Moving

Me: So if this job doesn't come through this week, I'm gonna have to admit defeat and give up.
Tim: I hate to say it, but I've already given up. Not that I doubt you, but that's just how things work out for me.

There comes a point where you have to just accept it: all the wishful thinking in the world isn't going to save us. There is no mysterious Lotto ticket from months ago, stored in a coat-pocket and waiting to be cashed in for millions. There's no unclaimed property in my name which would suddenly be sufficient to dig me out of this hole. We did--well, I did--everything that could be done, but it's time to fold the tent.

I'm calling the mortgage company tomorrow, to find out how long we've got.
I'm calling the We Buy Ugly Houses people tomorrow, to find out how much we can get.
I'm calling the movers tomorrow, to find out how much it will cost to move.
I started a list last night, which I will continue tonight, of what will stay with me/what will go to storage/what will get dumped.
I'll be buying boxes this week, and duct tape, in an effort to get ahead on packing.
I'll be spending a fair amount of time at Mom's, this week, to figure out what will go where in her basement.

LJ is back in town, for the moment; he came back to take the truck. He drove back to Wherever He's Staying Now, and then came back the next day. The plan is that he's going to park the truck til he can afford to repair it (he says) and meanwhile, he will send me the money to make the payments. While he's in town, he's looking for a car for me, which will be in my name and mine to drive. I would say I don't see the logic in this, but I can guarantee: that truck is about to do something ghastly and expensive, very very soon. We looked at some cars on Saturday, but nothing in our price range looked good.

Tim is miserable. I'd forgotten how difficult he gets under stress. I feel for him, but there's only a certain level of buttheadedness I'm going to take before I lose my temper. I'm under stress too, dammit! There's more to it than that; his job is shorting him on both hours and money, so his most recent check was much less than he expected; Nicolette is out of town, dealing with a traffic ticket in her home state; and one of his other friends is getting on his nerves. Oh, and it's 90+ degrees here in Chicago, and he's in a small flat-roofed, uninsulated, frame-walled bedroom with no air conditioning unit. I offered to let him sleep on the floor of my room, but he turned the offer down. Mostly I'm trying to stay out of his way as much as possible, but that doesn't feel right either. It's an awkward time for everyone.

I, on the other hand, am NOT miserable. (Okay: I am not miserable for any reason other than the heat.) I hate the physical act of moving--dismantling, wrapping, taping, folding, packing, moving, unpacking. In this case it's going to be stickier because there will be several categories into which my stuff falls: The refrigerator--goes with me to Mom's. The stove, washer and dryer--into a storage space. The 10-year-old $20-garage-sale sofa--to the dumpster, with thanks for valorous service. The rummage-sale dresser that CR and I lugged six blocks on a hand-dolly back in 2001--Tim wants to take that. There's stuff in the closets, stuff in the basement, stuff in the garage. Some of it can go to the Salvation Army stores; some of it can go out to the alley. It's going to be a complicated move, which...okay, I guess ALL moves are complicated, but this one seems much worse.

I've done it before, and I can do it again--it's just that this time, I feel like I'm leaving something behind, instead of starting something new. I know that it's temporary; I know that once I start working, I'll be very grateful for how cheap it is to live at Mom's. I realize that in giving up this house, I'm paving the way for much better things in the future, and a bit more ease and peace of mind in the present. But I'm 37 years old, and I'm moving back to my mother's house, and there's no way to frame that where it doesn't turn out, on some level at least, to be a failure.

I'll be all right, I know that. I'm not devastated--just disappointed. And I certainly will miss this place, when the time comes.