We are DEAD and this is HELL...

So says Laura San Giacomo in the cheesy TV version of The Stand. And so says me now. I thought last time would be the Mother of All Moves, but this one is making the last one look like a cakewalk. For the past four days, my schedule has consisted of driving back to Boston, doing hours of yardwork, vacuuming and cleaning, hauling hundreds of boxes out to the car, and driving back at midnight. Last night we didn't get home until 1 AM.

I am panicked about everything and very poor company to be around for the Mrs., but we are both frayed and frightened and burned out beyond belief. The worst feeling is the CERTAIN knowledge that they WILL screw us out of the money, because for the third time in a row, the conversation with the landlady has been:

"I drove by the house yesterday and I'm not happy with the lawn."

"Well, I've been working hard on it." [Understatement of the year.] "Can you tell me what is wrong with it.?"

"It just looks in disarray, the yard there. You know, we don't expect you to do the shrubs." [Good, because they have NEVER done a damn thing about the enormous shrubs. That makes the house look 20 times worse than anything else.] "My husband, you know, he has weak knees." [Every time, she says this. You know, no one forced you to be a god damn landlord. Either that or rent to people with loads of time on their hands to do absolutely nothing.]

"Well, if you could tell me something SPECIFIC I would be happy to work on it. I've been cleaning the stones and weeding and raking and cutting the grass..."

"Uh, the yard there."

I have spent night after night working on this fucking jungle of a yard. It is simply beyond my power to make pristine or at least as perfect as she thinks it should be. I'm not some kind of one-man landscaping company. And then the house itself keeps disgorging pile after box after pile.

I promise myself, while down on my hands and knees, that I am never going to scrub some rich asshole landlord's toilets ever again. Next frickin time we move, if humanly possible, we will buy, God help us. I am exhausted beyond all human comprehension at this point, but we have to go down there tonight for a last insane two hours of work before the final inspection. This... is going to be ugly.

Huh.

We're running around like psychos with mops and vacuums, the kitchen floor is still being mopped, the oven has cleanser in it, and it's 6:30 and the inspection is at 7. The landlady shows up. But it's all friendly, how's things with the baby, oh I see you worked on the yard, brief walk-through of the place. And here's your $1300 check. No, we won't need your address, really. Just have a nice life and we're glad you liked the house.

Okay, so I was wrong. Maybe they were impressed by our psychotic cleaning and yardwork efforts. Maybe having preggers Mrs. S. around disarmed the usual "zoom in and screw" landlord instinct. (Though goddammit! why on earth did you have to fuck with my head about the yard?)

I am still too stunned to believe it or say much productive. I'm cashing that check first thing tomorrow AM.

Disoriented by the experience of being home earlier than midnight. Being able to watch TV and experience life again like a normal person in the new place. Perhaps tomorrow even eat some food with nutritional value.

A good moment to offer some kind of remark about how my life is built of moments where I prepare myself for hours and days for grand battles that never quite materialize... but I'm too tired to be coherent about anything right now.