January Sucks

My boy, HS senior photo

As I wrote yesterday, my brother killed himself 29 years ago,  just days before my birthday. I always get depressed in January. I was also always used to having my family making a big deal out of my birthday, even as an adult. Mom called me every year on my birthday ever since I went away to college and sang Happy Birthday to me on the phone, even when I lived in the same city as she did. She called me with my brother, then with her second husband, then with my grandmother, then just her. But she always called and sang. So I'm feeling quite unhappy about January these days, even more than before.

My mom, HS senior photo

Because of my brother's suicide, every January hurts, but at least every year prior to last year I had my mom — whose own loss of a child was greater than I could imagine — for comfort and to take my mind off my birthday loss and pin it on birthday gains (such as all those additional years that are better than the alternative). I miss her voice.

Miracles

I started a part-time paid position with the group I've volunteered with for two years: I am the manager/ coordinator for making sure that everything is accomplished, and on time, and that the event runs successfully and smoothly. Not sure how I got roped into this. Doug made it sound simpler.


So, right after I agreed to that job, I was asked to interview with a writing services company. One of my colleagues on the volunteer job is always trying to help me, so she recommended me to the owner of this company. With my new resume that showed my new part-time position, I sat down and had the best interview EVAH with the owner and the VP. I told them what the ideal situation was for me (2 part-time jobs, at least until the other one is finished) and freelance. They didn't pull away or act like that was a deal-killer. I took their tests. Last week they offered me some part-time work. I don't know if it's just this one project or an ongoing relationship, but wow. I start early tomorrow morning.


All I have to do now is get the freelance stuff back on track.


If the writing services company keeps me on regularly, I'll be able to pay all my bills and put money in the bank for the first time since January 2008.


Of course, I have this virus that has given me laryngitis and a cough that is keeping me up at night. I have the writing job tomorrow, then therapy, then a meeting with the other PT job. It's possible I will have no voice by the end of the day, but so what. I'll have been doing things.


Now can someone help me pay my mom's last bills so I can finish my work as executor and get my bit of money?

Surrounded by Memories

I wrote much of this in mid-August, while I was still going through things at the house. Then, between a lack of internet access, a surfeit of work and fatigue, and that pesky appendectomy, I didn't get back to it until now. Therefore, it is both past and present.

I'm making progress. Here I am, surrounded by memories and the realization of the final aspects of my losses and how my life will never be the same, and I'm not bawling my eyes out.

I'm placing tags on things from many lives — mine, my mom's, my grandma's, my father's and brother's and step-father's — breaking them down into prices dividing them into proceeds.

Ms. X and the Storage Bins of Doom

The morning dawned bright with promise, so I was told when I wandered over to my neighbors' at 10 am. The morning was still bright, but dawn was long gone, and so soon would be my neighbors. We were still yelling our good-byes as I clawed my way through the short path between our houses (Note to self: tell the yard lady to trim back the hedge). 

And there she stood by my front door — Xatrax, come all the way from her hidden compound near Portland, to help me store irreplaceable items inside inconsequential-seeming plastic bins. We were continuing the work begun by my previous assistant and myself just days before. With the preternatural intuition that she is known for, Ms. X knew that without her help, my project was poised for failure. I beamed with gratitude so strongly that Ms. X had to bat it away from her face like a fog of gnats.

"Yes, yes, you're welcome. Shall we get down to work? Your project is too vital to let it fail," she said. Grabbing her ever-present gear bag, she ushered me into my house, letting the screen door slam closed behind her. From the tips of her dark, skull-hugging 'do to the soles of her history-encrusted boots, Ms. X radiated "can-do" ... and the super-secret power of the FGB vibe.

Our first forays showed that my assistant Kem had gone further toward my project's end than I had first thought. Areas of action were sharply defined by lime paper and cobalt ink — both highly necessary ingredients in my plans. Leaving me to my mumbled thoughts — No, this stays here, right? Oh lordy, we never even looked there — Xatrax efficiently collected what I pulled out of nooks and crannies and gathered it all in the staging area.

Then it was time. I whipped out the bubble wrap and Xatrax slid free her lethal knife and we threw ourselves at the suspiciously innocuous-looking plastic bins in red and blue. By tag-teaming, a little cutting, some tight wrapping, and a lot of re-positioning, we filled those bins efficiently and effectively. As for the infamous Dancing Ladies, a little bright yellow duck tape from Ms. X's bag was enough to hold them where we wanted them. And thanks to her magical sparkly silver pen, we know what is in which bin. No surprise is a good surprise, is what I say.

There remain a few outliers lying low about the house that don't fit in a bin or were forgotten during the choreographed mayhem of earlier, but we did a lot of work and I rewarded us both with a leisurely, talk-filled lunch of BLTs from Subway. 

After our energizing and nutritious lunch, I discovered that there was no work remaining to do at this stage. This left us with an unanticipated significant amount of time left before Ms. X had to return to her home in the wilds of a Portland suburb. So what to do with all that time?

THE BEACH!!!!

Yes, it was another perfect day at the beach and I so wanted to impress the great Xatrax with my physical strength as well as my mental prowess that I poured my remaining energy into keeping up (mostly) with Ms. X, even tho' I've spent most of the last year hanging out on a couch. I don't know for sure how far we walked, only that it was a really, really long way great distance and my legs ached. A lot. (I know I would have to pay for this unaccustomed physical activity tomorrow, but I conceived the plan to just walk again on the new day and the new pain will simply blend into the existing pain so I won't notice it. Brilliant!) It was awesomely fun a tremendous experience, even when I got my shoes, socks, and the bottom four inches of my jeans wet because it turns out I can't actually jump anymore. (Gotta fix that before the Zombiepocalypse!) Xatrax cheated: her boots are Goretex.

Talking for hours with a girlfriend another super-power is a comfort I've missed, comfortable even if the friendship is still new and there is so much initial stuff to learn about each other. We packed. We talked. We ate. We talked. We walked down 137 steps and across a wide expanse of soft sand and we talked. 

We walked and talked (except when I was stopped and panting) all the way down the beach from 21st to the Wayside, which Google Maps says is approximately 1 mile. When you are walking on mostly soft sand in one direction, it's more than one mile. When you are walking uphill in the other direction, it's more than one mile. Those are my rules. So by my rules, we walked at least 3 or 4 miles. Ms. X very kindly lounged on a park bench with me as I regained my strength, commenting that she, too, needed a rest. The woman's legendary graciousness is a truth.

We looked at kites and tacky souvenirs, then I bought chocolate and Xatrax bought caramel corn and we carried our treats and our weary bodies uphill back to the house. After a too-brief leave-taking, the amazing Ms. X, woman of mystery and a really great hat, swept away in her little Black Soul, bearing sand and caramel corn to the incomparable Mr. X, and leaving me nursing sore calves, sore thighs, sore feet, sore achilles tendons, sunburned cheeks ....

Thanks to Xatrax, I now have no worries. My plan will succeed. It will change lives and turn around economies. Most importantly of all — it will finally be all over.

Territorial

I spent today marking my territory. Instead of pee, I used lime green post-it notes and a blue gel pen.

The friend who was helping me suggested I mark items before beginning The Great Adventure in Packing. Smart woman, that Kem. So we wandered thru much of the house marking stuff to be sent to me in Houston, to go into storage for me (and a couple of things for my aunt), and then marked things for the estate sale as $ for Skye or $ for Carolyn. It was a useful day, complete with lunch from Subway and lots of talking. 

All that remains are the two smaller bedrooms, although there is a lot of stuff in one of the closets. Once all the marking is complete, then the packing can begin!

I imagine I'll begin some of the packing tomorrow, after a break and perhaps a walk on the beach. Then my friend Glynis will be here all day Monday; I imagine we will finish most if not all of the rest. Plus a walk on the beach.

The movers come Tuesday to swap stuff in and out of storage. Then Wednesday I begin to go thru my own storage unit so I can make room for whatever is left in the second storage unit.

Universe, please give me enough money so I can afford a larger living space and be able to move the things in my storage unit in Oregon to my home in Houston. Really, I've spent more than enough money on storage. And, no, getting my portion of the estate will not be the money I'm asking for. See yesterday's post and my comment for why.

I'm tired and should consider going to bed very soon. I imagine I will feel like this most days that I am here. (Hey Merry! Come join me at the beach!) But it's a good kind of tired. It's a "I've been on my feet almost all day and accomplished a lot" kind of tired. And I am very grateful that I had help; I couldn't have accomplished half of what I did without it.