No small moving jobs, only small movers

If anyone ever hears me utter the words, “Oh this part of the move will be easy – it’s just the small stuff” give me a meaningful, intense look, and whisper the word “spackle”.

Then I’ll remember.

The small stuff is never easy.

The weekend was an exhausting series of packing, cleaning, spackling, painting, crying, packing, cleaning, spakling, painting, crying… you get the idea. I won’t deny it. I am prone to emotional breakdowns, meltdowns, yes -- histrionics. Especially when my resources are drained. When I was acting, I used to tell myself it was good that I was emotionally available. Now it is just a liability.

But, I did get through it. And on that subject, mention must be made of super-mover-man who helped me last weekend, and without whom, both weekends would have been nightmares (or impossible, really).

The highlight of the weekend was going to my first National’s game on Sunday evening. So much fun. We had a great group – a random mix of folks – we walked over from homes on the hill, ate soft pretzels and drank bud light, and rooted our team on to a disappointing loss to the Met’s, but had a great time nonetheless. We somehow happened into the Latin section of the stands and the Spanish-speaking group surrounding us was, to put it mildly, extremely spirited. Fun for the first four innings, headache inducing for the next five.

Then back to Berkeley Springs. Coming here now brings a sense of peace. At the very least, life is simpler here. I have one focus – this show – and I don’t have the same scattered, always running late, never quite on schedule feeling that is inevitable in DC. The woman at the coffee shop asked me this morning if maybe I’d decide to stay here. Umm, not yet. But it sure is nice to visit.

In the news…
The Wash Post article about the cover-up surrounding the “friendly fire” that killed NFL player cum US serviceman Pat Tillman referred to the act as “fratricide”.

Tillman’s armor and uniform were burned because they were supposedly a “biohazard”. Soldiers later reported that the evidence was burned because “We knew at the time, based on taking pictures and walking around it was fratricide…We knew in our hearts what had happened, and we weren’t going to lie about it. So we weren’t thinking about proof…”

frat·ri·cide n
1. the crime in which somebody kills his or her own brother

It’s the stuff that Greek tragedies are made of.

So where’s the deus ex machina?