Fact: It takes about five hours to move your things from one office to another if you've had a year and a half to accumulate the stuff. That's with a little hand cart and nobody helping. I now have 95% of my stuff here in Newville and I think I need to start organizing things a little before my brain slides out of my ear. I'm testing out how it feels to be in here with the door shut. It feels fucking fabulous. I don't believe in all my years of employment I've ever had an office with a door. And yes, I do feel like a grown-up, Diana! If this is all it took to validate me; shit, it could've been done a long time ago! There is no doubt whatsoever by the end of this week when all my stuff is unpacked and this place is decorated more to my liking and less like Cell Block Six, I will take some dorktastic pictures and post them. Something to look forward to.
Yesterday I was sort of bent over, half hobbling/half running down the long hallway here, trying to make it to the facilities before I shit myself. I was thinking, Okay, even if I run into someone which is unlikely, I'm walking normally. Everything will be fine. Then the receptionist appeared. Okay, still cool. I look completely normal, if not in a little hurry. As we passed each other she said, "Kim, is there something wrong with your foot?" I tried to think fast. "Yes; my shoe is too tight." What?? What kind of retard thing to say was that - my shoe is too tight. Sooo, was it tight when I decided to wear it this morning? Did it BECOME tight throughout the course of the day? Oh, well. If anything, I now have a new euphemism for taking a crap - my shoe is too tight. It's kind of fitting, actually. Two very uncomfortable situations, but one is more polite to say in public. I'm using it from now on. God, I knew I shouldn't have had that third piece of pizza; now my shoe is too tight!
Speaking of bathroom adventures, and yes I'm still talking about pooping, the other night on the way home from the campground, my stomach started cramping. It was almost a fifty mile trip and the cramping started pretty much as soon as we pulled out of the parking lot. I was driving. I made it known I was in pain and the situation could get bad quickly. Brian has lived with me a long time; he knows how bad the situation can get. He decided to distract me by talking about serial killers. He's read a lot of books about them and knows way more on the subject than I'd ever guessed. I will say this. It was a good enough distraction so that I made it home, flew up the front porch steps and into the house, shed my coat and mittens in the hallway, and slammed the bathroom door shut with mere milliseconds to spare. The only problem was by that point, Brian was feeling the same way I was - he just hadn't wanted to tell me because he knew it would make me feel worse; the power of suggestion.
This is the sad part. We have two bathrooms. One of them, a little half bath located in the computer room, started having a plumbing problem a few months ago, and Brian tried to fix it. He wasn't successful, so instead of telling George, who'd be happy to drop whatever he's doing and come help fix it or find someone who could, he decided a better idea was to push the whole thing aside and stop actively thinking about it. Now access to this bathroom is blocked by a full bookshelf and is probably seeping poisonous septic gas slowly into our house as we speak. Talking about this again had made me re-angry about it. But after the other night when he was realistically considering going in the backyard, I think he may be ready to finally face this thing. Nothing like putting something off that could be easily remedied to the point it becomes a major problem. We are both experts in this field, which is one reason we get along so well. It's not something I'm proud of; in fact, I'm working hard to change that about myself. Nothing is usually ever as dramatic as we build it up in our own little brains to be.
Imagine the possibility: both a new office and two working bathrooms all in one week. It's almost too much.