The day after my rather boring birthday (well, I guess they always are
more exciting when you're a youngster; how excited can a 52-year-old
get?  It's not like I get lotsa really cool toys or anything -- lol) --
but I digress.  Ahem.  Anyway, the day after was supposed to the The Big
Official Moving Day Where Everything Will Go Smoothly and All Get Done
in One Day.  Boy, am *I* a dreamer!

Therese, who lives close by and I've known for years, came by, and
flustered DH terribly by being energetic.  DH is, oh, how shall I put
this?  Oh, yeah -- lazy.  Very, very lazy.  He moves slowly, runs late
everywhere, and has to have his arm twisted to pick up a dirty sock on
the floor.  But Hurricane Therese apparently blew some hard weather his
way that made him sit up straight, eyes wide, and start moving fast and
furious!  lol!  *That* was a sight to see!

Therese did mutter a lot about "This isn't moving -- it's *packing*!",
but see above paragraph re:  DH.  How can one person pack everything,
with a big lump of husband in the way?  I did the best I could, honest.
 I even had a small basket with packing tape, an electronic labeler,
scissors, and a couple of other accoutrements to make it a snazzy,
jazzy, eazy move - heh.  As I said, I *am* a dreamer!

Therese's energy burst forth, unstoppable in its single-mindedness, and
the next thing we knew, things were being moved, dust following after,
as we stared open-mouthed (cough, cough -- dust does NOT taste good!),
until we had the sense to start moving ourselves.  I packed, and left
Therese in charge of monitoring Richard and getting him up off his rear.

One problem with us over-50s folks is that we may be able to generate
steam very intensely still -- but we don't have the fortitude to make it
last a long time.  In other words, we can act like we're still 19
sometimes -- but only for a short while, before our ailing bodies remind
us we are most definitely NOT 19.  Then follows collapse, and forget
about doing much of anything until the next day.

Tornado Therese did her magnificent job, and then ran out of steam,
heading off to collapse at her own house.

Just about then, Victor, the ex-DH, showed up.  He's got that same good
in short bursts, but can't sustain, as the rest of us do (ahem -- please
do not read sexual innuendo into that.  Or do.  I don't care!  lol!).
But he'd been working in a furniture warehouse for years, so his muscles
and fortitude were in much better shape than any of the rest of ours.
He could darn near lift a box stuffed full of Barbies (heavier than one
might think!) without losing a breath, and did.  Poor Richard was again
in the position of trying to keep up -- with my ex-husband, no less.
Nah, I wouldn't be so crass as to occasionally let slip little giggles
when they couldn't hear, would I?  You bet I would!  ;-)

Amazingly, the cats are still relatively well-behaved at this point.
Those more high-strung aren't coming anywhere *near* a door with Big
Heavy Male Feet tromping around.  The others are smart enough to think
"Hmmm, big boots make big booboos when they step on cats' tails!  Think
I'd best stay out of the way!"

They were more than a bit disconcerted; not a single one of them has
moved since they moved in with me.  From Cosmo in December 1994, all the
way to Jack and Kate in September 2005, this is what they have known as
home.  I'm sure there was much confusion around and about, but they
managed it valiantly and with no more than frequent sniffing of boxes
and furniture and stuff to make sure it all still smelled like *them*!

Next Time:  Fun with Appliances and two men and a truck . . . .

Ginger-lyn