Memories. Saved.

As we slowly inch closer to the date that we are supposed to move (3 more weeks), the bittersweet starts to show its face. There is no doubt that we need to sell our townhouse that we live in now. Financially, it's the right thing to do. We've been out of space longer than Justin Timberlake has been lookin' good. We are SO over the whole home owners association thing. Alexis needs a fenced yard. There is ZERO doubt that it's the right choice.

But.

Looking around, there are little memories, important memories, memories I want to keep. There's the scuff in the wood floors that I swear Alexis used to trip over. It's totally a crazy thought that a tiny little scratch could make a newly walking baby trip, but she really did have a magical way of falling right there. All the time.

When I walk up the stairs, I see a flaw in the molding. It's the spot that the Bulldog, Meg, once decided to attack. She literally chewed a hole in the wall, and we've never known why. It was a one-time crazy, so I can only guess the wall told her that her butt looked big when she stomped down the stairs. That spot reminds me that the puppy isn't the only house destroyer in the family, and at least he goes after furniture which is easier to fix or replace.

Walking into the kitchen, I always notice the corbels that hold up the small section of counter to the right. They are a reminder of a kitchen remodel gone horribly wrong, but that later turned out perfect. Mr. Husband spent hours staining those corbels, and even longer perfectly mounting them to the wall so that they would safely support the stone counter top. They weren't in my original vision, but he made them work.

Upstairs, I take pause when I walk past the spot where Jasmine passed away. It's just a little corner of our bedroom, but it's so much more. It's her spot. It's the place where she was when I last heard her whimper, where the spirit of the best dog we'll ever have left us unexpectedly in the middle of the night.

And then there is Alexis' room. Every inch of it holds memories, but most especially the walls. I spent hours carefully hand painting murals in her room in the weeks before she was born, before we knew she was a she. There's the Old Woman Who Lived in a Shoe on one wall, Hey Diddle Diddle on the next, and Humpty Dumpty on the third. It's the Humpty Dumpty wall that most gives me pause. On that wall is Hank, the horseman. When Alexis was tiny, her changing pad sat directly below Hank. She used to stare up at him lovingly, chattering away, each time we changed her diaper. I used to joke that Hank was her first crush.

A single guy is (hopefully) buying our house, and I'm sure that little floor scratch, that mark on the wall, those corbels, Jasmine's spot, and Hank will all be completely meaningless to him. That makes me sad. Fortunately, I have this little spot to write down those memories so I can bring them back later.

More fortunately, we get to start making new memories in a new house.

The Invisible Minion Army Has Stolen My Sanity

Once upon a time, I was sane. This I know. I could set things down and hours, days, even weeks later, I could remember where they were. It was a simple time, a beautiful time, a time before the hurricane that is Alexis.

And then came that fateful day when Alexis learned to walk, and with it she brought her magical powers. She apparently has an army of Invisible Minions who sweep through our house, quickly hiding every important item. Set down your keys? They walk away. Place a bag of cheese on the kitchen counter? It vanishes. Carefully place a knitting needle in a basket? *POOF!* It's gone.

After two plus years of dealing with the magic feet, I've grown accustomed to not knowing where the heck anything is. When I can't find my sunglasses which I know were in my purse, I know that they have grown legs. If the TV remote isn't on the stand where it belongs, I know that the invisible minions have transferred it to a pile of toys. Sometimes I'm lucky enough to find the Invisible Minion hiding place, and sometimes I lose my mind trying to find something in a rush.

Recently, two grand events have led to the undermining of the Invisible Minion Army. First of all, it seems that when you pack up most of your crap for a move, magical things happen. STUFF APPEARS. Years ago a knitting needle entered the Witness Protection Program, but a few weeks ago? I totally found it under our bed stuffed inside a pillow. Right next to the knitting needle I found the plum that I knew Alexis was eating on our bed one morning, but that just suddenly up and walked away (I wish I had a photo of it because petrified plums are spectacular!). Even the Bed Lady and TV Dude from Mrs. Goodbee have magically reappeared. It's been fantastic!

The other major development is that I finally figured out that if I just ask Alexis if she knows where the object of my affection has gone, sometimes she knows. It seems that her Invisible Minion Army is about 80/20 for remembering to report back to her on the exact location of the treasures that they collect. Just this week she has managed to accurately describe the hiding place for her comb, my black shoes, and the dog bone. It was beautiful.

And then there was the day I couldn't find my car keys. That day? Was not beautiful. I KNEW they were in my camera bag, but yet they weren't. I checked the couch. I checked the floor. I checked the kitchen counter. I checked the laundry. I checked EVERYWHERE. Once it dawned on me that the Invisible Minion Army might have been in on the disappearance, I asked Alexis. She quickly admitted that she had seen my keys, and immediately said, "they're in a box!"

We're moving.

Everything we own is in a box.

So, I tried to get her to narrow down the hunt. She told me the box was in the garage.

All the boxes are in the garage. Literally, hundreds of them. Some are taped shut, some are not. Given that I had no idea when the keys had walked away, they could have been in just about any of those boxes.

I found them, but it took a loooooong time.

I used to be sane.

(Pssst . . . got a second to vote?)

You Spin Me Right Round

I don't carry cash. Mostly. That is, I withdraw $15 every week or so, and that is the money that I use to function. It covers my lunches, my dates with Chef Vending Machine, and my voyages to Starbucks. If I run out of cash too quickly, I'm out of luck. Sir Debit Card is sometimes invited to come out to play, but only for higher priced basic necessities like gas and groceries and such.

What I'm saying is that I really don't spend money. On my own. Rather, I wait until the weekend to go wild and crazy and then I make Mr. Husband use his debit card. It's more fun that way, and it's totally all his fault if "we" spend too much.

So, when I got word that there was a message on our voicemail from our bank regarding some sort of problem with my debit card, I wasn't worried. I still had $10 of my "allowance" floating around in my camera bag (I gave up on carrying a purse when I had Mr. Canon permanently attached to my face) and I knew I hadn't been anywhere freaky. If there was a debit for a strip club party or new car, I knew very well Mr. Husband would have mentioned it. Unless he was the one who did it.

Anyhoooo . . .

It took me a day or two to follow the directions in the voicemail and call the bank back. I knew it was regarding "suspicious activity" but I just couldn't be bothered to put on my care face. When I did finally call, it ended up being past regular business hours, which basically meant that I got to talk to some chick in India who didn't actually have access to a computer. Or speak English. She placed some sort of voodoo hex on my card and told me to call back between 8 and 4 the next day.

I did.

Unfortunately.

I love my friends who work for PNC Bank. I really do. They are some of the bestest people around, but OMG, they work with idiots. Truly. Primo idiot was the guy I got to talk to when I called the second time (after playing Duck Duck Goose with three other people, I might add). Mr. I Work in Fraud, but Don't Take that Word "Work" Too Seriously was all, "What number did we call?" I was all, "412-somenumbersIcouldprobablyputherebecausenobodyevercallsus." He was all, "No we didn't." I was all, "Yes, you did." He was all, "What other number could we have called." I was all, "THAT is the number you called." He was all, "No, we didn't." I was all, "Yes, you did." He was all, "What other number could we have called?" I was all, "THAT is the number you called."

And so on.

Really. We repeated that same spinny conversation FIVE times before I finally just hung up on Mr. Work? No, Thanks.

Because I am a moron, I dialed the 800 number again. This time I was told that my debit card number didn't exist.

Cause, you know, I never learned how to read numbers when I was in grade school.

Annnnnd I hung up again. And dialed again. And asked for a manager. And then asked for her manager. Finally, I was connected to someone who was capable of hearing the words that were falling out of my mouth.

After some hemming and hawing, she blurted out that she couldn't see a reason for a fraud alert to have ever been put on my debit card, so she lifted the hold and advised me to go on a wild shopping spree.

I obliged. I went to the grocery store and snagged $20 worth of necessities. For some reason, I didn't go to the Be Your Own Slave Checkout and instead let some Miserable Teen slowly drag my ice cream and Lima beans across the scanner. 18 years later, I swiped my little debit card, and was . . . DECLINED.

As the Miserable Teen informed me of the situation, I shot her the You Have Got to be Kidding Me Face. She returned a You Are SUCH a Loser When You Get Declined Trying to Buy $20 Worth of Food face. Touché, Miserable Teen. Touché.

So, I went home and called the bank. Again. And AGAIN I was told that the hold was removed.

Liars.

Finally, a week after this whole hot mess started, I walked into our local PNC branch. Doing so is sort of like voluntarily entering a room full of Miserable Teens. Lots of staring, almost no doing. I waited. And waited. And waited. In the interest of full disclosure, I would have ran out of there after the first And waited, but my allowance was long gone. Today was Day #3 of the unintentional fasting because I didn't have any money for lunch. I was too weak from all the hunger to actually walk out.

When, at last, I finished playing Duck Duck Goose and got to talk to someone who could actually help me, I didn't learn much. The card had been closed (WTF?) due to a potential "compromise" (read = I once, long ago, used my card at TJMaxx and some hackers maybe hacked into the file that contained my card number--MAYBE). Nobody thought to send me a new card. Nobody thought to TELL ME WHAT THE FARK WAS GOING ON. Nobody thought to even apologize that at that point I had spent a total of six hours trying to get my lousy $15 out of our account so I could have a Mocha Frappuccino and maybe stop biting people's heads off because OMG I need Mocha Frappuccinos like normal people need oxygen.

*Ahem*

I'm getting a new card next week. Allegedly. In the meantime, the *cough*not*cough* helpful person at the branch suggested I just ask my husband to get me some money since his card is still all dandy.

Um, The Bank of Mr. Husband asks more questions than a mortgage lender.

Me: "I need $15, please."

Him: "Why?"

Me: "I need to buy lunch."

Him: "Why don't you just take your lunch to work?"

Me: "I need $15, please."

Him: "Why?"

Me: "I need to go to the grocery store and buy food to take to work for lunch."

Him: "Isn't there something at home you could eat?"

Me: "I need $15, please."

Him: "Why?"

Me: "I need to buy gas so I can run home and see if there is anything at home that I can take to work with me for lunch."

Him: "Why?"

And so on.

I hate you, PNC. You make me dizzy, mad, and sporky.

It's not an attractive look for me. I guess not all of us are lucky enough to be cute when we're mad.