Ill-fitting muumuu

Friend’s knee is injured, a fact I would sneeringly call convenient given my staggering list of things to do save the fact that I think she worked at least as hard as I did yesterday. (And there's the fact that my ankle was hurt when she moved, but that's not the point.) She outlasted me on weeding, lingering in the afternoon heat to yank tall grasses and spikey things and dandelions out of the beds on either side of my walk. I took a break in the middle, shivering through a cool shower to get the hardwood mulch off my skin in an attempt to stop severe itching.

“It’s beautiful,” I sighed when I went back out. Friend had cleared a path on the far side of the plants so the mower wouldn’t get too close to them. I wrestled with three giant bags of mulch to fill in the newly weed-free spaces to prevent regrowth and stood to admire our (read: mostly her) efforts. “You know,” I noted, hefting the back of mulch again and dumping it around plants, “I always meant to do that – make more space between the yard and the walk – but never got to it. Why is it people fix their houses right before moving? When it’s too late to enjoy it?”

“The joys of home ownership,” she replied, saying her dad had fixed the kitchen just before her parents moved. I nodded and continued to mulch, scratching at my skin where the wood touched it and sweating profusely in the afternoon heat. I did dig the hole for the new plants - just two with pretty flowers like we saw at the gardens - because Friend's knee couldn't take the shovel. But I was out of clothes and into the shower very quickly afterward, moving across my beautiful new welcome mat and down the hall strewn with cords and garbage bags and random items that need to go somewhere else but haven’t made it past the hallway.

“I’m going to nap, just for a little while,” I told Friend once we were both clean. “My head hurts and my eyes itch.” So I rested while continuing my mental lists – dust walls, touch up paint in spots. Vacuum, rent rug scrubber, clean carpets. Finish packing kitchen and clean in there. Bribe Friend to deal with bathrooms.

The last two happened relatively easily. I got out of bed, shuffled down the hall and said I’d make pasta for dinner.

“What’s the back-up plan?” I asked, returning to the living room.

“You packed the pots,” Friend guessed and I nodded.

“I don’t know where they are!” I cried when she shook her head at me. “I thought they were in one of the two boxes in progress, but they aren’t! So they must be packed and sealed and in the garage. What are we going to do?”

“We’ll order something,” she sighed, so we did. After we ate and I began packing boxes full of dishes, I poked my head out of the kitchen again.

“I do want pasta,” I told her. “May I borrow a pot to boil water tomorrow?” She laughed at me and nodded.

“So you’re done using the master bathroom,” she confirmed, looking at me sternly as she walked into the kitchen (or wherever I was fluttering around at the moment). I nodded obediently and promised, leaving her to walk down the hall to somehow – using magic, I think – make my counter look sparkling and clean and fabulous.

“Wow,” I breathed when I went to grab robes off the back of the door to pack.

“I even got the brown gunk away from the faucets,” she said proudly. “I worked and scrubbed and stuff,” she said when I asked her how in the world she could achieve such a feat.

“Magic,” I repeated as I walked away.

I continued in the kitchen, working my way through coffee cups and wine glasses, large plates and bowls to their smaller counterparts. I moved full boxes to the garage and rested for a moment, hand on one side of my lower back where I’ve pulled or tweaked something, before complaining to Friend and starting another box.

I walked in the living room once to find her shoving at the new slipcover I bought earlier in the day.

“It says it fits sofas up to 96 inches,” I told her earlier. “And mine is 93 – you made me measure. But I’m still not sure this will work.” She somehow managed to fit the fabric around the generous curves of the couch and was tucking at the material. I started to giggle and she joined me as we viewed the results of her efforts.

“It works,” she decided. “But it looks like an ill-fitting muumuu.” That statement, for some reason, sent me into more intense fits of laughter and I ended up sitting with my back to the loveseat, staring at the covered couch.

“Muumuus aren’t very structured, so an ill-fitting one is impressive,” she explained. And I cocked my head, deciding the poor couch did look like it was trying to squeeze in an outfit two sizes too small and laughed again. She removed it, saying it could get in line for laundry because it smelled funny. I nodded, tugged at the tight material across one arm and we tossed the cover on the floor.

“Ill-fitting muumuu is my new favorite phrase,” I declared and giggled as I went back to the kitchen once more. I finally quit, putting a heating pad under my hips and trying to ease the sore muscles in my back. She cleaned windowsills, exclaiming over the dustiness and sneezing profusely.

Today we go to work. Friend has a job that requires her to actually do experiments and put in time at a lab. I plan to bid farewell to some collaborators and pack up my office. I need to back up some data, return one of the computers I use and put all the pretty things in boxes and bags to return home. I’m often struck by moments of sadness – the thought of leaving Favorite Friend and my getting-prettier house is excruciating at times – but things are continuing to move right along.