We made it. It is done. We are moved (note that moved and unpacked are not synonymous), the cats are settled in, life is slowly returning to normal. Between the work gala I had on Tuesday and the move, I’m pretty sure that was the busiest week of my life, and boy am I glad it’s over. Frank and I even borrowed a car and went to Ikea on Saturday to procure the furniture items we required to inhabit our new apartment.
So it’s pretty much cake from here on out. There are some small glitches—no cable or internet yet—but generally it’s all coming together. Which makes it even weirder that Frank and I have been bickering constantly the last couple of days.
You’d think that once the hard part was over, we’d both relax and be nice people to be around, but you would be wrong. We didn’t fight really at all during the weeks between finding out we had to move and the truck pulling up on our doorstep, but the moment things were kind of in the clear, we were at each others’ throats.
So: packing. That is where we are this week. And not just packing, but the point in packing where it all seems completely hopeless and impossible. Every move has this moment, I’m certain of it. Moving sucks. The agreement on this point is universal.
Frank and I are in California with my mom and dad, visiting my sister. It’s weird because I haven’t seen her in like two and half years—she works for a restaurant, and so doesn’t get time off around the holidays when I’m visiting my folks. But it’s funny how with siblings you just pick up like you never left off. I suppose a lifetime of living together makes an indelible impression.
Well, I’m pretty sure the last week’s entry was more of a cliffhanger for me than for anyone reading this, but I figured I’d write the conclusion anyway. First, the news: we signed a lease for an apartment yesterday. I don’t want to brag, but that may be some kind of land speed apartment getting record. But this week has felt like it’s lasted about four months.
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