Please pass the Xanax

Next week is our last “normal” week at home before the movers come to pack.  Nothing here feels normal at the moment.  There are boxes and new furniture squeezed into every corner of the house.  Michael, ever the ambitious handy man, has ripped the upstairs bathroom down to the studs. There’s dirt and grime on every surface. No, normal it is not.  For goodness sake, my daughter has a toilet sitting in her bedroom.

I am spending most days sorting through things, deciding what will go to long term storage, what will be shipped by air (my own pillows, please), and what can be shipped by sea.  Although I’m not responsible for packing, there are many logistics to consider.  I met with a man from the shipping company a few days ago to discuss.  I shall refer to him as Big Haired Mover.

Big Haired Mover tried to explain how much would fit into this container, or that one.  I failed to mention that I am extremely spatially challenged (um, hello, I can’t parallel park), and instead nodded my head politely as if I understood what he was saying. I did not.  Who can be expected to know what 1500 lbs looks like, Mr. Big Haired Mover?

As if this weren’t enough excitement, in another brilliant move, I decided to have some sun spots lasered off of my face.  MY FACE!!!  I now look like I have a flesh eating disease, and am contemplating wearing a ski mask to our going away party.  Not my best decision.

Oh well.  Life is a series of good and not so good decisions.  I’m making the best of it.  Toilets, leprosy-like sores and all.