Just Like Pullin' A Double Wide With A Scooter.

I think my real mistake was bringing the f-ing coffee cup in here.

“But, Sandra…” You say. “You need the coffee!”

You’re right, reader. You are ever so right. But the coffee and the laptop? Just a plain bad idea. It's like giving a seal a ball and a fish, and then expecting him to do a little algebra. That algebra just isn't going to get done when there is fun afoot.

So here I sit, on the floor of my step-chick’s room, bored with going through Barbie camping gear and miniscule stickers. Can you imagine? Bored with stickers? Who (or what) the hell have I become? Procrastination is SO much easier than actually packing my fourteen hundred square feet of absolute insanity. I should really quit whining, though. I don’t have to pack it this time, and fourteen hundred square feet really isn’t all that big. I just have to get rid of the loads of crapcrapcrapMEGAcrap we don’t need so that the packers can make sense of my shenanigan-filled house.

“What, Sandra?” You ask, alarmed. “You CAN’T be moving again!”

I assure you, gentle reader, we are.

Although this time, we’re not leaping four hours north. We are going to Griswoldit across the US, with the final destination beckoning us as the land of Rocky Mountains, beer, and that hotel they filmed The Shining in. And for the fifth time in as many years, we are packing up the house, midget, and cat, and driving our happy asses to a house we’ve never seen, in a state we’ve never lived in. It’s cool, though, for a few reasons. Wanna know what they are? I’ll bet you do….

On post housing this time around? SUCK. Balfour and Beatty? I’d like to find your mothers, and then punch them squarely in their noses for participating in the creation of such ineptitude. How on this expansivegreenearth are we number 107 on your wait list? We were number 107 in October. OCTOBER, Balfour and Beatty. It’s March. I may not have been the best relocation specialist this post had ever seen, but I could damn well move a wait list more than NONE in four months! Dumbasses. It’s fine, though. I’ve learned my real estate and rental lessons. We’ve found a house that’s pretty, has a basement, comes with a washer and dryer, and costs a third less than what we’d have paid you. You like apples, right? Well, how do you like THEM apples? So there.

Next up? We’re driving an Explorer and a pickup, rather than a pickup and a flingin’ Cobalt. More room to bring crap we’re going to need, like plates and paper de toilet. Bonus, I I’ve gone through the house, and begun getting rid of the supermegacrap that we really don’t need. It’s a bit of a slow process, but I’ve found that caffeination helps. The Prince of Poo seems to think that he is helping by bringing me one…Army…Man…at…a…time (and then telling me it’s Daddy, and making me kiss each one). He also likes to help by rearranging the carefully separated Craigslist boxes, and putting the items I’ve so carefully sorted back in their original locations. Seriously. Locations all over the house. We’re talking under sinks, into closets. All this from a kid that can’t seem to grasp the concept of picking up his toys and moving them into the adjacent basket. It’s cool, though, because there seems to be some comic relief in watching him dance around talking to his toy soldiers, and then trying to sneak them into his room.

Moving on…I’m not working anymore. I left the Pit of Despair…er…office last week, and have been doing some resting, some cooking, some cleaning. I feel pretty flingin’ smart for posting the items I want to set free on Craigslist and Freecycle, rather than dragging them and the Sultan of String Cheese to the drop off point at Good Will. For some reason, Good Will is never happy to see my shit, and they seem to feel that they’re doing me a favor by taking it. And I’ve gone into the store…our shit is a lot nicer than the stuff in their store. At least I’ve not tried to hand them a stained ‘70’s fondue pot or half of a yellowed doily. Plus, the responses on Craigslist and Freecycle are either polite and friendly, or they’re just colorful enough to make you snort and giggle. And, when I want to take a break from separating and cleaning? I’ve got four words for you: Coffee and Top Chef.

In the words of the beautiful, beautiful George Carlin, “Off you go…to Colorado!”