Just got an email from my mother, in reference to my entry last night about the Phoenix and Apollo 11, and all it reads is, "Actually, it was the middle of the night when they landed, and I made you stay up and watch it." And I suppose she's not just trying to mess with my head, because, in fact, Neil Armstrong made his descent to the lunar surface at 2:56 UTC. But I do not recall that part, being up so late. Memory, especially across the gulf of 39 years, is, at best, an approximation. Never mind that I was a sleepy five-year-old at the time.
Meanwhile, I awoke this morning with a headache, to the latest round of moving drama. Though United Van Lines is ferrying most of our things up to Providence, Spooky will also be driving a second truck with more precious "overload" we don't trust to the movers (and Byron will be driving her car). This morning, U-Haul called to say that we'd "received a free upgrade, at no extra cost," and that our reservation of a 10'-foot truck had been "upgraded" to a 14'-foot truck. But. We do not need a 14'-foot truck, and Spooky doubted she could drive it. As they refused to "downgrade" us again (this is, naturally, all doublespeak meant to conceal the fact they overbook), she canceled the reservation, and now we've reserved a 12-foot truck from Penske. Fuck you, U-Haul.
Last night there was panic, as we realized that we had about three days of hard packing left and only two days to do it (since we have to go back to Birmingham tomorrow and can't actually be packing while the movers are loading on Thursday). We still have lamps and electronics and more framed pictures, most of the kitchen and the glass display-case shelves (10 of them) and most of our clothes. We have today and Wednesday to do all this. Spooky's heading to Staples or Office Depot or somewhere like that shortly to get more boxes. I'm just sick of this whole affair. Moving is, in fact, worse than writing. And I don't mean to sound like an old lady (really, really, I don't), but...as of this morning, my face hurts (tooth/ear), I'm trying to deal with my damn, screwed-up feet (the neuromas), this headache, sleep deprivation, and the fact that I hurt my back yesterday. At least I took the last of the damned doxycycline yesterday about one pm, so screw you, Miss Tick.
Late last night, trying to wind down and too tired to pack more, we watched Menno Meyjes' Martian Child (2007), which had come in from Netflix and seemed appropriate. A sweet, smart, and thoroughly engaging film. A great cast. I think I can actually picture John Cusack as Deacon in Daughter of Hounds, which just seems odd, but works in my head. So, since I know you're reading this, John, please have your people call my people at UTA. They'll fly me out, and we'll do lunch, or what the hell ever, and get the ball rolling. Throw stuff at the wall and see what sticks. Set the wheels in motion. Give Deke a few more lines. See if Elle Fanning's available for Emmie. I'm sure we can lure del Toro away from The Hobbit for this. Sure. You bet'cha.
And no, Sirenia Digest #30 has not gone out yet. Today, most likely.
You know, if Julien calls from UTA today to tell me that John Cusack's on the line, my brain will explode....
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