So I'm making the Actual Move this weekend. The actual move to The Middle. No more sleeping on a futon, storing my belongings in a basement, business. I'm actually moving myself and all of my things to an apartment that is mine. And The Fiance's. And it's bigger than an over-sized closet. And there are many, varied walls to climb.
Everyone will be so HAPPY.
But first we have to actually move. I hate moving. Hate. The Fiance's already crabby about packing, and Dad's crabby just thinking about loading his trailer with our things. And Mom? Well, she's just along for the ride, but she has to deal with everyone. She'll be crabby by the end of the weekend.
Last night I gathered everything together that I seemed to have accumulated during the past month in my temporary home. I'd hoped it'd be no more than a carload. Turns out, weird, it's totally more than a carload. Where did all of the clothes come from? And the litterbox? And cat toys? And boxes? And The Cats? And dammit, I did NOT sign up for this!
I may or may not have told you that I suffer from my own, rare form of obsessive compulsive disorder. Which means, "Oh my God, I hate clutter and messes and thinking and moving, and 'No, that box does not GO there, it goes in the back SEAT.'"
I sat on my designated futon last night, staring at my accumulation of boxes, clothes, The Cats, books, etc., and used mathematical equations to determine how it would all fit into my car. It won't.
So tonight I'll spend my time systematically shoving everything I can into each and every nook I find in my car. I'll make a trip to The Middle tomorrow, unload it all, and wait until Saturday, when we come back for Everything Else I Own, which includes, but is not limited to, A Lot of Crap.