Monday morning at 8 AM, doom pulled up in front of my mum's house. Its name was United Vanlines.

In June, Mum's dad, my poppy, informed us that he was selling the house and moving in with "Aunt" Jessie (who is actually my late Nana's cousin, but you really don't want to hear the story behind this one. My family tree doesn't branch much. Get over it). Poppy told us that if we wanted the things we stood to inherit, one or both of us better get out there to collect it, else he was auctioning it off with the rest of the things. Mum went. While she was out there, she packed a million and three boxes, commissioned a moving team, hired a special couple of brutes to haul out her prized upright piano (I guess these particular guys had gone to some nifty movers' finishing school), and oversaw the operation of removing and loading into the moving van some 3100 pounds of treasured memouries. Then, she came home, praying she'd beat the van back.

As soon as I learned of Poppy's intentions, I began the process of warning Manly Man. I told him when we had a month left to prepare. I warned him again two weeks later. And again the following week. Well, by last week, I was crazed. My little world was fraying at the seams, and everything was overwhelming. Why? Manly had done nothing in the way of preparation.

And therein lay my cause for much frazzing.

You see, there was a lot to be done. Manly's mother moved in with us when her retirement coincided with my needing help with the Wee Babe. She moved out this past April. However, she left all her stuff here, taking up now-precious space in my garage and spare bedroom. From April to June, no-one had done anything about moving Ilsa's things out of here. Now, I thought for sure Manly would jump up and do something when he learned that we were about to attempt cramming 2500 square feet of furniture into a 1500 square foot house. I mean, that's what it is if you count Ilsa's stuff, my Nana's, AND what we already had. "Too much, too much!" my overloaded brain cried.

By Thursday night, all I could do was stare at the list of impending doom items, look at the overstuffed rooms of the house, and cringe. An entire dining room suite was on its way, and we were to sell our old. A child's bedroom set, including a desk, hutch, dresser, and double bed, were coming. That meant clearing everything out of Wee Babe's room, selling what we could, and redoing the decor. The rest were odds and ends that I wasn't so concerned about. I mean, a chair here, a painting there, those things could be shoved and stuffed and made to fit. But but but...Two rooms' worth of hulking, late-Victorian antique furniture?

And nary a spare room to store it.

Fortunately, Mum had beaten the moving van home.

So, Mum and my Sister who has Different Parents (I warned you about that family tree) came round Thursday while Babe was in school. The three of us managed to disassemble, sweat, curse, and somehow move nearly all of Ilsa's things into the garage. We then attacked the dining room and nursery. Clear-cut, slash and burn, get it out of here.

You'd have died had you heard the choice bits Mum had to say about Manly. I think "lazy fucking prick" was her mantra for the day.

When Manly arrived home, I sat him down and had the big danger-warning talk with him yet again. This time, however, I employed the tricks (that sounds nastier than I intended) that Therapy Dude had discussed with me in our last session. I flatly refused to respond to his pitches in the dirt.

Manly said, "You never told me the van was coming. You never tell me anything. That's your problem: Your childhood was so fucked, you're a shutdown, closed-mouth wreck of a human being."

Expecting precisely that response, I replied, "I did tell you. Whether you remember or not has nothing to do with the fact that we have a van arriving Monday morning, and there's a shitpot left to be done meantime."

"Well, just how much shit is on that van anyway? Jesus Christ, gage. You can't expect me to just jump up and do all this and all that when I work all week. I haven't had time!"

"You've had a month, Manly. The van'll be here Monday. These are the items on it, and this is what's left to be done before those things get here. I need to know from you right now what you are willing and able to do to help me in this situation. I need to know tonight so that tomorrow I can hire someone to help if you are unable to do what I need done."

He was so pissed. He kept walking out of the room in rage mode. I wasn't playing into his little bullshit "let's twist it all around on gage, she does everything wrong" game, and he wasn't getting anywhere. For once, I felt like I was in control of my half of the conversation with him. Mmm, and he was rather ungracefully out of control. Interesting.

Suffice it to say, he agreed to help. He even took halfday off at work Monday. And it was much craziness and mess here. At one point, we had a houseful of furnishings in the living room! Eeek! I felt like I was trapped in some I Love Lucy rerun. Manly grumbled and muttered nasties under his breath (which I patently ignored), but he worked right along.

Sunday, though, I'd seen something that coloured me moody, and think that was a large portion of the cause behind my removed effect. I was up in my head, mildly paranoid thoughts chug-chugging.

I think one of The School Kids is on MTV's The Real World. Shit you not. Stay tuned...