Nikkilooch

Yesterday I went to London.  Today I’m home.  It was a good trip, no, great trip.

Tea was drank.  Books were bought.  Football watched.  Friends seen.

It’s not even the weekend.  Love, love, love my life.  So blessed.

Most of our bedroom furniture has been downstairs hanging out in the hallway between the dining room and the bar.  (Yes, we have a bar in our new house.  Major selling point to us.  It even has a mini-fridge.)  We moved in during the beginning of February.  It is now almost April.

The problem was that our stairwell with a decorative banister was too narrow to get the furniture up and the movers were convinced that the window upstairs was too small to get our stuff through.  Even though no one measured.

Carpenters came and went to see about removing the banister.  It’s welded to the house and can’t be taken down.  We called our landlord.  We called the moving company.  My husband measured the window and the furniture and saw that it would fit.  Even he, with his serious persuasion skills couldn’t convince these people that our dang stuff would fit.

Then finally.  Yesterday.  In a last ditch effort to shut us up the moving company sent out a group of movers to survey our options.  We knew what our options were: put it through the window or make a trip to Ikea to get new tiny furniture.  They looked at the banister, looked at the window upstairs, looked at the furniture and told me: sorry, lady.  There’s no hope.  We’ll put your stuff in storage for you.

They left.  Like any strong, self-reliant army wife I sat on the couch and started crying.  I took out cell phone to text my husband the bad news.  About 30 seconds after the left before I could finish my text message the door bell rang again.  It was a rough 30 seconds for me.  I wiped my tears and headed to the door.  It was the movers.  ”You know,” they said, “zee vindow looks bigger from outside.  We’re going to double check our measurements.”

Yes, please.  Triple check if you have to.

After a painstaking few minutes they told me, “Ya, we can fit zeese two pieces.  We vill call you and set up a time to come out.  Sometime this week.”

Neither my husband, nor I, got a call.  7:30 this morning the doorbell rang.  My eyes sprung open, “The movers.”

“That wasn’t our doorbell,” my husband said sleepily.  ”Come back to bed.”

I was already in the bathroom trying to find my sweatpants and a bra.  ”I’m just going to check it’s not them.”

The bell rang again.

I found the keys and unlocked the door.  ”Hallo!” the mover from yesterday said.  ”Ve are a little bit earlier than yesterday.”

They got my bedroom furniture upstairs, my loves.  

Well, everything except our box spring.  Buying a new one is a small price to pay, I feel.

We’ve already danced in the open space and I’ve put my underwear away for the first time in months.  I sure am one blessed girl.

Change is constant.  In my case when change comes to town she means business.  In 2006 she said, “How ’bout you graduate from college, get married on your spring break, and move to Italy this year?”  Over the next five years she said, “How about you learn to live on your own?  I’ll be taking your husband for a spell, but you’ll get him back in time.”  Last year she told me, “It’s time to move home and relearn how to be a part of your family again.  But don’t get too comfortable with the ones you love because it’s back to Europe with ya.”  Change speaks with an Irish accent in my mind.

I have a lovely life.  Don’t misunderstand me; I’m not complaining.

On the other hand, I have ways to ground myself when my world is topsy turvy:

• Pray.  Pray, pray, pray.  Then make a cup of tea and pray some more.
• Art journal.  There’s something about drawing out what’s going on in your life and seeing it on paper that takes the personal sting of what you’re going through away.
• Reread a book that I love.  Those familiar words, just like a familiar voice, brings such comfort.
• Make a hearty soup.

Mama Pea’s carrot ginger soup from her cookbook is exactly what I needed.  This soup keeps beautifully and is perfect for lunches.  Just warm it up in a saucepan on the stove top, sprinkle with cheddar cheese (which is very un-vegan of me to do on this vegan soup), and enjoy.

I’m having a hard time focusing on anything even though I have a list as long as my arm of things to finish before I go on vacation next week. All I can think about is the sea, feta cheese, fresh seafood, reading all day, sitting on the deck, all-you-can-eat buffets, journaling. 

It’s taking all my self-control not to start packing yet.  I’ve allowed myself to get guide books from the library, go shopping for a new sweater for my trip, fill up all my travel sized bottles, start a packing list.

A week to collect my thoughts, after the hectic move at work and before my husband comes home from Afghanistan turning my all the single ladies existence upside down, is desperately needed.  The fact that this week happens to be on a cruise of the Greek islands is fine by me.

My internet at home is anti-picture.  It takes forever to email or load pictures to any website.  While I’ve been taking some beauties lately, only 4 have uploaded.  Che no bene.

Upcoming posts and or topics or things I want you to know:

• Romeo and Juliet ballet in Verona
• I strapped on a harness and climbed things for Missy’s birthday. We have proof.
• Gelato in a brioche with whipped cream in Palermo
• I’ve worked the split shift this week (545 AM to 945 AM then back in from 1300 to 1800).  It has fried my brain.
• We are moving centers at work.  All day tomorrow. But our new center is awesome.
• I agreed to co-teach a Bible study at the chapel this fall. 
• I’m freaking out about co-teaching a Bible study this fall.
• MyCAA is pulling my finical aid for my school because they are poor planners.
• I have to be an even better planner to get them to pay for as much of my schooling as possible.
• Hello, long-weekends-of-schoolwork. Not nice to meet you.
• Cecilia is leaving me soon.  I don’t want to talk about it.
• My first 5k next weekend! 
• My first 5k next weekend. Pray for me.
• Read Jill Mansell’s Take a Chance on Me this weekend. Outstanding.
• Book give-away coming soon!
• If you’ve made it through all these bullet points are truly are a true friend.

Image via weheartit

What I’m saying is that if home is where the heart is then I’m out of place.

But the thing is, I love my house. When I’m in the States all I can think about is going “home” to Italy. When I’m in Italy I miss “home” the US.

What does home mean for y’all?