It's official: I hate moving. Well, maybe I don't hate moving, but I do hate packing. Sorting through seven plus years of our crap, dividing up what is mine and what is my dad's, figuring out how much we will have to buy after separating our joint household. All of it is a complete pain in the ass. I guess this is not some big news flash.
Our days are currently spent surrounded by mountains of cardboard and plastic trash bags. No one can find any socks because I've either packed them or sent them off to the Salvation Army. Sorry for you, blisters for all until June 10th! That's what you all get for not helping me pack. Not that I want help, I tend to revert to complete control freakness when it comes to arranging our stuff in boxes. I need to be the one to decide what stays and what goes. I need to be the one to throw it all haphazardly into a box, sans bubble wrap, and hope for the best. It will be my fault, and mine alone, when we arrive at our new house with only broken dishes and smashed up lamps. Oops!