There is not enough murder in the world to deal with the emotions produced by moving. I’ve tried my usual coping mechanisms, but alcohol just makes me sleepy and hungry, and until today I didn’t even know where my toaster was, let alone a plate or fork. We moved in last Saturday, and then each day I spent 10 hours out of the house at work, came home, unpacked for maybe one hour before becoming magnificently grouchy and delirious, ate either a banana and some crackers or a cold cheese sandwich assembled with a dirty knife, and then passed the fuck out and did it all again the next day.
Friends have asked “Aren’t you excited to be all moved?” And I have a totally automatic and unintentional facial spasm that I imagine is not unlike what my dog looks like before she throws up a bunch of mucousy grass.
Because right now, this is my new dining room:
It looks like we live in a box fort. A box fort that we a pay a lot of fucking rent for. But at least the kitchen is… well, it’s a total disaster. I can’t even take a photo of the rest of it, it is just too dismal. Why do I have so much stuff? I feel like I got rid of so much when we moved out of the Guacamole House, but The fact that I’ve uncovered the 7th large box of just pantry goods pretty much proves me wrong.
We are pros at moving now, but this move we really fucked up on a couple of things. Because we had friends help instead of hired dudes, we felt pressured to just get the stuff into the house in any way it would fit at all, and didn’t boss them around on breaking things down into room-by-room piles. We always fix up the bedroom first so there is at least one retreat in the house, but we keep finding more bedroom shit and the whole thing never feels complete.
But you know. Fuck it. House.
The goal is to get the kitchen done today (ha! ugh) and then… The rest of everything. Oooooh, man.
April 14th, 2012 | Totally Unrelated