Life on the move

“Keep writing.”
Those words of encouragement came through my phone line at work yesterday morning from a regular reader of this column, which was sliding into the back seat of my “overcrowded-with-things-to-do-before-I-move-again,” crazy existence.
Thanks “Mrs. A” because, come to think of it, I could unload a few of my over-packed boxes of “life on the move” right here.
First of all, I know for sure that there are indeed 26 bones, 33 joints, and 100 muscles and tendons in the human foot because everything in both of mine is throbbing “Give us a break!”
And if you multiply those numbers by two and add them together, that’s how many times I think I’ve climbed up and down a ladder with a paint brush and painter’s tape at the farmhouse over the last two weekends.
And once again I’ve had to choose new paint colours for rooms—a job Debbie Travis no doubt could master in two seconds.
But for some reason I’ve second-guessed myself 318 times in the weeks leading up to the big move, and managed to stretch—what should have taken me a matter of days—into a log book of adventure worthy of the time it took Phileas Fogg to travel around the world.
And believe you me, the discoveries and hurdles of this enterprising expedition are yet to be completed without pursuit by farmhouse detective in search of projects, “Mr. Fix.”
But that’s another story.
The local hardware store also has probably hired its own set of private investigators to look into why all 318 paint swatches have disappeared from the rack over the last two-and-a-half-months.
I could have made a patchwork quilt with the ones I hauled into the farmhouse.
And as I stood there looking at the floor covered in colours that read “Yo Yo,” “Picante,” and “Mango Madness,” a youthful voice from a TV drama I once watched popped into my head.
“I’m confused right now,” it said.
“Uh-huh, that’s me,” I mumbled.
Then another wiser voice that sounded like someone’s grandmother replied, “That’s the best place to be. It’s where anything is possible.”
I closed my eyes, reached down, and picked a paint swatch, vowing to make it the newly perked up colour of my soon-to-be farmhouse kitchen. After all, I had excelled in interior decorating as a national sport in my other neck of the woods.
I peeked through the slits of my eyelids (maybe I’ll wait to paint it that colour when “Mr. Fix” goes back up north to work).
Meanwhile back at the current home base, where I’ve been given up for ghost by two canines in the race to ready the farmhouse, Daughter #3 informs me that Pete is looking for back-up for his “one box theory” of moving from house to house.
Instead of packing up everything ahead of time, he suggests using one box and filling it with stuff each time we return to pick up a load of furniture on moving day.
Fat chance, mister. Unless, of course, I’m going to be sitting with a beer at the farmhouse that day waiting on you to do all the hauling.
And while you’re operating your “one box theory” move, I’ll be painting the kitchen pink.

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