Where the Hell is My

Stepmommy and I are trapped in a POW camp.

We're still camped out in a house we haven't finished moving into. Most of our things are still in a moving fan, as storage, while the house is renovated. Their RV is parked outside and my dad mostly lives there, but it's not really practical for two to sleep in. Like... climbing over the other person in the middle of the night to go to the bathroom? So my dad is snug as a bug in a rug--he loves being cozied up in there--while we rough it.

Roughing it with small appliances, of course. But our stuff is in piles on the floor (same stuff we'd brought to the chalet plus purchases for my place)

 

and we have one piece of furniture--my futon sofa. Sometimes I sleep on it, but it's our only communal space, it's where the bird penthouses are, and half our kitcheny things. (Note, the futon's previous owners clearly only used it as a sofa, so when I lay it flat, there's a giant mountain range diwn the middle. You have to choose which side of the range to sleep on.)

So other times, like if I want to sleep in, I sleep on a pile of camping mattresses in the next room (my suite).

But it's where the sink and fridge are, so even then she still needs to access it.

 

Meanwhile she's sleeping on an inflatable bed, which has to be regularly pumped up--having already been through one (two?) that died. (My stepmother is like a size 6.)

Both our beds are super uncomfortable, we wake up feeling like 80 year old women. Unhealthy 80 year old women. And we say "where is my..." so many times each day--spend so much time searching through our piles of crap--that we're bored with ourselves. Every few days we reach a breaking point. Too tired, too sore, too discouraged to do our part in the renovations.

There are hired hands doing the painting and floors and kitchen and garden and bathroom; but stepmommy had to paint her crusty old fireplace, manage the workers, and she's always cleaning up; and my suite needed de-wallpapering, degluing, bookcase painted, kitchen cabinets painted, and the new beadboard has to be painted.

My poor dad wanders in once in awhile, right into the firing line of our breakdowns. He tries to fix things, but there's nothing he can come up with that we haven't already tried or discussed and rejected. He has prostate cancer--don't think I've mentioned that yet?--so he's tired. He's doing a bunch of things to just work on his immune system for now, but whether it's the illness, or the meds, or the protocol etc whatever, he's even more tired than we are.

We hit another crash this morning, but seem to have rebounded. 8 more days til our stuff arrives. Hopefully that's enough motivation to get moving again. All I've done for two days is watch back to back Mad Men. (Besides my job, of course. Which involves being on my feet all day and schlepping furniture.)

So that's us. Not badly off, but sleep depraved.

...It'll be darn cute when done. Let's try to remember that.

...In other news, Philea's new word is garbage.

 

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