Y'all, I've been packing for three straight days. Nothing but packing. Boxes, boxes and more boxes.
And it isn't over yet. I still have to pack most of the bathroom, all the laundry supplies and all the kitchen except my crystal. I did that yesterday. Or maybe I packed that this morning. I don't really remember anymore.
All of our clothes are packed expect what we need for this week, which we have laid out on the guest bed, because I packed all the hangers.
This evening Andy came home and when he saw that I was ready to start on the kitchen he suggested that we go buy disposable plates, cups and silverware, so we can pack the entire contents of the kitchen tomorrow and not have to worry about it anymore.
I get it, really I do. I understand he's trying to make life easier and I can completely understand the logic behind the suggestion. But y'all, I hate eating off paper plates and drinking out of plastic cups and eating with plastic utensils. When we got married I didn't register for two sets of china just because it was pretty. I like to eat off nice plates. It makes me happy. It makes me feel like a grown up. And when everything else is completely wrong, I can go to my kitchen and make dinner and serve it on my china and all is right with the world.
How irrational is that? Do you see what this move is doing to me? I'm losing my mind. It's freaking paper plates! For only two days! GET A GRIP, JOANNA!
Oh! And let me just tell you, Milton is having a nervous breakdown. He has never been good at changing his routine. He has a sensitive little system, and when he's nervous or upset he expresses it with poo.
What? Don't you want to hear about my bunny's poo?
Well, I didn't want to step in it this morning and track it all over the living room and kitchen, but that's what happened.
But I need to talk about something besides moving, so that's what I'm going to do. Change the subject.
I blogged awhile ago about my upcoming class reunion.
Well, a couple of weeks ago I got some information in the mail about it. Along with a letter and list of activities, I received a questionnaire about what I've been up to the last ten years.
There are a lot of questions on it, but two, in particular, stand out to me.
One is, "How many times have you been married?" Um, really? I mean, I'm sure we're all curious. Everyone has a little gossip inside them and who wouldn't love to know about everyone's failures these last ten years, but holy rudeness!
Second is, "What is your most embarrassing moment?" I'm not sure how this is going to be informative about our former classmates either, but it should be good for a few laughs.
Anyway, the question made me have a physical reaction, because it immediately brought to mind what I still consider my most horrific moment. EVER.
It actually happened when I was in high school.
I was in an auditioned chorus, called ensemble, and every fall the four high schools in the county got together for a choral clinic. We practiced the music in our own schools and then the day before the concert, came together and rehearsed as one big group.
Usually the concert and rehearsals were held at the local auditorium, but my junior year there was a scheduling conflict, so we had to move it to a large church.
The night before the big rehearsal day I spent some time planning out my outfit. I wanted to wear just the right thing because
Next morning I woke up and put on my planned outfit. I was wearing a short sleeved, mock turtleneck black top with white and red stripes, a jean mini skirt and my most favorite shoes, black, wooden soled, platform Candies. You know the kind. They had thick straps and a three inch platform sole made entirely of wood that rocked as you walked. Completely and totally irrational footwear, but also H-O-T if you were a teen in the 90's. I rocked those shoes all the time and they never let me down.
Anyway, that morning I got to the church. I'd never been in this particular sanctuary, but when I got there I looked up to the front and this is what I saw: It was your traditional sanctuary. Pews, garish carpeting, pulpit up on a platform with the choir loft behind. Except the platform was really, really high. Not the usual three or four steps. Oh no, there was an entire flight, at least ten steps to the top of that altar and I had to climb every one.
Undaunted, I walked right up them, took my seat among the sopranos and proceeded to rehearse.
And then it was time to break for lunch.
Now, when I was in high school I was slightly full of myself. I always had a little too much self confidence and tended to walk with a bit of a swagger. I have also, when shoe shopping, always had a tendency to disregard my weak ankles.
I stood up and walked over to the steps. I had gotten up them just fine in the blocks of wood on my feet, and so I had no concern for what might happen on the way down. I was completely confident that I could make it, unscathed.
So down I stepped, and on the second stair my right ankle failed me and rolled right over, taking my three inch, wooden death trap with it. I fell all the way down the stairs.
I can't even tell you how I felt. All I can say is that whenever I tell someone this story I still turn red all over. It was just awful. And the worst part? No one around me even stopped to ask if I was alright. They just walked right by me, and all their faces said, "Look at this idiot with the wooden shoes." I sat there for a good thirty seconds before my friend, Holly, caught up to me and gave me some sympathy.
Maybe it was God's way of bringing me down to size. It worked.
The only thing that was hurt was my pride, so I stood up and walked out of the church for lunch. When I came back for afternoon rehearsal I used the handrail going up and down the stairs and the next time I went back in that church I'm pretty sure I wore flats.
Ok, I shared mine. Now you share yours. It will give me something to laugh at in the midst of packing up my china, but I'll be laughing with you, not at you. I promise.
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