So much stress, so little booze.

The house is pretty well packed, I still have no transfer date, and we are evacuating Victorville on Saturday morning. Which means that there’s a distinct possibility I’ll get stuck flying back here, moving in with my mom temporarily, and waiting it out in hopes that I am finally transferred and allowed to move back in with my boyfriend and cats.

The problem with all this moving and packing is that I’m sorely deprived of little luxuries like, say, metal eating utensils and cups not made out of paper.

Today I’ve had an especially bad day, what with the full moon turning people’s already pea-sized brains inside out. They’re howling like wolves, and they’re calling the phone company to act out their animal impulses. In the course of eight hours I’m screamed at, cursed upon, and even threatened by a man in Texas. He is apparently going to take me to court because someone else wrote an order on his account and didn’t disclose the details. And he says I’m not going to be allowed a lawyer.

Hate. Hate. HATE. TEXAS. Mexico, would you like Texas back? I will pay you handsomly should you take it off the United States’ hands. Cash bonus if you put George Bush in a white hick internment camp.

My friend Barbara gets chewed out because she doesn’t speak French. This is a new one. Normally we’re given a hard time for not speaking Spanish, but not French. “For next time,” I tell her, “you can say this: Bonjour, douchebag.” I’m pretty sure “douchebag” is a French word, anyway.

I’m desperate for consolation and finally find it in a Xanax and an old bottle of expensive champagne that Paul and I got when we moved into our house. I have no champagne flutes to pour the bubbly into, so I sip daintily from a juice glass as I pack up a few random leftover items in the bathrooms and laundry room. The cats “help” by getting in all the cabinets to make sure I haven’t forgotten anything.

I glance out the window. The beautiful, warm spring weather is fading fast, leaving me with cold and windy March weather. The weather report on msn calls for rain tomorrow. I like rain. That’s one of the reasons I know I’ll be content in Washington.

If I ever get to move there.

I am hoping to hear something soon. I hate that I can’t control my own fate, that where I live and who I’m with is in the hands of my employer.

I yawn, and realize it’s nearly eleven so I head for bed. The kitties rush into the bedroom with me and pile around me as I settle under the covers. I can’t help but smile as they begin a chorus of purrs and settle in for the night.

The clouds roll in, hiding the bright full moon. Perhaps this will deflect the crazies as well?

I can only hope.

Dear High Desert Christian (HDC) Church Members:

Many times over the last two years, I have passed by your church on my way to various places. Whenever I am doing so as your congregation is letting out, I have noticed that you will dart in front of traffic on foot on your way to the parking lot across the street, and that you will screech out of the parking lot and into incoming traffic at alarming speeds, without heed to traffic laws, or quite frankly, laws of physics. More than one object cannot occupy a space at one time.

I do not understand your eagerness to leave the church. Is it that services were horrid and you are running at top speed to escape? (This I could actually understand and probably be quite forgiving of.) Or is it that you are just feeling so close to Jesus, that you are attempting to involve me in a traffic accident, thus killing yourselves (and possibly me) so that you can join him? This I do not condone. If you’re going to join the Lord, please do so by swallowing pills as it is the only form of suicide I can think of that does not potentially render someone else grief-stricken (jumping off bridge, freeway overpass, etc.) or make a mess (shooting oneself in head/face/throat, slitting wrists, etc.).

Or perhaps, you’re all a bunch of holier-than-thou douchebags who think everyone else should just get out of the way, because you have Jesus on board or your car may be unmanned should rapture occur or whatever your stupid bumper stickers say.

Whatever the reason for your poor driving while leaving church, I would like to request that you please slow down, follow simple traffic rules like stop and yield, and stop running in front of my car on your way across the street. Because quite frankly, if any of you do anything to scratch, dent, or otherwise do bodily harm to my beautiful luxury sedan, I will fucking cut you.

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

Veronica

Today was one of those days when I just wish I could have stayed in bed.

First of all, the wind was absolutely howling outside when I woke up, promising a day of cold weather and bad hair. My alarm roused me from a dream that was particularly odd. In the dream, I was waking up to my alarm clock (yes, weird), only in the dream, I got up and realized that Paul was home with me. This led to some healthy boyfriend-missing, and waking up and seeing that he is really still gone didn’t do great things for my mood. Yes, I’ll see him in a week. Right now I’m just very stressed and overwhelmed, and wish like hell that he could be here with me.

Sigh.

Paul gets the keys to our new place tonight and although he is still happy with the place, he is less happy with the amount of deposits we must pay and the $100 fee to install the garage door opener (and, yes, it IS out of the question that I will be opening the door myself, sans opener). He texts me to let me know about this but I’m out with friends (former union stewards), and we’re at Chili’s drinking tequila and reminiscing and laughing. I needed a night out soooo badly. I need to be away from packing and boxes and stress.

I’ve been in a grumpy mood the last two days and don’t see it improving, as I have to work tomorrow morning (which, yes, is Saturday) and I really don’t wanna. I have been medicating myself with cheeseburgers, french fries, and artichoke dip to deal with my grouchiness and I fear that my indulgences will catch up with me. I’m tired of talking about our move, tired of being asked if I have a transfer date, tired of being out of the loop on contract negotiations because I’m leaving. After all, I’m still an active union steward. It hurts my feelings that the union could drop me so quickly, and not care about my dedication both past and present. I’m not walking away, I’m saying that I’ll work my ass off to the very end.

Friends, however, have expressed both happiness for me that I’m leaving and sadness that I’ll be away from them. Friends make me feel normal again, and make me feel valued. I have amazing friends.

I want to be moved so that my stress level will go down. For right now, though, all I really want is to curl up in my nice warm cozy bed and not wake up for several hours.

Good night, everyone. More updates to follow.

Moving: commence.

Paul hires movers and rents a Penske truck, reserving both for Saturday, April 3rd. I have to pick up the truck by 8am and get home in time to meet the movers at 10am. This means no heavy lifting for me, which pleases me. Since April 3rd is also my brother’s Nascar debut, I’m a little bummed.

For Christmas, my brother’s girlfriend Shannon got him the opportunity to drive a stock car around at Fontana speedway. I have looked foward to seeing him do so for the last few months, and am sad that I won’t be there. Instead, I will be supervising the carrying of all my worldly possessions from my house to a moving truck. Then I will be attempting to sneak a nap before I have to drive down to Ontario (California, not Canada, thankfully) to pick up Paul at the airport. His flight comes in at 11pm. He wants to be on the road at 7am the following day, which means a loooong day of driving with not a whole lot of sleep.

I’m yawning just thinking about it.

Since we’re moving in just over a week, I rush home and pack up kitchen utensils like a mad woman. A week ago, I thought I was going to be miserable and lonely without Paul, and that our seperation could be long and agonizing. “I’ll visit you in a month,” he had promised. And now there’s no need. We’re moving already.

I just wish I knew for sure that I could stay with him once we do move.

I still don’t have an official transfer date, although it’s been rumored that I can go on the 12th of April. If this is the case, I can stay in Washington. If it’s not, I have to fly back to California to come back to work, and stay with my mom and sister temporarily.

I consider this as I sip a cranberry juice and vodka. I love my family, but moving in with them temporarily does not seem appealing. Once I’m out of the house, I see myself truly pining for Paul and normalcy. I do fine as long as I can come home to my kitties, relax on my own, and go to sleep in my own bed. Once I’m totally displaced, I see myself becoming grouchy and worn out.

It’s late and I should be in bed, although I haven’t been getting as much sleep lately as I am used to. When Paul’s home, I am usually in bed by ten at the latest, sleeping like a content little baby. Since he’s been gone, I’ve been up till after eleven, and it hasn’t really impaired my ability to wake up in the morning. Perhaps my brain is too full, or perhaps I haven’t adjusted to Daylight Savings yet. Last night I made myself go to bed by ten, only to find that waking up was a struggle for the first time.

Odd.

There’s a union rally starting at 7am in front of my office. I start at 8am, so I should really go and march and show my support. As long as I am in California, I am a CWA union member and proud of it. We have been working without a contract for almost two weeks because the greedy phone company wants to employ more (non-union) contractors and cut our pay. I do NOT support any of this nonsense. We took a strike vote last week, which came in at an overwhelming ‘yes’ to a strike. I am offended. A company that makes as much money as mine does ought to treat its workers right. And yet, the CEOs are greedy, and want more more MORE.

I have seen corporate greed. And it is truly sickening.

I cannot forget the last year and a half I’ve spent as a steward. I’ve learned a lot and I am a big supporter of my union, and of all unions. I feel that all workers should have a union for protection. And even though I am leaving soon, and even though there is a pending merger in the Northwest that will ultimately change who I am employed with, I still want to see my coworkers in California treated right.

Work is leaving California, there’s no doubt. Paul and I are getting out of state not just because I like living somewhere that has boats big enough to put cars on, but also to escape the threat of my work being moved out of state or even overseas and finding ourselves down to one income. We certainly can’t afford our cushy SoCal life should I find myself unemployed. Up north, we’ll be near enough big cities and diverse businesses that I might actually be able to find other means of earning a living if I need to.

I realize my head is spinning and that without noticing, I’ve stuffed nearly every loose item in my kitchen into a box. I’m making headway. By Sunday, I should be able to finish the box packing. Then on to bigger projects, like breaking down furniture and unhooking the tv. If I keep up at this pace, I’ll be done on time for sure.

I finish my drink and reload my tape gun.

I am starting a new journey.

And so I decided to stop my old-fashioned journal writing and put my thoughts down in a blog instead.

Then I put a link to said blog on my Facebook page.

Now all the people I’m friends with on Facebook have rushed to read this and can’t wait to be captivated by my exciting and fun-filled life.

Or something of that sort.

After living my whole life in Southern California, and most of it in the High Desert, I am leaving it behind for a new life in the Seattle area of the Pacific Northwest. I’ve been offered the chance to transfer my position with my company to their Everett office (although as of now I still don’t have a confirmed start date, which is a little nerve-wracking), and my live-in boyfriend Paul is already in Washington and working at his new position. I’m still in SoCal for now, in charge of packing up the house and making arrangements here, while Paul house-hunts in our new area.

Last night, Paul and I were approved for a townhouse in Marysville, a town about thirty miles north of Seattle. I found the place online quite awhile back, but we’d seen conflicting information about price and were really more interested in finding a single family home than a townhome or condo.

Which would have been all well and good, if our property management company hadn’t turned out to be a bunch of man-haters.

Paul had called to set up appointments to see several homes we were interested in. When asked about pets, Paul replied honestly that we have cats. The next question was, “Are they boys or girls?” Upon hearing we had both genders, we were denied as tenants because the company won’t rent to people who have male cats.

Having an entire major property management company deny us seriously limited our options. I was also concerned about paying lots and lots of rent and wanted to find a cheaper place. So yesterday morning I got up early, looked online for places I thought we’d like to live in, and started leaving messages for landlords to set up appointments for Paul to go see houses (and no, I did not ask him if he would mind me doing this. Slight oversight. Whoops).

So halfway through the morning I got a call from Alaina from Carroll Creek Townhomes, telling me she did have a unit available now and if we rented it before the end of the month we’d get a month free rent and a $500 gift card to Costco. Since I dearly love all things free and/or in bulk, I jumped on it and called Paul to have him go look at the unit after work. He deemed it acceptable.

The moment I escaped from work I called him. “So when do we find out if we’re approved?” I wanted to know.

“We are approved, I get the keys Friday,” he replied. “We were approved before I went to the bank for the money order.”

“Alaina asked me when I’d come by on Friday,” he continued. “I told her I get off work at 4:30, so I’ll be there at 4:35.”

Go me with my mad home-finding skills.

I stayed up half the night having a panic attack because we’re actually moving and I still have quite a bit of packing to do. I packed until I could no longer stand the sight of packing tape and boxes and then retreated to the living room to watch Lifetime movies until sleepiness set in.

This morning I am up, off work (and having to work Saturday, blah), and ready to finish up my packing and perhaps to scoot over to the spa for a much-needed pedicure. I have the laundry room and the kitchen left to pack. The laundry room is a half-hour-tops job to do that consists of boxing up household cleaners. The kitchen, however, will be more work.

I made coffee and thought to myself that I must write all this in my journal. Then I thought, what the hell, why not blog it instead? I can type so much faster than I can handwrite, and it will be neat later on to have a blog detailing the triumphs (and horrors I’m sure!) of my California-to-Washington move.

And so with that I say, let the mayhem commence.