I am finally in my final resting place (for a few months, anyway), having moved into my own apartment and out of Child B's apartment. It is strange, the circumstances in which we often find ourselves. We always hear of children moving back home...but not so often about able-bodied, working parents moving into their children's homes. Now, granted, I hope that (if I am still in the quick and not the dead) if I get so old that I set out on the front porch and snap at people all day, my Child A or Child B will see fit to shelter me in my old age. Of course there is always the possibility that they would simply deposit me into the nearest rest home.
What's that? Sweetie is yelling at me. It seems you are not supposed to call those places REST HOMES! THEY ARE NURSING HOMES, HONEY! I like to think she yelled at me because I am hard of hearing, not because she is upset but is seated on the next cushion over. I could have heard a whisper just as well at that distance. But I digress...
So Sweetie and I have our own apartment again. It brings back memories of the first little honeymoon cottage. We had no real furniture, although someone had donated to us the two essentials, a large evaporative cooler, and a bed. I guess, in retrospect, the cooler was really not an essential. Anyway, so now we have only three pieces of furniture: an entertainment center, a dresser, and a roll top desk. I forgot to mention the two camp chairs, but in the event of company, the visitors will not have ANY furniture. I have a sneaking feeling that Sweetie is about to demand...er, request that trip to the local furniture stores where we can leave the last of our earthly wealth. Moving really drains the bank account, you know. Nonetheless, I am SO happy that we are finally in our semi-final home. Of course there will be the move from the apartment to the house, but since we have not bought the house yet, there is still a little time to recover from the move.
I am so thankful for the help we had last night. Both Child A and Child B participated, as did my ever helpful brother-in-law. My sweet and beautiful sister-in-law told us, however, that we would need to HIRE SOME HELP (I think from the yellow-pages) NEXT @#$!&*%!!^#%% YOU DECIDE TO MOVE!! She did not, at that moment, sound like the dear sister-in-law I have come to know and love. Not to despair, folks. She was herself again after we stopped for victuals at Rosa's. For your trivia pleasure, there do not appear to be any Rosa's Cantinas anywhere near the Houston area. So there is a point in favor of the Permian Basin!
As I sit here, I am slowly becoming more and more aware of the ever-growing number of sore places over my poor and aging sack of bones. Indeed, as I was assisting in moving the entertainment center last night, my muscles literally gave out, and Child A had to take over my end of the furniture. I thanked him profusely as I lay spasming on the living room carpet. But a few minutes later, and with the help of a stick and a spoon, they were able to pour me into the Tahoe for the much anticipated trip to Rosa's. I did not possess the strength to drive to the restaurant. No, my friends, I simply lay puddled in one of the rear seats. By the time we arrived at said eatery, I was able to stumble and crawl under my own power to the order line.
Yes, was truly great to be settle once again...again, and to have all the loved ones there for help and support; and to tote me back to the Tahoe at the conclusion of our evening meal.
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