I’m not sure why the housing gods hate me, but they really, REALLY do. I’m moving at the end of July… and that will be my fourth official move in a little over a year. Think about it. Pack the box, load the box, unload the box, move the box into the new house, unpack the box, store box for next move (times 50 + furniture).
Can’t wait for the packing to begin. My roommate and I have decided that packing/moving time also equal boozing time. As this is our third move together we have become somewhat expert movers… and consequently boozers. What isn’t more fun than shoving all your crap into a box for the thousandth time and drinking 8 Bloody Mary’s in an afternoon? You tell me. I’ve got nothing.
Plus, poor Charles DOES NOT handle moving well. As far as I can understand (or blindly guess) he believes I’m packing and leaving him to be a stray dog forced to fend for himself against to intensely fierce coyote population of Colorado. To say the least, it is a traumatizing time for him… and for all that suffer through his bi-polar mood swings.
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