Every plan is a tiny prayer to Father Time

I'm up late, working on a new layout for my mom's site, and I'm thinking about how weird it is knowing that I will be sitting in some other apartment in just two short weeks. I'm not what you'd consider prepared, though I guess I'm pretty close. I've got my place, Phil's got his (or will Saturday when he puts down a deposit). He's already taken stuff down off the walls and packed his books and vinyl. I'm waiting for some overwhelming inspiration to start that shit. So far, I just haven't felt the desire to watch my personal belongings disappear into nondescript brown boxes to sit for two weeks until I forget what's where despite my neurotic labeling.

All I need to do is get square on the bills and reserve a truck. My brother has agreed to come up and help with the heavy lifting, and so far no one else in my family is clamoring to come up and help the way they did when I moved into my own place in Murfreesboro. Which is probably for the best; it's going to be a one-day blitz and feeling like I have to entertain my visiting family is one layer of worry I'd rather save for a weekend when the rest of my life isn't in utter upheaval.

My mom told me tonight that she really hopes I don't hold it against her that she and my dad never come visit. She said she feels so bad that they came and saw me once or twice while I was in college, and never made it up to see the MTSU band. And, of course, no one but my grandmother has been to visit since I moved to Memphis. My mom stopped by once on the way to and from the airport, but that didn't really count as a visit. She insists it's because they're homebodies and they work so much they don't have time to travel (unless it's to a Civil War-related something-or-other). Of course I don't hold it against them, even though I suspect they don't visit because I'm still shacking up and they think it's just as evil this year as it was three years ago.

It remains to be seen if they'll come visit me in the new place. Supposedly they're coming up for the big Toby Keith concert, the invitation to which I declined respectfully. I'll let some other die-hard boot-in-your-ass fan have my seat.

I think the concert is Feb. 18, so hopefully by that time I'll have the apartment unpacked and set up. I have this shameful inner giddiness about the prospect of a coordinated area rug and curtains in the living room, and a balcony draped with tiny paper lanterns. (Didn't I mention? I got my bourgeoisie member card in the mail today.)