Recently we were at the beach with our friends the Tuckers, and Jenn was asking what was going on with the temporary relocation (I prefer that to the term "move", which implies a permenant thing). I was retelling a few items, including the ferry trip, the house we rented, etc. To which Jenn replied, "Oh my god. You guys are so... ORGANIZED. You've gotten all that taken care of already? You're months out! We'd probably be packing up the car to leave and go "oh, maybe we should look into a place to rent for while we're up there." Because we just totally do not have it together to that degree."
And I said "Maybe. But the big difference is that you'd be fine with going with the flow. We would most assuredly NOT be OK with that. We would freak. The term "roll with it" does not apply at 305."
Let me refresh your memory as to who we are dealing with, here.
|Show some love to Natalie Dee for this design, y'all.|
So it's appropriate that in preparation for this excursion, 305 has been transformed and looks more like this these days:
That's right, people. We're going to execute this thing with the military precision of Operation Overlord. Or better. Because there's not much that will send me into having a come-apart faster than The Unknown.
Look. I know it's a shortcoming. I know that it's indicative of a far healthier psyche to be flexible. Adaptable. More relaxed. But at the ripe old age of 44, I'm beginning to finally accept the fact that I'm not that guy. Girl. Woman. Whatever. My parents will confirm that even as a little kid, I absolutely COULD NOT enjoy what I was doing unless I knew "what's going to happen next?". Once I had a plan mapped out in my tiny little neurotic brain, I was happy as a clam. And I'm still very much that way. I need to know what. I need to know when. I need to know where. I need to know how. And I need to know it all long before I get in the car and pull out of my driveway and point to the Great White North.
So here's what we've accomplished so far.
We have procured lodging.
We have gotten passports and filed for all the visa stuff we need.
|Yes, Pootie had on pants. He'd been outside trying to give himself skin cancer.|
We have (probably prematurely, given the dog situation) booked the ferry. (The dog situation is the only reason we haven't actually reserved the aforementioned pet-friendly accomodations since we don't know for sure which ferry we'll be taking. Yes, it's causing some internal anxiety for me, thank you for asking.)
We have located the local Costco.
We have ascertained what the most likely equivalents are for our Harris Teeter and Target and mapped them. We have researched restaurants we want to try. We have contacted the local pet supply place to make sure they carry Dinky's particular brand of Hard Crunchy Bits.
We (and by "we", I mean Pootie, in this instance) have written an extremely detailed household operations manual, um, list for the future occupants of 305. We have made arrangements for our mail. We have plotted to turn the screws on Sprint so they'll give us a reasonable calling plan. We have obtained parkas (I got mine for my June birthday from my parents! North Face! Woot!). We have retrieved our almost unused LL Bean boots from the attic and made sure they're still intact. We have made preliminary lists of things (mostly clothing) that we're going to pack in boxes and have shipped to us once we leave. (We'll be "sending for our things" - all Old School and stuff!)
I'm sure I'm leaving some things out.
I told you. I do not mess around with my neuroses. We plan hardcore. I am professionally unbalanced about leaving my home.
But hey. You know what? I'll do what I have to do for my own emotional comfort. Doing what I can to alleviate anxiety on the front end will help me actually enjoy this experience instead of being wound up tighter than a two-dollar watch for the week it takes us to get there. Which makes me just heaps of fun to be around.
So I'll be picking some serious nits until we leave in August. Trust me. We'll ALL be happier.