How to Decide When to Move

This is an adventure I recently undertook, using only my brawn, brains, and the other four members of my family, all of whom can lift more than me, including my five-year-old brother. We had decided that we would move sometime, probably within the next century or so, and had left it at that.

The problem was, we needed a renter for our current house, so that we weren't paying bills for two houses, as opposed to what we were currently doing, which was paying bills for two houses. We started telling people that we knew that we were looking for renters, as a joke, because we had run out of other stories to tell at parties. Unfortunately, someone had taken us seriously, and produced their friend, who was looking for a house exactly like ours, only much better.

This friend, we noticed, had an annoying habit of loving every feature of our house. We took her on a tour designed to elicit such emotions that you get only wen watching stomach surgery on the Discovery Channel. This is because we didn't want to move. We showed her only the outside at first. Let's just say, if you can stand the outside, the inside looks like the Taj Mahal. We took this friend on a tour of our yard, which went something like this:

US (Gesturing towards neon orange front door): This is our front door.
FRIEND: I love it! The color goes beautifully with our front-porch decor!
US (Pointing at our front yard): This is our dandelion collection.
FRIEND: It's beautiful! Dandelions are such cheerful flowers.
US: (Pointing at the back yard that floods every year between February and November): This is Lake Wontbegone, at least that's what we call it. Part of it is also seen in the basement.
FRIEND: Isn't it lovely!

So, as you can see, the tour was a complete failure. We then had to show her the inside of the house. This is the kind of thing that my mother dreads, more than nuclear attack or Osama bin Laden flying an airplane right into our living room. If she knew that Osama was flying into our living room, she would say, "Girls! Come clean the living room! You don't expect Mr. bin Laden to come into such a filthy room as this, do you?"

In any case, the prospective tenant wanted to see the house, so mom went into what we know as Clean Mode. There is not a single speck of dust out of place, and those specks of dust that are in place are polished to a shine. The living room was rearranged, the kitchen cabinets were emptied and reorganized (twice), and my bedroom as well as the office was taped off with Crime Scene - Do Not Cross. My mom knew it would be impossible to get it clean in time. This time, the tour was met with even more praise.

US: This is the office. The piles of papers and manila folders do not come with the house. The 2,000 pound gun safe does stay, however, because our forklift, unfortunately, is out of service.
FRIEND: The Forest Green color of the safe perfectly accents the manila of the folders! I will have to scatter some of my own when I move in
US: This is the rest of the house. The patio door, the cabinets, and the paint all need to be replaced, but don't worry, we will get it done before you move in.
FRIEND: Oh, wonderful! I need to be moved in by next week.

This is how we came to remodel a house and move all our belongings in one week. Next time, I will explain how that was done.

Close to Home

Why is life so darned depressing? Every which way you turn, it's "More bombs blew up in the Middle East" or "Another school shooting" or "Yet again, [insert random form of violence] is increasing."

I know my latest entry wasn't exactly the cheeriest. I have the strangest habit of listening to depressing music when I'm depressed. It makes me feel better; maybe because I can see my life isn't really so bad. When I listen to happy music when I'm sad, it just makes it worse, it never cheers me up. Maybe I'm a freak. Or maybe everyone else is that way, too. I dunno.

I'm not actually, in the technical sense, depressed. I am sad about the VA Tech shooting, and my life isn't perfect, but really, I have no right to be depressed. I've got a home, plenty of food, a family that loves me... boy, do I sound like a cliche.

Song Fic: Little House by The Fray

She sits alone in the corner of the café, never speaking to anyone, never looking at anything besides her cup of tea, long since cold, or her piece of paper and pencil. Every so often, she scribbles a few words; more often, she erases. A few men walk up to her, hoping to get lucky, but she doesn't even hear them. Her blonde hair hidden beneath a black beret, the rest of her clothes also black. She is in mourning, but no one knows who or what she is mourning for.

The waitress watches her day after day, sitting in the same booth, ordering the same untouched drink. She stopped giving her the bill long ago, but she still paid every night when the café closed, always leaving a tip. When she serves the drink, she gets closer than anyone else, sees the empty look in her eyes. Not the look of drugs - the waitress had seen enough of that to know that was not the look of addiction. It was the look of loss, of lost love.

She set down the tea as usual, but this time glimpses at the paper, and catches a couple lines.

She doesn't look, she doesn't see
Opens up for nobody

The only lines on the paper, the only ones left after three months of sitting, writing.

Every day, the waitress sets the tea on the table, and sneaks a peek at the paper. Either the woman doesn't notice, or doesn't care. There is always a change every day. One day, a new line, the next it is erased. Slowly, the lines stay, one at a time. They are burned into the waitress' memory.

Figures out, she figures out

For two weeks, there is a spark of life in the eyes, just a tiny spark, but it dies as swiftly as it comes.

Never lies, she can't decide

One day, she storms out, agitated by something no one else sees or knows. She does not come back until the next day. She comes back just as before; walks in, goes directly to her booth, orders a tea, her only words to the waitress or anyone else, and stares at everything and nothing.

Everything short of suicide
Never hurts, nearly works

Once in a great while, she will take a sip of her tea, never noticing if it is cold. The regulars know she never orders food. No one knows when or where she eats. She is only seen inside the café. Some kindhearted soul once tried to follow her home, but she disappeared into the crowd as soon as she exited. It would seem easy to pick her out, dressed all in black, her silver eyes and gold hair unmistakable in the café but somehow invisible in the crowd.

A part of you that will never show

Every so often, she'll start at the smallest noise. A cup on a saucer, or a fork on a plate. Then she'll go back to staring at her table.

You're the only one that will ever know

The regulars wonder what goes on in her mind, what she remembers. There is no indication of who she is or where she came from.

Take it back where it all began

They don't know, but she thinks of him. He was the one who made her life worthwhile. But he is gone. So she is here.

Take your time, would you understand
what it's all about, what it's all about

She cannot think of a meaning now. A meaning to life. So she sits, day after day.

Something's scratching its way out

She seemed to be waiting for something, or maybe someone. She sat there, day after day, week after week, doing nothing. Staring. Writing. Erasing. They all wondered why she used paper instead of a laptop. It would be so much easier to delete what she thought of as mistakes than to erase over and over. But no one said anything. She wouldn't hear them, anyways.

Something you want to forget about

Six months after she started coming was the only time she ever interrupted her reverie to take notice of someone. Yet another man went over to her, tried to start a conversation. Unlike the others, he was not perturbed by her silence, her expression carved out of stone. She held the tea cupped in her hands, and was staring at it. She was beautiful; no make-up and yet would stop any man in his tracks if she ever wanted to. Maybe that was why he didn't go. When she didn't respond to him, he took her silence as an invitation. He leaned in close, and whispered in her ear. No one else heard what he said,and he never told anyone. Before he could move, she was out of her seat, her hand around his neck, her silver eyes flashing fire. She didn't move as his eyes bulged, as he gasped for air. It seemed like an hour, but it was only forty-five seconds. She let go, and he slid to the floor, gulping air as though he couldn't get enough. She sat back down, and did not move again until she left that night.

No one expects you to get out

No one else came to her, and any newcomer that tried was quickly stopped by the regulars. The only one that came close to her after that was the waitress.

On your own with no one around

Exactly one year after she first stepped into the café, she disappeared. Her last day, she left twice her usual tip for the waitress, along with the worn piece of paper. She was never seen again.

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*DISCLAIMER* The lines in italic are lyrics from the song "Little House" by the Fray.This is just my interpretation of the song. It is in no way official. No blonde girls in black were harmed in the making of this story. Thank you and have a nice day.