I feel like I’m stuck in the kind of nightmare in which I’m being chased by a herd of the Undead who are clamouring for my caffeine-addled brain. I’m trying to run, but instead of kicking up dust I find myself struggling in a slo-mo kind of hell.
In reality, of course, there are no zombies. Instead, I’m being hounded by questions, like “when is our upstairs vanity going to be installed” and “where did we pack the iron” and “do we really need to go to Home Depot again” and “why doesn’t the light fixture in our dining room work” and “will we EVER rent our apartment or will we be saddled with monthly payments until May?”
I feel like I’m not getting anywhere very quickly. Oh sure, acres of boxes have been unpacked but there are still many more to do. And then there’s the basement. You think brain-sucking zombies are scary? Our basement is scary. What’s in all those boxes? Where are we going to put them all? Did I just imagine that we pared down all of our junk before we moved? I must have been dreaming.
On the bright side, the innards of my drawers look pretty nice:
Sadly, I managed to buy enough to do three drawers. Frig. I shudder to think that I have to return to the purgatory that is Merivale Road once again.
I’m being weighed down by the little things right now, can you tell? Towel hooks and area rugs and the fact that we don’t have a doorbell. These are first-world problems, I know, but my lists are long and it’s hard to hold onto my moving mojo right now. Every night I collapse in our bed, grateful to be sleeping at home, but falling asleep to more questions and longer lists.
