Okay, so last Thursday morning, my daughter and I tore like tornados through our house, desperately trying to get the last of our moving to-do list accomplished before our flight to Chicago to (taa-daa!!) move in with Scope.
Or I did.
My daughter might have snuck away from me and my newfound best friend, Hysterical Panic (don’t call her “Hissy” if you like your nose the shape it is), to go back to sleep on my stripped bare bed. Maybe.
And I might have a picture (or three) to prove it…. but I can’t show you because I’m on Scope’s computer right now and he’s at work and….. ummm….. I have this here fancy memory card and all, but I can’t quite figure out where I’m supposed to stick it (that’s what he said) to pluck the pictures out of it like I could do on my own ‘puter back in Seattle….
….uhhhhhh….
….hmmm….
….????….
Well, anyway….
Even though I worked on it all for weeks, just packing and sorting and dumping things off at the thrift store and plugging holes in the walls with toothpaste, I somehow didn’t manage to get all the moving chores done in time before we had to leave for the airport.
*PANIC!*
And now those lucky relatives I left behind in Washington are stuck figuring out what to do with all my boxed up stuff I left piled up in my rental house.
*GUILT!*
My dad had wanted to drive it all over for me…. but then *POOF* that plan fell apart at the last minute (like, seriously, the night before I boarded my plane!), and now…. well…. word is he’ll probably be bringing some of my stuff over.
Some.
Eventually.
But he has no idea when. And he’s not sure how much he’ll be bringing. And it looks like the vast majority of my stuff is going to be locked away in a storage unit 2000 miles away from me by my mom for me to figure out how to get to Chicago myself later.
Basically, it’s complicated.
But besides the moving-with-nothing-but-a-few-bags-of-clothes-and-my-camera-and-my-Strawberry-Shortcake-Dolls-(shut)-(up) drama, my new married life is pretty damn splendiferous! :-)
Being married to Scope rocks, people! ROCKS!! Dare I say it? It rocks more than a whoppin’ big ol’ Rocky Road ice cream sundae!
Amen.
We’re happy. Like walking-around-with-big-stupid-grins-plastered-across-our-faces-which-we-can’t-seem-to-ever-wipe-off happy. Even my 13 year old daughter (who should rightfully be royally ticked at me for dragging her 2000 miles away from everything she knew) is happy and not the teeniest bit resentful….
(Except for yesterday when I forced her to try on pants for back-to-school shopping even though she loathes clothes shopping.)
(‘Cuz she’s.... umm... a different breed of teenage girl.)
(Clearly.)
Anyway, gotta run. I’m suddenly craving Rocky Road ice cream for some inexplicable reason and, lo and behold, there's a grocery store right across the darn street! Mmmmmmmm….
Bye!
© Coracabana
