want me to wake up prematurely. He did the same at 5am this morning when her automatic crap catcher/cleaner-upper choked on poo and gave itself an anniurism. I’m officially not allowed to eat dessert on the couch because chocolate in my hands always winds up on the floor.

So we’re settling in while some near and dear are settling out. Existential and romantic crises are the crap de jour and I just want to hand them a stack of carefully selected titles, give them a hug and send them off to a cabin in the rolling hills of South Carolina with the advice: “don’t take it all too seriously, sweets…it’s only life…” knowing full well that never helped heal me even if it did comfort me some. That’s the trouble with love - it doesn’t always translate.