It’s moving eve. Ya know, the night before the big truck comes and burly guys who don’t understand the more delicate things in life toss my valuables around, and then suddenly I’m sitting in an empty house with all these boxes around me and I’m supposed to sort it all out and put it all away.
Have you ever noticed that it costs like seventy three thousand dollars to move? OK, OK, I jest (slightly). But seriously. New light fixtures, new paint, new rugs, new frames, new curtains, new lamps… pay the movers, pay the painter, pay the cleaners, pay the electrician.
Really, we haven’t even paid all that much yet (mainly because Hubby is doing a great job of keeping me out of IKEA and our country’s equivalent of Home Depot) , but there’s this list in my head that stretches beyond tomorrow (Moving Day!).
And it’s too bad because Hubby told me today we’re out of money.
And you’d think I’d know better anyway because ohmygosh where did all this junk that the movers will put into a big truck tomorrow come from????? Two years and four months and seven days ago we arrived here with an assortment of suitcases and carry-ons holding our earthly belongings and now we are arranging transport for enough stuff for a small village of people.
And have I told you I’m supposed to read 7 by Jen Hatmaker? I was supposed to read it over Christmas vacation and do a blog review of it. It’s downloaded on my Kindle and ready to go. Friends have emailed asking if I’ve read it and what I think.
And y’all I can’t even bring myself to open the book. I know it’s gonna rock my world. I know it’s going to make me want to get rid of stuff, of stress, of extra. But I just feel too doggone tired to be convicted and inspired and to do anything about it.
So there you go. I’m avoiding the book 7 right now because I just can’t handle it. I feel a storm brewing over the island of my life and it’s gonna be a dozie… doozie? dousy? douzie? Ah whatever.