I'm Moving. Again.

I have moved several times in my life.

I'm not sure exactly how many. I tried to count how many times I'd moved once, but since I missed the better parts of fourth, sixth, and eighth grade {on account of all the moving}, I don't know numbers that high, so let's just round it out and say upwards of 20. 

Hell, upwards of 30.

Let's say a shitload, ok?

Will all this moving under my belt, most of it being in a hurry, in the middle of the night, or without electricity, you would think that I would be an expert.

Able to move in and out of a house in a matter of mere hours, under the cover of darkness, blah blah blah.

I am not.

I am fucking terrible at moving, and I hate it more than anything on this planet, aside from migraines and people who collect stickers.

I don't like house hunting, probably because I also don't like shopping, all because I don't like spending money.

I don't like going through shit, packing shit, carrying heavy shit, all just to unpack that same shit again and figure out where the hell to put it.

I'm not that thorough, I don't have that kind of attention span, and my daughter is a junior hoarder. I have to smuggle fruit snack wrappers, old school papers, and broken crayons out of her room like a drug lord because EVERYTHING SHE OWNS IS SO SPECIAL. 

None the less, here I am, moving this week.

Not by choice: I'm moving because my landlord is selling my house for roughly 2.5 times what it's actually worth, but hey, that shit aint my problem.

I found a really cute little casita-type house  a few miles away, and it sort of kicks ass.

It has two fire places, real wood floors, carpet in the bedrooms, and a pool two doors down. The kitchen has more than three cabinets UNLIKE THIS HOUSE, and a side by side fridge. There's also a wet bar in the living room, and possibly a Jacuzzi in the backyard.

I'm in love.

BUT, I'm still doing the act of moving, which means I'm also in hell.

I've been staying up late re-watching the entire Dawson's Creek series on Netflix with my periph's while I pack, because that shit was 10 year old Sarah's jam, and I've seen all the episodes so I won't miss anything important while I'm trying on 78 pairs of jeans from the floor of my closet that don't fit me.

I've eaten more food from a drive-thru than from a stove in the last 5 days.

My hips - rickety and practically made of old fucking wicker since the birth of Jack the Pelvis Destroyer to begin with - are in shambles, and I would pay a drunk hobo to give me back traction and a pedicure. 

Also, Lainie told me she hated me and I was the worst mother she'd ever seen because she had to fill ONE MORE BAG OF HER OWN FUCKING STUFF last night before going to bed.

Pray for us.

For my exhausted little body and terrorist children.

Pray that we all survive this, and it's over tomorrow like it's supposed to be.

Maybe when it's all said and done I'll post some pictures of the new digs for y'all.

Once I'm not buried under boxes of poetry journals from high school and John Cusack posters.