Devacuating. Ugh.

Devacuating. The threat has passed, I can move all my crap back into my still-standing house. I should be ecstatic. And I am, really, except I just can't get my butt off the couch to move back in. Say what you will about evacuating—it's not boring. Devacuating on the other hand is all of the lifting, none of the adrenalin.

Why am I not skipping home with my uncharred treasures? I suspect it's because I've become a deadline junkie. Like most writers and editors, I don't do anything without a deadline. It's gotten so bad that I've become to think of myself as two distinct people.

Deadline-me and sans-deadline-me probably resent sharing the same body, since non-deadline me won't stick to a diet. Without deadline-me, non-deadline me would be chillin' on section 8 housing and disability. Maybe knockin back some 40s. Non-deadline-me shakes her fist towards heaven, cursing deadline-me for being so damn functional--more realistically she'll get around to shaking her fist whenever she hears that the earth has turned to the exact point where Santa Barbara is facing Jesus in his heavenly throne. Non-deadline-me doesn't like any wasted effort. Even deadline-me likes efficiency, right? Right?

As an example, when the Jesusita evacuation warning arrived last week, I had the car loaded and a friend's car loaded right away. When Goleta Valley Mini Storage (a company so awesome I will be trumpeting testimonials until my own long-term storage date), that is to say, Goleta Valley Mini Storage offered free storage for evacuees, I was on it. Unloaded the car with the help of a friend, and made a second trip. I had the animals evacuated. I was On It.

When the mandatory evacuation order arrived, I was ready. Dogs in the car, overnight bag packed and tucked behind the driver's seat, material goods in storage, full tank of gas, and cash in my wallet. If everything at the house was burned up, I would have been fine. Good thing, since the fire got pretty close. I gotta say, deadline-me is made for evacuations.

So now, the fire is—hurray!—over, and as great as deadline-me was for evacuating, she's nowhere to be found for devacuating. Paintings, paperwork, boxes of emeralds and rubies, etc. drum their nails waiting for a ride home from Goleta Valley Mini Storage.

I'd hoped to post some pictures, but the cord that connects my camera to the computer is still at Goleta Valley Mini Storage. It might be awhile...