You and me both, dude.
I think that what happened over the weekend was that I fell into a fugue state, or perhaps a wormhole wherein the space/time continuum as we know it ceased to exist, thereby allowing the hours in each day to expand in infinite directions. Because that is the only reasonable explanation I have for what just transpired over the course of my move from the Valley to Malibu, which was that I DESTROYED IT.
And by “it” I mean “life.”
I KILLED IT DEAD.
Here is a sampling (and, mind you, just a sampling) of what I have done in the past 48 hours:
- Packed an entire house into a U-Haul (with the help of movers, of course, but STILL)
- Drove through winding canyon roads with a car full of furious cats, a too-full, sloshing fish tank, my daughter’s most preciousist china cabinet that was not to be harmed in any way, and a knife block filled with butcher knives that I forgot to pack until the very last minute and thus had to lay gently on the passenger seat like the world’s deadliest baby
- Unpacked an entire house from a U-Haul (with the help of movers, of course, but STILL)
- Watched my cat leap out of his (apparently completely unacceptable) new abode through a cracked window and dash away like Dancer and Prancer combined, and on speed
- Ran around the neighborhood panicking and screaming “shit!” over and over again – you know, just to make the best possible first impression on the neighbors – while searching for my wayward feline
- Painted the front door
- Painted my daughter’s room
- Set up a living room
- Set up a family room
- Set up one child’s room
- Set up another child’s room
- Set up one bathroom
- Set up another bathroom
- Set up my bedroom
Pillowpia rust and cream pillows intermingled with a couple from my Interior Wanderer collab, plus an old glam | camp blanket
- Artfully arranged the throw pillows just-so
- Had a couch steam-cleaned
- Moved my massive and massively heavy console table to one spot, then changed my mind and moved it to another spot, then obviously had to move it back to the first spot again
- Bleached alllll the curtains
- Did 10,000 loads of laundry
- Organized the bookshelves
- Organized the china cabinet
- Organized the kitchen shelves (including spice rack? OBVI)
- Installed various missing cabinet knobs
- Swept what had to have been a year’s worth of leaves out of the front yard
- Hung the shower curtains
- Hung the artwork
- Hung the curtains
- Hung the Christmas wreaths (plural? PLURAL)
- Put up the Christmas tree
- Realized the Christmas tree was at least a foot too tall for the space and MacGuyvered a solution (lose the top part and floof the remaining branches into a passably conical shape)
- Had a lovely little hang with my friends Ella and Kiri
- Had a lovely little hang with Margo and her daughter
- Had a lovely little hang with Francesca
- Took a beach stroll with Francesca
- Whipped up a gluten-free pizza for Francesca
- Submitted an insurance claim for my piano (did I mention my piano was destroyed during the move? ‘Twas)
- Located my erstwhile cat, who has by now appeared to have absorbed and embraced his new living situation, hashtag #beachcat
- Took an oatmeal bath with a Bird’s Nest Ampoule Sheet Mask on my face. Because sure.
BTW my couch is an Ikea couch that used to be white, and that was super-surprisingly destroyed within seconds, and that I had recovered by Comfort Works.
Never have I ever (and I do mean “ever”) been quite so productive, to the point where even I think I might be lying. (I’m not.) The only way I can explain this apart from my wormhole theory is that decorating and organizing and cleaning while listening to reruns of The Walking Dead on my AirPods is absolutely the apex of my capacity for happiness…so perhaps I was just so apex-edly overjoyed that I forgot to be tired?
…Maybe?
Related Read: How To Pack Your House For A Move (Video)
Related Read: We’re Not In Malibu Anymore
But lest you go thinking I’ve achieved Gwyneth-y levels of superhuman perfection (my obvious goal in life), there is also this:
On Sunday morning, Francesca came over to check out the new place. We decided to go out for brunch, and as we were walking out to the car, I came to a sudden halt next to the ceramic Santa that I had atmospherically placed along the walkway while in the aforementioned fugue flow state that made me think ceramic Santas on walkways needed to be prioritized.
…Why did I stop? Because I saw two pairs of black underwear on the ground in a tiny, wildly-inappropriate-for-viewing-by-brand-new-neighbors pile.
…Were they a transient’s, or perhaps detritus that had been tossed from the window of a young couple on an illicit lover’s jaunt?
No, of course not. They were mine.
So I decided to accept that fact for what it was – whatever, I’m moving, my shit is everywhere – picked up my underwear and put it back into the house, and we went to brunch. Except when we arrived at the brunch spot it wasn’t open yet, so we took a little stroll around the area and returned a few minutes later. Only to find, on the ground directly outside the brunch spot, a pair of lacy, navy-blue underwear.
Were they mine?
Of course they were.
Now, to be clear, I was not carrying a bag of any sort, and the underwear that I had put on my body that morning was most definitely present and accounted for (I checked), so exactly how I managed to sprinkle not one, not two, but THREE PAIRS OF UNDERWEAR in various locales throughout Malibu remains quite the mystery.
So the short story is that I may appear to have transformed into an epic specimen of humanity capable of unpacking households faster than a speeding bullet….
But really: I’m still that girl who accidentally loses her thong in a parking lot.
#micdrop.
