Send martinis!

By now, our home looks like a warzone. Boxes are stacked up in every corner, book cases are half empty, the garage is full with stuff that didn't sell at last weekend's garage sale (note to self/ TBIK: NEVER have a garage sale at the end of the month when people are broke), to be either given away or disposed of otherwise. Because we can't take it with us. The quotes from the moving companies already exceed the budget we were given.

You think a 2,500-mile move like that is stressful, especially if you don't know yet where you are going to end up?

That would be TBIK's greatest concern. On Tuesday, we're meeting up in Chicago to drive down to Valparaiso and house-hunt (see that there? That's a loaded sentence in itself. More about that later). Since we can't sell our home here in California, thanks to owing much more than the place is worth currently, even after paying an exorbitant mortgage for over 4 years, we'll be forced into renting a place there for the amount of our future rental income here. Which 1. covers just two thirds of our mortgage and 2. doesn't account for the fact that, in a college town, rentals are hard to come by.

I'm not as worried about this as TBIK. If bad comes to worse, there's always temporary faculty housing. Or hotels. Heck, when I moved here from Toadtunnel Toontown, I lived in a hotel for a month. What's not to like about an always-available indoor swimming pool and someone else cooking you breakfast in the morning?

But then, remember what I said about the whole mortgage thing? Well, TBIK has a job with an income waiting for him. I don't. At this point, all I have is an appointment on Wednesday to discuss potential opportunities/ a "vision" with someone at the university there--and that's my only shot, really, because once TBIK starts his job, unless I find a reliable child care, interviewing for a job is out of the question. Which also means that, while our mortgage remains steady, after TBIK's pay raise, our total household income decreases by 30%.

So, the pressure is on, in many ways. My last day at the old job will be July 5 (and trust me, for some reasons, I wish it were earlier), but being unemployed in this economy poses a great risk to one's career, no matter what the reason. After remote networking attempts through professional societies have already failed (Midwesterners apparently don't do electronic communication too often), my one shot is the meeting on Wednesday, and then maybe a local temp agency or any other place--anything to prevent 1. the resume from going stale come August and 2. my emergency savings from dwindling too quickly (especially since they may have to cover next year's IRA contribution, given the potential absence of a 401k). So, if this Wednesday thing doesn't work out, my approach will, I think, have to be to volunteer my services in a professional setting until December and work a money-making job on the side--back, in other words, to the old graduate student days. OR become a full-time student, with access to graduate student teaching opportunities.

Oh, whoops, did I say full-time? That would, of course, mean that I would find a suitable situation for Little Miss Kickboxer, who has officially entered the Terrible Twos and refuses to learn how to use the potty, despite the fact that, in already early-education-challenged Indiana, preschools aren't kidding about "kids must be fully potty trained by age 3. Pull ups are not acceptable." Which was a verbatim quote from the one and only Montessori preschool in the area (there are actually two, owned by the same person) with whose directress we are meeting on Wednesday and who already confirmed to me on the phone that the angelchild will not be allowed to enter the preschool classroom until she can reliably dispose of #1 and #2 in the "appropriate" receptacle. As if there's a magic switch that you flip when kids turn two or three, and voila!

As you can imagine, then, Little Miss Kickboxer, who is two-and-a-half going on twelve, has decided not to cooperate. After a few successful and highly celebrated attempts on both, the little and the big potty, she has resolved that Big Girl underwear is not all it's cracked up to be--even though it's blue and has a froggie and a monkey on it. So, after a week of her begging, whimpering, crying, and screaming not to be caught with her pants down every half hour, we decided to let it go for the next few weeks. Which, of course, will mean ... see the previous paragraph. Which, in turn, will mean that I'll have to find an alternative solution ... see the paragraph before that. Ah, causal chains, let me French-kiss your links!

Or I could also just book a one-way ticket to the Australian outback and let one of TBIK's three new admins take over. Give me three martinis with extra olive and a laptop, and watch me broadcast live from a kangaroo pouch.

Speaking of plane ticket: On Tuesday, Little Miss Kickboxer and I will drive ourselves to the Santa Barbara airport and board a plane to LA, and from there, to Chicago, where TBIK will meet us on his way back from an East Coast conference. And I've had nightmares about her being kidnapped in the airport, haters smacking her upside down the head or spiking her apple juice for singing her ABC song, her screaming and wanting to walk around the airplane, and whatnot. So, a couple of weeks ago, I bit the tech waste bullet and bought a fancy big-screen Android phone that will not only hold my materials for Wednesday's meeting, but more importantly allow my angelchild to play toddler games, read toddler eBooks, and watch Little Einsteins and Biene Maja. Needless to say, there's also a special little Elmo backpack that will be stuffed with individually-to-be-wrapped Matchbox cars, flashcards, Aquadoodle, a string for cheerios, Dora and Diego tattoos, some playdough, and, of course, her assortment of binkies. And there are address stickers that will be stuck to her shirt and jacket. And there better be a martini or three waiting for me at the other end. Or a rubber cell.

Or, goshdarnit, a new set of nerves.