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I'm irritated with my town, but what else is new? I'm not as irritated as I expected to be, though. In the eight years we've lived in this house, I've had it in the back of my paranoid little mind that, when the previous owners had the house inspected, some palms must have been greased. There were conditions in this house that would never pass inspection.

Well, we're in the middle of a regular inspectionarama these days. Today was the buyer's insurance company and the municipal occupancy inspection. B. got the municipal inspection list on Monday, and the top of his head exploded in rage. So many things on this list that weren't fixed by the previous owners before we moved in. So obvious that yes, indeed, an inspector turned a blind eye to many offenses eight years ago, a few that we will be stuck fixing. B. could barely function last night for worrying about how badly this inspection would go. I just tried to not think about it.

Good news is, we won't have to rebuild the house from the ground up. The inspection went fairly well. There's a small list of things to do, most of them fairly asinine and petty, but all completable in our remaining 23 days in the crapshack. Still, it's a bit galling. These municipal inspections are a joke, and little more than a way for these wee St. Louis county municipalities to make money. $20 for today's inspection. $20 to have another inspection after the work's done.

Speaking of the move, this isn't exactly irritating, but it's bothering me. Clara Jane's been way off-kilter recently. There was last week's school-skipping incident, in addition to lots of general crankiness and defiance, which isn't like her. Last night was exceptionally rough; she was fighting sleep at 11 PM after a night of generalized mayhem-making. I went to her room to find out what as going on, to be met with Clara Jane's version of small talk.

I don't know what prompted me to ask, but while we were chatting I said, "Sugar, does it bother you that we've been putting all our stuff into boxes?", to which she erupted in sobs. "Stop putting our stuff in boxes!"

Ah, so that's the problem. The move's freaking her out. Who'da thunk it?

Since then, B. and I have been trying to explain the concept of "moving" to her. Another surprise: that's not the easiest thing to conceptualize in 3-year-old terms. B. took her to the basement this morning to see that all the boxes with our stuff are still in our possession. We've explained that a big truck will be involved. In Clara Jane's world, just about anything's tolerable if a big truck is involved. We've explained that yes, the dogs and cat will be at the new house.

Clara Jane and I spent the day at Cooperella while B. wrangled the inspectors. She was a bit more snuggly than usual. I think she's been a little starved for attention, what with all the moving chaos. I'm hoping that tomorrow's train trip and a few days with my parents will get her back on track, and not throw her even further asunder.

But the fact is, no matter how off-kilter Clara Jane is, or how itchy the dogs are, or how irritating Indiana Univeristy is being, or how asinine the occupancy codes in my town are, it's all buffered by the fact that the end's in sight. 23 days, and the worst of the move will be over and this will all be worth it. The dogs will be spitting Benadryl all over a new kitchen. I'll be fighting academic spam from the comfort of my front porch with my new MacBook. Clara Jane will have enough room in the new house to construct her very own panic room. And no one will give a fuck if an electrical socket is installed upside-down.