It's moving month. You know what that means! Relaxation and healthy home cooked meals every night!
I've got seven moves under my belt. You'd think I could do this with my eyes closed. You'd of course be wrong. I've been living somewhere between stress eating and manically packing for a couple weeks now. Two nights ago, the husband brought home candy bars and cokes for dinner. What? It seemed like a good food choice at the time. I've convinced myself packing 3 boxes is the equivalent to 3 miles on the treadmill. So I'm good there. Do not ruin that for me people. I will shank you. I have good shanking knife in one of these boxes around here. Somewhere. Where IS that box?
I've pretty much given up on marking boxes with useful information that may clue me to what it holds. Instead I have two boxes that are just marked baby shit and one that says husband's dumb crap he should've thrown away years ago in block letters and a smiley face. I think I'll make unpacking more interesting and have a couple boxes with a skull and crossbones marked dangerous explosives. Maybe one can have a stick figure guy turning into The Hulk and marked hazardous waste. Our moving guys should get a kick out of it.
My house looks like an alcoholic toddler lives here. Jack Daniels and Jose Cuervo boxes are stacked amongst piles of The Kid's toys. How did he get so many toys? I keep finding them. Under the couch, in closets, between cushions. I think they're procreating at night. I suspect that squeaky giraffe is just a high priced escort. Slutty Sophie.
We still have a couple weeks left here, but my OCD requires me to have all the contents of my house packed neatly in boxes right now. I may have gone overboard. Maybe just a little. There's a chance I had to buy toilet paper today because I may have packed the last roll. And hand soap. And baby wipes. If the dog goes missing, I promise I'll voluntarily admit myself to the psych ward.
As obsessed as I am about needing to get everything in a box, my husband is as obsessed with bubble wrap. He bubble wraps the shit outta stuff. Seriously. He's a bubble wrapaholic. He makes late night runs to Home Depot saying he needs more packing tape. But I know. I know he's scoring more bubble wrap. The man needs help.
We're almost done though. Just two more weeks. We'll soon be sitting on our new balcony overlooking the Gulf of Mexico, clinking our glasses and celebrating surviving our 8th move. And I betcha the $2 million I'm planning on winning in Vegas next summer that is the exact moment my husband will bring up his plans for the next move.
Where is that damn shank box?