I may have lied

So I moved a week and a half ago now, and as of today, my house looks like this. (I’ve already unpacked maybe 30 boxes mind you.)

I could give you some excuses like: oh, we had 3 days to pack up and move, DUG threw his back out and hasn’t been able to stand upright or walk for the last week, we work full-time jobs and then some and barely managed to feed ourselves this last week. But you don’t care. Well, I shouldn’t say that. Maybe you care. But the multitude of people who laugh and ask in a day, “Are you all done unpacking? How’d it go?” as if, of course, it’s all done, and then follow it up with “Ooooh. I just couldn’t live like that. I’d be fully unpacked within 48 hours. I’d just stay up til it’s done.” Those people, they don’t care.  They judge.  Judgey judgey judgey.

So folks, I guess I lied in my earlier post. I am not all Stay Calm and Carry On about my boxes. I’m depressed. I may not be at the point of nervous breakdown. But my ability to function normally has definitely been compromised. My hair is a mess. I wore a cashmere sweater as an outer-garment into an ice storm today. And my dvr is completely effed thanks to stupid Cablevision of Connecticut so I missed my Tuesday night Glee therapy session. *sigh* Did I mention I have bad hair?

Anyway. I’m trying to channel Apartment Therapy here. Small is Cool and all. I mean, I am going from one small place to another, so it shouldn’t be impossible. And I don’t really think Maxwell would pat me on the back for best iteration of a landing strip, but I like to imagine him patting me on the back and saying, “Ignore those miscreants. You’ve totally got this.”