So many things. That's what I think to myself. So many things.
We picked up Wesa's ashes from the vet today. We did this with Calico last year. It must be something kind of new, because for all animals previous, the vet simply "did away" with the body without asking us any questions about it. There's now a little plastic bag with plastic handles on the table in the living room. It contains a small rectangular metal container, white with little black paw prints on it. The Husband has plans to put her ashes in the container with a rose bush we have.
I feel odd, knowing there are remains in my house, although why I should I don't know. I ran across very old pictures of Wesa last night. I didn't cry, but I did think about her. And for a second or two, I could have sworn I saw her running past the bed, just in the corner of my eye.
Three more boxes are filled, this time with kitchen stuff and glassware. I still have to move some things from shelves we have in the hallway, once I figure out where they can go. That's the problem now. Not everything can or should go into a box right now, but it's all got to go somewhere, because we are removing the "where" it is right now.
I'm showing signs of stress. It always surprises me when I realize this, because I just don't think of myself as a person who should feel stress. My life looks so easy and comfortable, and it really is in so many ways, but, damn, I must borrow stress from other people or something. And the signs are never very big. No, they are small signs, and you'd have to know me pretty well to see them. One for sure is that I'm getting sores in my mouth and cuts on my lower lip. Another is I have a hard time going to sleep, but once I am asleep, I sleep hard and have a very hard time waking up and getting going. I try all the things a person tries to relax -- stretching, doing something fun, having a glass of wine, meditating, chocolate.
This weekend, painting while The Husband is out of town. Time with the MIL, which may be dreadful and may be fine. I never know.
While packing stuff in the kitchen, I went through our current collection of plastic storage containers. I realized that thing most people who are sitting on the floor surrounded by Tupperware and Rubbermaid realize -- there is a universal law that says the orphan lid in your right hand never matches the orphan container in your left. Also, the container that seemed to perfectly answer your need when you were standing in the grocery store will become an annoying, clattering nuisance falling on you from an upper shelf when you get it home.