I'm not sure when I'll be able to post again. But I need to rant.
We are deconstructing our lives for the move. Oh, and, have I mentioned? We're going to redo the back third of the house while we're away (and yes, we trust our contractor that much, actually, he's an old friend/neighbor/landlord/coworker), so that Beaker can avoid the dust. Changed layout, lots of windows, new kitchen, new bathroom, new heating system. So, in between the little clothing decisions, I've been taking everything out of the kitchen cabinets that are about to be destroyed. Oh, and the downstairs bathroom, which will also be demolished. Did I mention that the dishwasher is broken? And is starting to smell funny? And that this house, in which I've spent about 10 days since mid-November, doesn't feel at all like home, what with the massive piles of displaced crap and architectural salvage all over? And that Beaker and I and our dear friend the contractor all know full damn well that there's zero chance that the work will be done before we're back, but we all pretend anyway?
Let me go lie down for a bit. The queasiness, and the cramping I get if I'm a little too active. Plus it helps drain the phlegm back into my sinuses for a little while, so it doesn't just drip down my face. SNEEZE. Aaaaah.
I actually leave tomorrow. Ultrasound of potential doom the day after that (which will be 7w1d). Fly to California the day after that. Next Wednesday I get to: help feed and clothe the tiny children of the friend I'll be staying with, since her husband will be off on a ski trip. Then drive through two alien cities to the Institute. Then listen to a talk by, and have lunch with, an old friend who's having a rough time getting a real academic job: "You've been on lots of search committees, right, Emma? You'll be able to give me feedback." Then find my way into the hills to the sublet house, to pick up keys and learn which doors are locked and must NEVER EVER be opened, no matter what I hear coming from the other side (I think I'll move in next weekend; it'll be a pain to be up in the hills with no car, and there will be no car until Beaker braves the blizzards with ours). I'm not sure where the two-hour nap I need these days fits in, but I'm sure it will catch me at an inconvenient moment.
It's not clear when Beaker is leaving, since our plans for the house stuff are not in the shape they should be, and neither is the house. His mother called today to make clear that she'd be monitoring the Weather Channel for him as he drove, and callling to check that he was alive (and eating enough) every six hours or so. "I just worry about the same things as you do, Emma." Mmmmm-hmmm.
What strikes terror into my heart now (aside from the ultrasound): I'm going to California to do work. Remember work? I actually got into a bit of a groove, a few months ago, before the election, before the cycle, before my mother died. Was geting energized about some new projects. But that was a long time ago, and I haven't touched anything at all, except tragic departmental negotiations, since some desultory efforts mid-stim.
But I'm going to California to work, and I hope to hell I can manage to. I've often done badly when surrounded by too many brilliant famous people. I'm hoping that now, now that I have professional niche that can't be taken away, a niche that I'm comfortable in (even if some of those brilliant famous people won't have much respect for it—you try explaining what a liberal arts college is to a Russian), I can relax and: and work.