Moving house

They look at me with mocking eyes - all our worldly possessions.  “When is she going to get her act together?” they say. 

It’s been a month since the guests started sitting amidst flotsam and jetsam.  A month since the house has been floating around in a sea filled with monsters that rear their ugly heads every morning; a sea that unleashes storms that shriek and rage; that changes its moods as often as a pregnant woman.

I never imagined that my domain would put up such a fight when we wanted out.  How and when did the stuff and the house get involved? Since when have they become so inseparable? And now, here they are fighting tooth and nail against the divorce that I intend to execute.

The toys multiply when I close my eyes for a quick nap and the furniture rearranges itself when I’m not looking. Our papers hide themselves giving us minor heart attacks, and then, blithely, turn up in the weirdest of places. The electricity goes off intermittently, the water supply is erratic and the mosquitoes are having a field day. Even the creepy crawlies are joining in the fun. 

To add to that, my maid who is, granted, getting along in years, is on a non-co-operation movement and the visitors arrive at all times of the day and don’t know when to get lost.

We will move out. It is inevitable. It will happen, sooner or later. Or in the nick of time. I just thought I’d be able to handle it better.

I had visions of lists ticked off in time, of water in the fridge till the very end, of a few washed clothes, of at least one bed that was not overflowing with stuff (such a dirty word), of electricity.

This is insane. I am going under.

I need knee replacements, a bath, fresh underwear.

I’m eating chocolate everyday - on the sly.
I can’t comb my hair anymore. Everytime I need to go out, it frizzes itself out. 
My memory is failing me and my money is running out.
My teeth are yellowing and I can’t remember the last time I took my calcium supplements. 
Our kids are taking their grandparents to another spiritual level through trials and tribulations.

And it’s not just the stuff. There’s also the paper work; all the last minute paper work that should have been done not yesterday but five years back. After eight years of married life, we are now trying to get the government to validate our relationship and our kids, aged five and two.

The only person who thoroughly enjoyed the matchless mess and the debilitating disorder was our two year old. She couldn’t believe the number of ‘untouchables’ and ‘most-definitely uneatables’ strewn all across the floor, all within glorious reach.  I don’t know how we managed to keep her alive till we got her to her grandparents’.

And I sure hope that our relationship, lately under duress, is still on when we finally get that long overdue certificate of marriage!