Because I can't even have one week of anything remotely appearing "normal," and have no recollection of what "normal" used to be, perhaps now I should moonlight and launch my own niche home-based small business, Moving for the Single Woman.

Short of advising "don't," the first time I've done this in 52 years by myself has garnered tiny little nuggets and big ol' whack me in the face boulders of ideas and recommendations.

Not that I'll ever personally need them ever again, because this is it - I am never, ever, (yes, I'm saying never), doing this again.

The 18-year homestead is empty to the bare walls, save for a bag of ice in the freezer and an extra roll of toilet paper in the bathroom.

Thanks to the city's Sanitation Department, which again emptied the "overfull" trash, although this week wasn't nearly as bad as the last. This time, they didn't leave a note, and besides, they're getting rid of me so they should be overjoyed.

The week began with "dump day," when the friend and I began as the sun rose and piled all things trash in one section of the garage. After he assessed the amount, he deemed it completely doable in his regulation-sized pickup, cancelling the expected need to rent a big ol' Dumpster for a day.

We took household paint cans and unknown yard treatments to the dump, filled out a page-long report, and took it at no charge to the hazardous waste area.

We returned with a hillbilly-looking, tarped load containing a mattress and box spring and bags and bags and bags of stuff deemed not worth saving - or giving - to anyone.

Two days later, every single woman's best resource, local, affordable professional movers, came and two hours and 15 minutes later, the house was empty.

As I watched them carry the gigantic television up from the basement, I knew it was the best money I'd spend that week.

One of the guys looked at me and said, "I like the way you pack - nice and light," and I told him it was out of necessity - that I only used small boxes because I needed to tote them around myself.

Minutes later, he encountered the mountain of boxes full of books and was less enthusiastic.

"I found the books," he said.

So the homestead is empty. The new owner receives great neighbors in a great family neighborhood, "the red room," three ceiling fans that work and help us keep our cool in the summer, and a really ugly, ancient-but-works-like-a-dream swamp cooler, which cools the house enough to allow massive amounts of baking to occur, even on the hottest summer days.

When we moved into that house, Mouse was expected but had not yet arrived. When I moved out, she was meeting me for lunch and asking me if I was sure I knew what I was doing.

When we moved into that house, knobby-kneed Skinny Son was playing T-ball in socks pulled up to his knees at the Murane ballfields. Now, he's 24, actually responsible and making a wonderful life for himself.

And so now it's me and the dog - and it's absolutely, positively the right time - and the right thing to do.

Reach community news editor Sally Ann Shurmur can be reached at (307) 266-0520 or sallyann.shurmur@trib.com.