My weekend officially began about six hours ago.
Jason's mom picked up the girls, and now we have approximately 48 hours to pack up our house and move it to either (a) the farm, or (b) the apartment that was more appealing last week when we were desperate to find a place to live but has since then lost much of its charm as I examine the popcorn ceilings, the brown shag carpet, the kitchen with no storage, and a little thing called LEAD BASED PAINT. The paint has been deemed safe as long as nobody scratches off the twelve layers of paint and eats it. I think we can manage that.
I am feeling overwhelmed at the state of my house. Clearly, I should be in hyper speed productive mode, and yet, somehow, I find myself here. Blogging. Wishing that the kitchen would just pack itself up. Wishing that someone else was making the decision on whether or not we should keep the odds and ends that had a nice, comfortable life in our junk drawer but now have no place to go.
Jason and I realized that we each tackle projects differently. He does the hard stuff first, so that he has plenty of energy to get everything accomplished. I, on the other hand, do the easy stuff first, and then stall out when it's get more tricky. You can imagine how this affects my packing skills: lots of half-full boxes, in every room, and no answers for Jason when he says, "Is this box done?" I scrunch up my eyes, and say, "You decide."
It's a good thing we don't often move, because the disarray, disharmony, and overall disgruntledness is making my hair frizzy and my skin blotchy. I'm going to the spa and someone else can pack.
Okay. I'm going into the chaos, and I'm not coming out until it's finished.
See you on the other side.