Getting there

The moving truck

We had the truck come last Friday, and spent Saturday cleaning the old house. What an awful day that was. But now we're firmly ensconced, if not quite unpacked, and the condo -- ah, it's going to work out great.

We can't find anything and wander around looking tentatively into boxes, wondering where the cups are, the knives are, the bowls are -- especially the bowls. Funny how, when we packed, I'd finish a box, label it and say to myself, "I know exactly where that is," and three days later it's lost forever.

We don't have internet yet, thus my long absence. Without internet, well, you might as well not be living. OK, that's taking it too far.

Mom has champed at the bit to see the place, and so far I've fended her off. The one-mile drive would seem interminable to her, and I'm afraid she'd have a bathroom episode on our beautiful floors. But I'll probably bring her over Monday.

She was in the penalty box when I got here today, all the ladies lined up. Her face was red and drawn, her mouth hanging open. She said they'd been talking, but she couldn't remember the topic. Quite possibly they were all talking at once on entirely different topics.

We did her mail, and I showed her pictures of the condo, and we called Sister L and Sister S, and went to the Bistro for Dove bars. Mom talked about a woman named Pat, who had called her and wanted a good get-reacquainted chat, but Mom wasn't up to it.

"I couldn't hear, I couldn't get it straight, so I was miserable, so that was a failure," she said. Pat said she'd call back in a few days. "But maybe she won't. I don't even know her name."

It's a cruel thing, what she's going through.

Bicycles in the dining room.
And, where is that thing?

Getting there

My lair