We’re really going to do it.  We’re really going to (pay someone to) pack all our belongings, load it onto a truck, and hope to god it meets us on the other end in southern California at the end of next month.

Aside number the first: I have a cut on my right index finger, and it hurts like a motherfucker, which makes typing a royal pain in my ass, so if this entry just fucking trails off in the middle, you’ll know that I just got too fed up to even keep going.

Of course, before we can do the packing and the loading and the hoping, there are a shitload of things that need to happen here in Seattle first.  And I’ve been attending to them, one by one- hiring movers, cleaning out closets, filing papers (I don’t get how this facilitates our move, but J assures me that it does), and… making vet appointments for the cats so we can put them on a plane (CATS!  ON A PLANE!  Doesn’t quite have the same ring).

Flying with animals is completely uncharted territory for me, and I have absolutely no idea how any of the three cats (OMG WHY DO I HAVE THREE CATS) will handle the whole affair.  Getting them into their carriers is bad enough, but then I have to put them in a car, and then put them in a plane, and then take them somewhere they’ve never been?  Do I have to put them through the XRAY machine?  Will they pee in their carriers, and then I’ll be THAT WOMAN, you know, the one who smells of cat piss? If we make it out alive, it’s possible I’ll be down to a smaller number of cats (and certainly a smaller number of brain cells) by the end of this adventure.

But I’ve been attending to all of this without any real sense of urgency or worry, or, dare I say, connection to reality.  I’m not sure if it’s the emotional blunting of my anti-anxiety medication or if I’m really that zen about it all (I HAVE been taking a massive number of yoga classes), but I’ve been going about it as if it was part of someone else’s life, and as if the end result wouldn’t be ME leaving the life I’ve built here over the past 11 years.  But when I got home this afternoon from my playdate with the cutest baby in the world, it all snapped into focus.

There is a FOR SALE sign in our yard.

It’s more complicated than I care to go into now, but J and I rent this house, and our landlords have decided to sell it since we are leaving.  We met with the realtors, cleaned the house top to bottom, and moved the kitchen knives out of view for the listing photos.

Aside number the second: when the realtor came by to set up the place for the photographer, he told me I should hide the knives.  From the kitchen?, I asked, because where in blue fuck else does one keep knives?  Was someone going to try and STEAL my knives (shut up, they’re nice knives)?  Should I be concerned about leaving my computer in the house?  I mean, really, if someone was after my knives, then surely they would be after my computer too?  No, no, explained the realtor, he preferred not to have WEAPONS on hand when showing homes.  AND THEN MY HEAD EXPLODED.

I even saw the listing photos and the mocked-up ad that is currently live on the internests somewhere, but apparently none of that touched a nerve with me at all.  Until now.

There is a FOR SALE sign in our yard.

Which means it’s real, and we’ll have to move out, because someone (OH, PLEASE, dear god, let someone) is going to buy this house, and most likely want to move into it, and we’ll have to pack all our stuff, and load it onto a truck, and hope to god it shows up at the other end.