Pack, paint, pain: Dreaming of the road, at home

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I took a week off from being in the truck with George so I could begin packing and organizing our move. Let me state unequivocally that I would rather be beaten with a rattlesnake whip than move. We’ve been in this house longer than any since we were married – we moved a lot when we were younger, but this one has been home base for a long time. Consequently, there is enough stuff crammed in here for 16 families to survive the apocalypse, especially if they require fashionable jackets and snow boots after the apocalypse.

On top of that, our daughter recently got a new place and she’s jamming to get it clean, painted and ready to move in before Thanksgiving. This, of course, requires actually helping her paint, which is another thing I’d rather be beat on than do. I’ll clean all day long, but I really hate to paint. It’s one of those things that looks so easy, and yet, it definitely is not. My paint jobs often require more clean-up time than paint time, because I have a problem staying within the lines. (I’m sure everyone is shocked that Spazzmo-dee over here has a problem staying in the lines.) I came out of a room I had just finished and heard the kids whispering to each other, “She painted one of the baseboards and half the window sill. I thought you told her to just roll the big, open spaces in the walls??”

Just to clarify, the baseboard was ugly and I accidentally dropped the roller on the sill, so there. Is the house painted? Did you die? If the answers flow as “yes” and “no” then my work here is done.

RR crossingI could probably recover much better and carry on if I could sleep through the symphony of train horns and Buck’s “song of his people” every night. We live really close to a train track (one thing I won’t miss a bit) and the conductors have increased their whistle times at crossings with the fall deer rut. Apparently, deer line up at railroad crossings now, because that’s the answer I got when I called and asked CSX why the hell they have to lay on the horn for six miles before and after a crossing with an arm bar and lights. There’s a delightful train driver who passes every morning at 4 a.m., but they wake me up at 3:30 because they start the horn in Wapakoneta and don’t lay off it til they get to Springfield. This triggers an operatic performance from Buck the dog, who is the most unobtrusive, sweet animal on this earth, until the train horn starts.

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And people gripe about Jake brakes. Harumph.

George bopped in from the road last night, in remarkably better shape than me, which is unusual. He’s generally the one dragging, but this time, he found me in a huddled mass on the bed.

“Hey baby! I’m home!”

“Awesome. I would get up, but I think one of my knees exploded while I was squatting to paint trim today. You’re awfully chipper. Did you have a good trip?”

“The trip sucked as usual, but I got the best sleep last night. Temperature was perfect with the window screens in, person next to me had a real quiet APU, so it hummed just right, I rolled up in my sleeping bag and snoozed!”

Clearly, it only makes sense that I pack my bags and return to the road for a few days, so I can actually get some rest. Also, no one asks you to paint houses — at least, not that I’m aware of, unless it’s code for something like “cleaning your truck” is. It took me forever to figure out what that really meant, but that’s another story, for another time.

Keep on truckin’!