I've been having trouble getting properly tired at my usual bedtime in the last ten days or so partly because of all the excitement about the next few weeks and also because my sugar's been screwy. I've been getting highs and lows, probably because of the increase in stress (good and bad), and that means conking out involuntarily in the middle of the day on the couch. Carb-induced naps mean not being sleepy when it's time to wind down at the end of the day.
Saturday was one of those evenings -- couldn't seem to shut off my brain, so I packed more stuff just to be productive (grading and writing weren't happening either). As a result, I got up a little later than usual on Sunday. Had breakfast, read the news online. My parents-in-law were planning to meet me for dinner, so I figured I'd try to get work done during the day. Took a stab at an introduction for my essay, didn't seem to be making headway, so I started cleaning up the living room of packing debris so the in-laws would be able to sit down. Figured I'd fit a workout in after lunch and then a shower before one last stint of grading while waiting for them to arrive.
Suddenly, I heard a light series of knocks on my apartment door. At first I thought I was imagining things, but it lasted too long to be someone accidentally bumping into the wall with a bag of groceries on the way up the stairs. I peered through the peephole, figuring it was some door-to-door solicitor -- and was appalled to find my mother-in-law on the other side.
There I was, still in pajamas, hair going in four different directions, face unwashed, bags of garbage sitting on the floor by my feet. Talk about getting caught at a bad time! Within a few sentences of awkward conversation, I figured out that when my mother-in-law says dinner, she means lunch. But only on Sundays. Oh, Midwestern semantics! Why, I ask, would she use such a designation when making time-sensitive arrangements with someone who clearly didn't grow up in a Midwestern family?
I don't think I've been quite that embarrassed in a long time. To make matters worse, my mother-in-law insisted that she'd been calling and calling but that I hadn't picked up my phone (which, on my end, had been perfectly silent all morning). Turns out that she had my old phone number in her cell -- which I had disconnected in 2005. She doesn't know how to program contacts, so one of D's brothers had put my old information in a long time ago, and she'd never changed it.
Once I got over my initial shock and counted to ten so I wouldn't say something I'd regret, I was able to invite her inside. My father-in-law appeared then (he'd been parking the car) and we quickly reconfigured our plans. They had intended to pick up their spare table and chairs, which I had been borrowing during my time at school, so they worked on fitting those things into their car while I took a very quick shower. Then we headed out for sushi and everything was fine.
Except I'm still rattled about the whole getting-caught-by-the-in-laws-in-pajamas-after-noon-in-the-midst-of-a-small-disaster-site thing. I know D's parents don't think I'm a bum, and I had absolutely valid reasons for putting off showering till later (cleaning, exercise), but damn it, I still feel all squirmy thinking about the experience.
To take my mind off all this, I'm going to post a picture of my workspace. I'm taking down the art and the bulletin board today and wrapping everything for safe shipment, so the little nook I've called my creative center for two years is going away. I guess in the last few months I haven't been doing much there -- I do better writing curled up on the couch, I've found -- but the pictures and cards I've put up are visible from there too, and they give me good things to think about. The next time I see them will be when D and I hang them in our new home, which is now officially ours; D got the keys last Thursday.
There, that's a much better thought. More on the house very, very soon -- we'll be starting the moving process from the Seattle apartment this weekend!
