I knew she wasn't prepared.
Now, to my horror, we sit in a dirty little hotel room and she's left me laden with the stomach-whirling truth.
"You haven't found a place to live, Mother?" I asked.
"Well, no.
Not yet," she replies, unconcerned.
"I have a few places in mind but haven't called anyone yet.
" My mind begins reeling.
Why must she always do this? Personally, I prefer to have all my ducks in a pretty V shape when I'm moving.
"It's Wednesday.
I fly back Saturday.
What if you haven't found a place by then!" I retort, trying to impress some sort of reality check.
"I'm sure I'll manage.
" She smiles sarcastically.
"Yes, I'm sure you will," I relent, meeting her resolute gaze with my defeated face.
The hard part was over and I knew it.
I also knew better than to worry about Mom's unpredictable objectives.
We've both moved over fifty times in our lives.
Her trifling of the larger matters, e.
g.
, finding a new home, renting a truck, planning the trip, setting up utilities, and those sorts of details comes from her familiarity with the routine.
For such, one could fill a passenger seat with her guidebooks.
I walk over to the sink and prepare to brush my teeth.
The sink smells and the water isn't draining.
"Mother, the sink is backing up," I sigh.
"So, go to the office and get some Drano or something," she replies.
As I stroll to the front desk, I contemplate the scourges of moving and how it could be so much worse.
The big details are obvious.
The little ones are the nefarious buggers that get you.
Mother excels at moving.
To my fortune, they are skills she taught by example, and thank Goddess I paid attention.
I've helped more people move than I can remember.
People are different when they move.
It's like a grand party and everyone ends up getting food poisoning.
Loading the truck is when flaring tempers can burn down the realms of sanity.
I have moved everything by myself more than once.
It can be done and my name isn't Billy Biceps.
I'm not even related to him.
Why? Partly because I didn't want the hassle, partly because I didn't have Billy Biceps around, and partly because I just don't trust very many people with my stuff.
People are weird about their stuff.
They don't give a poop about yours.
Mother works like a brain surgeon working a Jenga puzzle when it's time to load the truck.
The night before we left, we were jamming mops, brooms, the vacuum, and other cleaning supplies up behind the bulging back door of the Ryder truck.
It was a very small space that mom left just for those things.
I've not met anyone who can rival her in this area.
The big details, well, some of us plan them and some of us don't.
I say, why leave too much to chance.
So many other things can go wrong.
But mother likes living in the moment.
I shake my head as I open the door to the dingy hotel room with plunger in hand.
"No Drano," I mutter, and we both proceed to the foul sink.
I cover the bad drain with the rubber, mom backs away, and I deliver one swift plunge.
A geyser of reeking rotting food bursts from the pipes blanketing everything within three feet.
I am frozen.
My arms are stuck out like dead dripping branches.
My face starts convulsing.
I feel strange gooey sensations wiggling through my hair.
I think my nose is traumatized and my insides doing very, very weird things.
"Oh, Gross! YUCK!" I stand there shaking, still holding the plunger and look up.
Mother is doubled over, hands over her nose and mouth, tears flowing down her bright red face looking as if she might pass out.
She's holding her breath so hard, I swear her black hair turned red, too.
Then I realize...
I am covered in the most repulsive, eerie, multi-colored, stinking stuff I have ever encountered and she's laughing! I glare at her.
Never--never a dull moment with my mother.
Oh, we insisted on getting another room.
And got one.