Wait. Am I going to hell for using that line as referring to my move? Probably.
It is done, though. After weeks of preparation for myself, my father, both houses and the rest of it, I am totally and completely moved in. By that, I mean that there are boxes floor to ceiling in every room and my fridge is busting at the seems with two homes worth of goods packed into the smallest effing refrigerator in the world. I have a path to my bed and to the back door. And, of course, to the computer.
The move went relatively smoothly. "Relatively" being that I was not moving during a bomb attack or during a massive earthquake. It was however raining. I felt like I had moved to the coast. It poured rain for two full days. Now that we're done? It's bright and shiny outside.
I had borrowed the van from the church lady and The Guy brought his truck and helped me move things. We did 4 loads in the pouring rain and then I sent him home and had a break. It stopped raining. I decided it was time to get more things moved and it started to rain again. God has a cruel sense of humour. But I finished.
Then yesterday Lyn and I had settled in to get her things moved. We figured at least 6 loads with just the two of us. Suddenly, my lawn boy pulled up in his truck. He knew we were moving and his school was cancelled (although, if I find out he skipped just to earn some money, I will kill him) and wanted to help. I could have kissed him full on the mouth, but he's 17 - more Lyn's preference. *zing* It all went very smoothly apart from the mouse poop on the couch. (I almost wrote "moose poop" which would have been really weird)
Now we are ensconced in both our homes and have weeks of unpacking to do. I'm so tired even my toes ache. So I am tackling one box at a time. And finding that I have to do six other things to put that one box away. It's a joy. Why did I think I liked moving?