I’ve made some executive decisions, along with my usual (and some not) trusty advisors’ opinions to ponder.
We’re not going to move for at least another month. The main issue? Moving costs and my lack of faith in being able to find the place on the first shot.
I’m looking at a least couple hundred to have a truck rented or to hire movers. Even if I am super packed and there’s nothing really to take – in comparison to what we came with and have accumulated since – it’s a minimum two hour charge for pros to do it for me. And oh god, do I want the pros to do it for me. I’d prefer to see them bending and twisting and writhing (in pain) while I direct and then hop on a bus to my new home.
Also, finding the place. It’s about an hour and a half commute on public transit (which is the only way we roll) to get to the ‘hood where I want us to be. Assuming that I have a string of appointments lined up, I’m wondering how many landlords would feel comfie renting to a single mom who claims to work from home, who is having her damage deposit paid for (temporarily or otherwise) by welfare. Would you have concerns? Like if they’re going to even be able to pay the rent, never mind will care to, or fulfill the lease requirements?
Yeah. So. That’s what’s happening.
Now, I have to be in court in nine hours, I have to drop Isobel at the babysitters on the way there (who I totally forgot to call tonight to confirm, thanks to Isobel going to sleep at 10pm), and I’ve just gotten out of the shower right now. My hair’s all spirally and delicious looking with the perfect amount of product and pins in it and if I got to bed now, it will not even closely resemble this in the morning. So even though the dark circles have now changed to an angry shade of greyish blue – granite, even – I must stay awake for a little while longer.
And then!
Tomorrow (in six and a half hours), I get to wake up to go through the whole “avoid looking like an over tired wreck, with liberal applications of concealer, foundation, blush and pearly white eyeshadow” routine. Then I get to pack Isobel up for the day, cuz I literally have no idea if we’ll be in right away and out right away or if we’ll be waiting for hours.
Which brings me to the next point. I don’t get nervous very often. And I’m nervous about tomorrow.
Oh, not about how court will go, not at all really – I mean, I will be wearing my lucky ginch and pushup bra, a black long sleeve, long button down that screams trendy a year ago and some dark fitted jeans with ballet flats. It’s me, getting dressed up.
I’m nervous about seeing JDawg. About caring how he looks or if he’s angry and hates me. About looking at him and seeing his want to scream at me, and if I have the ability to remain completely closed off.
Enough to not allow him to fight with me and not to fight back, anyways. Or worse, to not start a fight myself. Part of me thinks I should talk to him and explain that everything I’ve done in the past two weeks has been because someone told me it was what I had to do. But part of me knows it’d just be better to do the in front of the judge stuff and let the lawyer do the other talking – with responses as necessary.
Which I know will come across as even colder and more uncaring.
God, I’ve gotta stop caring about this stuff so much. Right?
