Thursday, April 4, 2013

The Moving of my Stuff

Okay, so I kind of went on hiatus. Or took one. Or ... whatever it's called when you are Hiatal for a month. Wait. Doesn't that have something to do with hernias? I don't have that. I've just been busy. Let's roll with that.

So I moved. Yep. About three weeks ago I received a 20-day notice to vacate (no cool story there. My landlord was selling the townhouse). One night, I came home from slinging Girl Scout Cookies (AKA Devil's Fodder) and found a notice taped to my front door. Sweet. Such a personal way to find out you're about to be out on the streets.

But. I didn't even really freak out. Which is new for me. Because after the crap I've been through this last year, I expected myself to do something epic like burn the house down around me, or fill it with molting parrots or something equally weird.

I just pulled the paper off the door and went about my business.

And over the next few days, I fully expected to break down and lose it in some weird place like in line at the bank, or while sorting laundry.

I didn't, though, so instead of sitting around wondering why I wan't losing my shit, I went house hunting. Which suuuuucks.

I got pretty discouraged and was sharing my woes with a new friend when she just blurted out, "Well, I have a house."

Uh. Thank you. THAT MAKES ONE OF US.

"No, really." She said. "I have an empty house. You can totally live there."

And so I am.

Wanna know how that went? Well, over the course of three days, Elle, Rawr and I packed up my house, threw everything into the new house, cleaned the old house and the next morning I took off to California for a week. I needed to escape from my life, knowing full well that I had a disaster waiting for me at the end of my week.

Going back for a sec, I'd like to point out that whilst loading the moving truck, I only had one episode of crazy where I may have "thrown" a table off the back of the truck. Only substitute "thrown" for "tripped over the lawn mower and almost killed myself by falling off the back of the moving truck and while I was flailing my arms trying to save myself while my father watched the entire exchanged with a perplexed look on his face, I knocked my arm against the table and it crashed to the ground and broke into twelve pieces."

I said "thrown" because my dad thinks I was throwing a temper tantrum. I could see where he may have had that idea because I only grew up with a Ginger Temper and was slightly prone to psychotic episodes (THEN. Not now) and so he is basically always on the defense.

Anyway, so that's that. I'm on break from school for about three days, so I plan on relaxing and regrouping.

Except I have three kids, three "extra kids" to care for 5 days a week, a cat (who really was lost in the insulation for 36 hours) and a house to put together. I don't even want to TALK about what a nightmare I've had trying to transfer utilities. I guess you don't even need a kindergarten education to hold those jobs is all I'm saying.

So much for relaxing. I don't think any regular folks have time for relaxing, anyway. Everyone has too much crap to take care of. How the heck did we all get to busy and out of whack, anyway?

Hey. Do any of you like cardboard boxes? You can have as many as you want. Bonus: They're all full. And nothing is marked. It's basically like Bingo for Crap.

The way I see it, I'm looking around my new house and have no idea what's in those boxes. How bad do I really need that stuff if I can't even remember what it is?
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