Tag Archives: moving

3 Reasons Why I Can’t Unpack Right Now

Or, 3 Reasons Why I’ve Worn the Same 4 Outfits to Work for Weeks

1. Moving drained my life force.

Packing up one’s entire domicile is a hideous undertaking. Not only do you have to spend hours carefully packing stuff like wine glasses and the trinkety crap from the mantel–you also have to worry about getting the curtain rods down (and how do you pack/transport curtain rods? or brooms for that matter? things that don’t fit in boxes drive me MAD) and taking pictures off the wall and cleaning out that weird dark closet under the stairs where the old litter boxes sit silently mouldering.

There are so many deeply annoying aspects to moving. I barely managed to survive them this time. All my energy went into staying sane for the few weeks before the move and now I’ve got nothing left. I’m a lifeless husk of my former self. I’ve turned into the Autumn-zombie.

Confession: I spent 45 minutes playing with the Dead Yourself app. In the end I couldn't put a zombie mouth on there cause I was too scared.

Confession: I spent 45 minutes playing with the Dead Yourself app. In the end I couldn’t zombify my mouth cause it was too scary and I wanted to cry.

2. There are too many TV shows.

Currently I am watching Buffy, Angel, Bones, New Girl, and Scandal. I recently finished the new Arrested Development and Firefly. Y’all. I can’t stop streaming. Send help.


How did Joss Whedon make a show that is half campy horror and half profound exploration of the meaning of life? I’ll never understand.

Seriously, why is TV so good? I have spent so much time binge-watching on Netflix that my eyeballs ache in bright sun and there’s an Autumn-shaped imprint in my corner of the couch. I have lost the will to make my own food (thanks for keeping me alive, GrubHub) or wear real clothes.

I just need to finish the shows I’m watching now and then I’ll be good. Well, unless I start The West Wing. Or Alias. Or The X-Files. I heard those shows are dope, y’all.

3. Our new place needs some serious TLC.

Check out this toilet. I’m a little afraid to use it because I suspect it’s a secret portal to the 70s. Can you imagine speeding through time and space and arriving in the 70s via toilet? Not. Fly.

Yellow toilet

On the bright side, it’s not avocado green. I think that would be marginally worse.

As you can see, there is also carpet in the bathrooms, which registers like a 7.0 on the Ick-ter Scale. Plus the paint on all the walls and trim is dirty and faded and sad, and the “finished” basement is like a dungeon, if dungeons had orange-and-yellow carpet.

Don’t get me wrong, I actually like this place so much more than our last one. It’s super spacious and closer to work and in a great neighborhood and we’re saving *buckets* of money on rent. We can bike to work every day and we have a lovely patio and lots of natural light. The kitties adore it.

But it’s old and outdated and it will require some serious elbow grease (guys, by the way, wtf is elbow grease?) before it can be attractive and comfortable. And the problem is, most of the painting and decorating and camouflaging of yellow toilets needs to be done before I can fully, truly unpack. The thought is overwhelming. I’m completely paralyzed. Just…I can’t even. Hand me the remote somebody.

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3 Reasons Why Moving is Possibly the Worst Thing That Can Happen to a Person

Or, 3 Reasons Why My Wine Intake Has Significantly Increased During the Past Few Weeks

1. Bodily harm.

I have bruises all over my body from bumping into furniture and the sharp corners of boxes. I have stubbed toes and bloody hangnails and cracked cuticles and stiff finger joints from packing and unpacking a bajillion pieces of crap that I wish I didn’t have. Oh, and have you ever had a box cut? It’s like a paper cut on crack. If you get one, you spend the next three days wishing you were dead.

2. Chaos.

I am an extremely fussy person. I need order and calm. That’s, like, the exact opposite of moving. There.Is.Mess.Everywhere. Nothing where it belongs, piles of boxes and bags of trash, clutter on every surface. I mean, we’ve just now managed to clear walking paths and make some of the rooms look somewhat normal, but my Spidey-OCD-sense knows there is still disorder lurking in the corners and the closets and the shelves and the garage and the second bedroom. I’m twitching with freak-outedness. ::slurps from wine glass::

3. Existential angst.

Packing and unpacking = realizing we have way too much stuff. Seriously, we own heaps of rubbish. It’s so much more than any reasonable human needs. There are millions of people in the world who would give a limb for a roof over their head, a pot, and some food to cook in it. Meanwhile, I possess AN ENTIRE SET OF PILSNER GLASSES. Seriously, what am I doing with my life? Does owning pilsner glasses really add to my happiness? What is happiness? Am I happy? ::drinks directly from wine bottle:: 

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