Annie Valentine

Birthdays are a funny thing.

Isn’t it interesting that last year I couldn’t wait to turn 32; I lectured my sister and my friends and the lady at the drugstore about the importance of getting old and why I’m going to love it. And yet I can’t seem to remember how old I’m turning this year because whatever the number, it is more than 32.

I also like to refer to my birthday as an event that hasn’t happened yet, even though it took place some time last week.

I grew up in a family where birthdays were considered nothing more than another excuse to have cake after dinner. You got a quick song, a single gift and a little slice of Heaven on a plate. I have found through my friendships that our method was pretty normal. Culturally, birthdays don’t seem to be a big deal, and the older we get the more we hate them.

But over the years I’ve realized that there is, in fact, something special about birthdays. Think about it. Whatever your belief system, it was the day you took your first breath of air and started out on this fast-paced trip through the atmosphere, rigged and loaded with trials, heartaches and the occasional whiff of something wonderful.

For one day every year, you are celebrated. You are valued. Your Wonderful Life comes into focus to the people around you and we recognize that yep, you’re on your way to being a little more coordinated or taller or wiser, depending on the digits.

I was dreading my birthday this year. The week before B Day I casually refused to discuss it with my husband on any level (not that he tried). The day before my birthday I was painfully aware that my husband had made no mention of any plans or ideas or even tossed me the token, “You don’t look a day over 26,” comment I so depend on.

When the alarm went off at 5:45 that morning, I couldn’t help it. Before my eyes even opened I wondered if he had remembered. 12 years together, he’s bound to forget eventually.

I rolled over and closed my eyes, insisting they focus on Project Birthday Sleep In. He rolled out of bed to use the bathroom and I started to drift off.

And then I heard it. The pitter patter of little elephants clomping up the stairs mixed with muted giggles and stern shushing. The door opened and there it was, a little piece of magic in four part unintentional harmony. I was slightly concerned we were going to catch the house on fire, the candles made such an enthusiastic blaze.

And all at once I didn’t feel old or muggy or like spending another minute in my boring old bed.

The inferno was extinguished, the kisses were everywhere and then my man said, “I have an announcement to make. Today you kids are not going to school. Today I am not going to work. This is an official holiday, so today we are going to…Lego Land!” I couldn’t decide if I wanted to cry or kiss or tickle him so he’d have an idea of how happy the whole darn thing made me.

Of course, we hit traffic and got there late, and the day wasn’t completely free of meltdowns and bite marks, but there is no doubt that the efforts of my family told me loud and clear that, at least to them, I am special.

It’s not about the gifts or the price tag, and it doesn’t take an amusement park to make it magic. Birthdays are about reminding the people in our lives that their existence matters. This journey of life is nothing to take lightly, but my goodness what a difference a candle can make.

Especially when you’re six and it comes with a free ticket to Lego Land.

For those of you who think living in Germany would be super wundebar, please think of me the next time you casually make an appointment to visit the doctor.

Thank goodness for evening gout attacks. I was limping so badly by Thursday night that Jason offered to come home from work after lunch on Friday so I could try to figure things out. I might or might not have limped a little more heavily when he was in the room. I certainly was under no obligation to fein pain tolerance.

Gout is funny. I think the name is so ugly that people assume it always looks ugly. I’ve had two friends mention how glad they are that it’s not all nasty and swollen up someplace where everyone could see. Let me clarify for the masses, gout is not elephantiasis. In some cases it does get extreme to the point where it is noticeably swollen and red, but it can look like nothing and still be quite painful. Let the record state that my feet are not deformed and grotesque. Yet.

On Friday afternoon I took myself, via the convertible (62 degrees and sunny), into the hospital at Landstuhl (the big local military medical center) and spent over an hour jumping through registration hoops. Once I was in the system I found myself sitting in the waiting room frantically trying to finish my paperwork so I could enjoy the wait. Unfortunately they got me right away. This was a little disappointing; my book and I were looking forward to missing Harrison’s soccer game due to military inconvenience.

I have to tell you, when that lovely nurse practitioner finally came into the exam room with her American English and hospital clip board, I had to refrain from kissing her. She listened to me. She agreed with me. She didn’t ask to see my previous records. She took out her magic wand, bibbity bobbity boo-ed at me and poof!

I had a gout killing prescription and a follow up appointment to secure my year’s supply of non-German approved Alopurinal. Saints be praised, I am back in business.

Then I had to wait at the pharmacy for forty minutes for my prescription to fill while Jason had the pleasure of feeding/clothing/soccering-up and loading all four kids into the car and taking them to Harrison’s soccer game alone. Unfortunately for some I was stuck in a quiet waiting room with my book.

It was kind of a perfect day.

I was listening to Dave Ramsey on the internet a few days ago searching for a little tight-wad financial motivation (the German furniture and weekend trips are calling to me). Dave had two different callers who dialed in for the “I’m debt free!” holler. This is a regular occurrence on his show; followers of Dave are taught and encouraged to pay off their consumer debt with his painful but brilliant spendaholic rehabilitation steps. Once financial freedom is achieved they are encouraged to call his live radio show and tell fellow disciples of their miraculous financial rebirth.

Hundreds of people call in but few are chosen. The two callers they chose for that particular segment were rather unique. Both of them were in their twenties. Do you realize how unusual that is? Most of us spend our twenties in a Visa stupor with no plan for the ever pressing future.

One call was a couple in their mid-twenties with two small children who had paid of an astronomical amount of consumer debt in two years of eating beans and rice. The other was a girl of 27 and wasn’t just debt free, she had paid off her house. Neither of them had large paychecks. Both of them said the same thing, “We’ve been listening to your show since we were kids.”

They had good parents.

In all this German countryside free time I have, one of my favorite pastimes is listening to talk radio. The entire political stage is focused on our national debt crisis right now and how this guy or that gal might fix it. I’m not so smart when it comes to finances or politics, and Heaven knows that if Old Moneybags wasn’t around to pay the bills they would probably be hiding under some bed in my last house. But one thing I do know: Our federal government is nothing more than a reflection of an entire generation (or two) of debt lovers.

And during the news breaks when they talk about the economy, the “good news” is that consumer spending is up. Right, cause that’s really going to fix all our problems. Oh, I understand that we need to spend money so people can have jobs and our economy can stay afloat, but how much of the consumer spending out there is actually being fronted by Visa or Mastercard? Is it true spending or borrowed spending? Do half of the buyers even know the difference? Before we got ourselves educated I can tell you, we certainly did not.

Hot on our heels is a generation raised on plastic. Barbie now comes with Visa, how will these small children know the difference between credit and cash if it all looks the same?  I know they’re important on some levels, but how will trigonometry and algebra help the average high schooler survive in this economy? Why aren’t our kids taking regular classes on mortgages and compound interest and retirement plans? Do you have any idea how many brilliant people out there are up to their ears in debt because they never took the time to learn the basic principles associated with balancing a budget?

We’ve racked up some unwelcome consumer debt with this move (Mama just had to have a new couch) and I’m starting to look around me and regret it. I hate that company store, and I want my soul back. There is a feeling that comes when you take control of your finances. It’s not a feeling of deprivation, it’s a feeling of freedom. If you don’t choose where your money will go, Wal Mart will choose for you.

We must teach our children to be smart with money. There is value in frugality. Stuff is just stuff, but financial freedom will bring more than just peace to your marriage, it fosters opportunity and independence. Like Dave always says, “Live like no one else so that someday you can live like no one else.”

I sure hope we’re financially prepared for the future because I’ve got a sneaky suspicion it’s going to get really popular in the next few decades to “move in with the kids.” Personally, someday I would really like to have my own kitchen to putter around in.

Columbus is my new favorite mere mortal for whom a paid government holiday is named.

I had this idea when we moved here that every weekend would be jammed with magical trips through the European country scape. We’d be like Mary Poppins minus the penguins (although Rex usually carts along at least five different stuffed birds. Also I’d inherit the overseas Snap Cleaning trick she’s so good at). We’ve spent nearly every weekend the last three months traipsing through the German countryside, and you know what? I am freaking exhausted.

I have years to see Germany but right now I need to unpack my house. With three kids home all day for two weeks (Rex and Junie are out on Fall Break) I feel like Benjamin Franklin must have felt when Timmy the Neighbor Kid kept asking to borrow his kite.

This past weekend the traveling angels gave us a hand and sent rain. Instead of conquering Belgium we decided to stay home and conquer the office.

I should tell you, every day Jason comes home from work. Every day when he walks in the door I take him on the tour. “Look honey! See what I did? Did I do good?” Unfortunately what Jason sees is a room scattered with a few odd boxes, packing paper on the floor and the same obnoxious assortment of pictures and knicknacks that he left in the morning. What he doesn’t see are the three missing boxes, the unpacked boxes. The magical disappearing boxes.

“It looks pretty much the same, sorry Babe.” Then I have to resist the urge to throw things at his head.

On Monday I had him trapped. Since Jason is particularly good about making his own Honeydo list, getting him to help out on the weekend is no problem. I think he was actually happy to have a day off so he could, “Finish the house up.” HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

We worked all day. We hung pictures (fed the kids) and mirrors (changed diapers), set up my sewing table  (fed the kids) and unpacked half the office (issued seven time-outs and two naps). By the time we made the final rounds at 10:00 pm to shut off lights I stood next to him and looked at our handy work.

The shelf was still leaning against the wall in the living room. The two boxes of odd pictures was still parked in the middle of the hallway. Bags of garbage and random paper floated mockingly throughout the house, out of season foliage cluttered up the tables. Books, DVD’s, bins…

It was a beautiful sight.

Thank you, Columbus.

I think I’ve been suffering from cardboarditis for the past two weeks. Well, some might call it carboarditis but in my case it looks a whole lot more like gout.

Oh yeah, my gout is back.

For those of you who don’t know, gout doesn’t just sound ugly, it is ugly. It’s a nasty disease that affects crusty old farmers and myself. Uric acid in the blood forms crystals that settle painfully in the joints, most commonly the big toe and the knuckles.

Picture someone embedding crystals in your joints. Now try using those joints to unpack 793 boxes of household goods. That is what it’s been like these past two weeks trying to unpack our house.

My wonderful American doctor “fixed” my gout a year or two ago. Once we cleared the uric acid out of my blood he put me on a magical medication call Alopurinal that works quite simply: a pill a day keeps the gout away. With four small children to chase around, you can bet I’ve been pretty religious about those pills. Gout is genetic for me, which is why it’s hit me so young. I’ll have it forever and the best thing I can do is take my medication. Managing gout through diet is far from a sure thing, I’ve seen my father suffer from attack after attack, and cutting out food only makes a small dent in the disease and leaves you with very few eating options and a slightly grumpy spouse (not that my mother complains).

But somewhere during this move I lost track of my medication. After a month or two my pills resurfaced, but I thought the same thing all those old farmers think: maybe I can stop taking these pills. Maybe I won’t get gout again. Maybe it was all in my head–it wouldn’t be the first time.

Ten weeks. It took ten self-denying weeks before my gout came back with a vengence. This time it’s not just in my big toes anymore, it’s in my hands. And it’s not just the crystals, sometimes my fingers and toes go numb.

The biggest downside to living in Germany as a civilian is the confusing medical care. I’m bottom of the barrel to get in on the base facility, so everyone says civilians should find a German doctor.

Well yesterday I met a German doctor. It would have been helpful if she spoke English.

First off, walking into the clinic was like a visit to the local retirement home. Wall to wall old people. I swear half of them were there for the social, and they all knew each other. Kind of gave new meaning to the term “socialized medicine.”

After making my way to the front desk I attempted to make an appointment. “What time should I come back?” I asked, looking around at the wall to wall wait.

“Oh,” she said, “The doctor has an opening right now so you can go in next.” I checked out the 20 plus geriatric Germans who were patiently waiting their turn. Apparently the rumors are true, Americans always get right in. “Does the doctor speak English?” I asked.

“Yes.” Since most Germans around here speak pretty good English I wasn’t worried.

I sat down across from a female doctor and laid out my dilemma, showing her my medication and telling her quite simply that I need to get back on my routine. Once I had exhausted myself with speech, I sat and waited for her reply.

“We…take…blood. From…you…arm. Laboratorie, yes?”

Are you kidding me?

She then went on to convey that they don’t handle gout the same way here, that my medication is not right (I just had my levels checked in May) and they would start over again, maybe I eat different food, no? If I get gout, then they give medication. Not medication, no gout. Only after get gout. It was like we were playing cowboys and indians, the communication was about that good. I seriously wondered if my scalp was going to come into play.

By the time she was done talking I wanted to cry. She drew blood (which apparently is too thick), told me to return on the morgen and I went out to pay. But right before walking out I changed my mind. I don’t have to go to a doctor that I can’t communicate with. I don’t have to deal with gout because Germans do things differently. I thanked her, but there is no way in Hades that I’m going back in there.

Tomorrow I’m going to try to fight my way into the clinic on base, and every day thereafter until I get some real help. I don’t care if I have to be seen at six am, there will be an appointment for me and I’ll find a doctor who can look at my records. There has got to be a better way.

This weekend my husband and I celebrated twelve years of matrimonial bliss.

Looking back, I could only think of two times in the past year where I thought he might leave me. I know, impressive right? We are really getting good at this marriage business.

We recently had a newlywed couple over for dinner. They just celebrated their first anniversary and are stuck here in Germany trying to get visas. He’s Brittish and she’s American. For whatever reason, this is the only place they can both legally live as man and wife.

When I asked them how their first year was, they smiled. “Oh, it was great!”

“Really?” I asked, “That’s amazing! We’re lucky we didn’t kill each other.” The moment the words were out of my mouth their posture relaxed.

“Are you serious?” she said, “Because we thought it was just us…” We then went on to discuss some of the unexpected trials of that first year.

I recently heard someone refer to marriage as a soccer game. Have you ever seen 3 and 4 year old’s play soccer? It’s a riot. They each know one thing: kick the ball. So they hover around it like a bunch of fruit flies, trying to get in a good whack here and there.

If marriage was a soccer ball and newlyweds were players, it would look a lot like that little toddler league. It can take years to realize that the other guy is your teammate, or that kicking the ball to him could actually help you out. In memory of our first post-traumatic year, I’ve come up with six soccer analogies to pass on, in case any newlyweds are listening.

1. Remember the importance of the assist. Let your spouse help you out. No one likes the “I” man, and learning to pass the ball now and then is a skill no marriage can live without, especially once kids come along. You have to let your companion be part of the team, even if it means sometimes you take a back seat and let them score.

2. Don’t stay in one position. It’s important to take time trying out different fielding positions to see where each of your strengths lie. From cooking to child rearing to balancing the budget, you might be surprised to find that your marital mold isn’t like anyone else’s. Throw out preconceived notions and find out where you each play best.

3. Listen to the coach. Whether it’s finding a few good relationship books or getting into early couple’s therapy, remember that the world is filled with professional people who know a lot more about marriage than the rest of us. Be smart and ask for help before overlooked hurts fester. Ten years from now you’ll be glad you learned to communicate early on.

4. Cheer for each other. There is nothing more important than gratitude in your marriage. Take time every single day to build your companion up. We are constantly serving each other, even if it’s subconscious. Point out the positive character traits and things you love about your spouse. Do this every day.

5. Accept your red card. If you don’t learn how to say sorry you might as well go live in the woods by yourself right now. Understanding how to offer a real, flat out apology is one of the most important and most difficult skills we can master in marriage. When you’re wrong, own it. No one likes the old, “I’m sorry, but…”

6. Know the plays. Talk about your life and your plans and your dreams on a regular basis. Good things come to those who make plans, so take time to dream together. Think two years, five years, twenty years down the road and talk about how you’d like your life to look.  Life gets busy and if you stop dreaming and planning together, you will eventually lose one another. Look into each other’s eyes and dream a little. It’s why God made Friday nights.

No marriage is perfect, but if you’re willing to work hard and watch your cholesterol, you just might make to that golden vanilla cake anniversary we all hear so much about.

For us, twelve down, thirty-eight to go. Good thing I married someone so athletic.

Today marks one week in this house and I think I’m finally starting to come up for air. Actually that’s a bunch of bull, I’m just getting really good at avoiding the mess.

This morning I spent almost an hour in the bathroom primping. See, my bathroom gets really good light and I have this magnifying mirror that is both fascinating and slightly terrifying, depending on the time of day. I stood there in the morning light and poured over my pores for about twenty minutes. I tweezed and masked and basked in the high intensity reflection until there was nothing left to pick at. It was awesome.

Then I emerged and found that fairies did not, in fact, unpack any boxes for me. So much for that theory.

But the sun was shining and I was feeling frisky (this is code for scared to death that I might get a cardboard paper cut on some crucial vein and die before I could remember the German number for 911), so I packed up the kiddos and headed into town for a little local shopping. Unfortunately I forgot that today is a national holiday–remember the wall? This is when it came down–and had to do most of my money changing on base.

Did I come home once the shopping was done? Of course not, I invited Jason to join us for a picnic lunch in the autumn sunshine. He cautiously met me, wisely choosing not to inquire after the 47 boxes labeled “home decor” that I’m too afraid to open.

I’ve decided that the only way I’m ever going to get this unpacking pot a boiling is if I give myself some sort of grandiose goal. That’s right, we’re having a Halloween party. Hey, if all else fails and the house isn’t in order, it will make a fantastic spook alley. I’ll just put on a black light and let people stumble around the half emptied boxes trying to find their way to the bathroom.

We’re going to live here a looong time, I have faith that everything will find it’s place. I’m not giving up on the fairies just yet.

It’s here. It’s all here. All of it. They didn’t leave anything behind. I have every worthless box of materialism I’ve been dreaming about, and I’m half tempted to trade it for a furnished apartment in the US countryside.

This house is huge. Huge translates to 4000 sq feet and six levels (some of them are half levels). It’s wonderful to have so much space, but getting from the basement to the top floor bathroom is kind of like hiking Mt. Sinai minus the camel and religious inspiration. With four kids–the baby has been particularly needy this week–constantly needing our attention, the unpacking has been like unwelcome leisure. Slow and mostly unproductive.

Enter amazing girlfriends who don’t mind taking over and making the big decisions. Honestly, if they hadn’t shown up and starting putting things in place we’d probably still be dining on slabs of cardboard. You see, I’ve been a little preoccupied with a personal treasure hunt and can’t seem to get my brain on the right track.

It has been five days since our things arrived. Three truckloads of household goods gets dropped off and my super smart plan was simple: find my shoes.

The shoes finally surfaced on day three. I specifically remember pulling out two pair of Jason’s shoes, then gazing into the heavy, overcrowded trash bag at my beloved collection of feminine vanity, trying to keep the drool contained as I reminded myself that it wasn’t the time nor the place for high heels. I handed the bag to Jason, told him they  were to head upstairs to my trunk…

And I’ve never seen them again.

It’s been three days since that chance parting. No trash has gone out, no boxes have been donated. Where. Are. My. Shoes.

I’ve had three other fresh sets of eyes scour my house and surrounding village, all to no avail. I’m tempted to call over the mayor (next door) and see what he can do for me.

Believe me, this is not a laughing matter. I’m not just perplexed, I’m now in a full blown panic. Do you have any idea what it’s like to replace an entire collection of beautiful heels? Four years ago we had a puppy (may he RIP and enjoy an eternity of Heavenly leather) who destroyed 3/4 of my shoe collection. He was only interested in my shoes, obviously the pooch had good taste. It has taken me years to regroup.

Finally yesterday I realized that I haven’t knelt down and prayed about  the missing shoe bag yet. I very quickly dropped the China and hit my knees, knowing that prayer would be my strongest ally in this war against cardboard thievery. Honestly, the moment I thought about praying for my shoes all my anxiety disappeared.

Today I’m going to find my shoes. Come he!! or high cardboard, they will be found.

I wrote this last Sunday, it’s this week’s column.

The long awaited household goods truck comes first thing tomorrow morning and I’m feeling very first datish–a little apprehensive but mostly obnoxiously giddy.

We have been living here in Germany for the past two months, camping out with our original twelve bags of clothing. Don’t think that number hasn’t increased; I now have to detangle us from our temporary house one grocery bag of accumulated goods at a time. Unfortunately there is no place to put said items until all the other items are delivered.

So here I sit on this pre-delivery eve, clipping my toe nails and thinking that I should probably shave my legs tonight since it might be a while before I can get back to personal hygiene.

Thing is, these movers have a one-touch policy. We get one shot to boss them around, but the moment our poundage hits tile, it. Is. Over. Forget asking them to reposition something, it lives where it lands unless we want to haul it around ourselves (we don’t). I am therefore frantically trying to remember what we have–it’s been four months–so I can make myself a working map of where it should go.

One thing about our fabulous German house (we got brave and purchased one) is the fact that it comes with loads and loads of junky European treasure. The previous owners are old and moving in with their daughter. Their method of downsizing is simple: Leave Everything In the House for the New Family to Sort Through.

It’s a good thing the gypsies come through every few months to take stuff, there’s no way we could haul all of that to the local thrift store. (Seriously, they actually drive slowly through the town ringing a bell.) And for the record, German junk looks an awful lot like American junk.

Truly the past two months have been tough on the body. If anyone ever had sympathy for prison inmates, it is me. I hear one of the worst publicly mentionable things about prison is the total discomfort. The beds are a single mattress and there’s not a decent chair or couch to be found.

That is exactly what military “stick furniture” is like. Plastic foam couches and miserable springy mattresses.

I was at a girlfriend’s house this past week and actually sat down on a real couch for the first time in Europe. I almost went comatose on her due to sheer comfort alone.

This move has not been without it’s casualties. With all the changes and transfers and Guten tags, my Junie (3) is now peeing her pants again. I have probably handled it terribly and I’m suspicious she’ll end up in therapy because of my overall misreaction (this might or might not have included yelling, stomping and a week of early bedtime). We don’t rightly know what to do. Part of me doesn’t blame her; our life has been less than comfortable and more than a little sporadic these past four months. She’s trying to mesh into German preschool and we’re in the middle of another move…heck, maybe I should take a page from her book. Next time I’m stressed I should try peeing my pants, it might be very liberating.

I guess if all else fails, I could always threaten her with the Gypsies. Somehow I think that method might do more damage than a gentle caning. I guess we’ll go back to marshmallows. They’re probably safer on her overall psyche.

Either way, she’ll be peeing her pants at home this time tomorrow. Now that is something to finally feel good about.

If I ever complain about my life ever ever again, please feel free to fill my comment box with You’re-A-Spoiled-Brat comments (go easy on me, Tanya). After today, it is only fair that I retract all whiny posts and spend the rest of my blogging days praising the Good Lord for letting me live a life filled with beautiful German houses and convertible BMW’s.

Yes, we are that spoiled.

So Jason bought himself a little red Beamer when we got over here for a few thousand dollars. It was a nice car, a cute car, a “Hi I’m a single girl who likes to paint my nails red” car. It just didn’t fit him. I finally suggested that he consider getting something a little more professional that reflected things like his manliness and not his closet metrosexual tendencies (he’s a total fashionista, don’t let the gun fool you). He agreed.

Last week he came home with great news. An agent in his office was selling a little old Very Ugly beater for $700, low mileage and gets 40 MPH. It was too good of a deal, he had to get it. Think of all the money we’ll save! (Dave Ramsey has no style.) 48 hours later he was driving it home and asking me if I wanted to ride in it. Unfortunately I came down with a case of Ickycar syndrome and haven’t been able to go near it ever since.

He was still interested in getting a more professional car for himself so last weekend we drove out to look at another older BMW, something with leather and AC and power windows.

Personally, I thought the whole thing was a waste of time. Why would I approve buying him a nice car when he’s going to leave it in the garage and drive the fuel efficient purple people eater to work everyday instead? I told him that very thing just about the time we pulled up to test drive the new car.

I looked at it parked on the curb. It was a fine car, no doubt. But sitting behind that fine little car, tucked up in the driveway all sneaky like, was a beautiful black BMW. It was circa 1997, impeccably cared for and calling out to me like a long-lost pair of stilettos.

And my husband didn’t even ask to test drive it.

“Well,” he said on the way home, after testing out the other vehicle, “What do you think about the car?”

“I think you need to buy the convertible.”

Silence.

“Wait, but I didn’t even drive the convertible,” he said, looking around to see if this was, in fact, some kind of Twilight Zone and quickly checking both his mirrors for the hidden camera.

“No,” I said, “But you need to buy it. That way you can drive the ugly car in the winter and feel good about the purchase, then drive the convertible in the summer to make you happy.” Also the man looks pretty darn fine in a convertible.

I might be a mean old witch who doesn’t let my boy own a motorcycle, but you can’t tell me that I don’t know how to make him happy. I think this is a nice meeting ground.

And just for the record, I think the convertible and I are soul sisters. She and I have way too much fun opening it up on the autoban. Who says mommy’s don’t get to have any fun?

(And yes, I will post pictures of all our European cars as soon as I can get my act together. Meeting the movers first thing in the morning, yay!!!)