We are moving on Saturday. As in, relocating from our little house on the prairie. Yes, as in this Saturday. In four days time.
I can’t see the carpet in my bedroom because it is littered with clothes, underwear, blankets, towels, cats, cat hair, books, shoes, pregnancy tests, a couple of balloons left over from my birthday that eluded me when I was popping their friends, a suitcase, tissues (used and new) and some toys. (Although, dear readers, in my defense, most of the clothes on my floor are in fact CLEAN – or, at least they used to be. I hate putting away laundry.)
The sink is full of dirty dishes, and both Brandon and I send evil telepathic messages to each other, trying to get the other to bite the adult thing to do bullet and wash them. I am entirely prepared to offer a sexual favor in return for the dishes getting washed. Today.
We have packed exactly one box, and by we, I mean Brandon. He packed up our DVD’s. Yay.
Cade’s room doesn’t stay clean for more than 4 minutes. He’ll sweetly ask me or Brandon to help him clean his room, which is totally adorable, only he wants it clean so he can gleefully trash it again. I’ve given up.
I have pregnancy fatigue. Doing something other than sitting, or preferably lying down, is totally unappealing. My legs and arms feel like jelly. I’m hormonal.
I don’t want to move.
Anyone wanna come help? I’m totally good for sexual favors and/or cash in return for some good, legit muscles that are ready to move.
Cuz I’m not.