I had to carry things, you guys. Like heavy boxes.
And drive a car by myself. Which should not be a big deal, but it's me so it is and that bridge is terrifying and I've never driven the Sonata on a freeway and there were a bunch of accidents on the freeway and Gizmo barfed in Mike's car and whew. It was a deal.
After that though, me and the pups were safely at my dad and step-mom's house while my dad and Mike unloaded all our crap into the storage unit. Lucky ducks. I got to sit and eate cheese in an air conditioned house while they lug heavy shit around. Not fair? Maybe. I'm okay with it though.
I'm kind of sick of moving. And this move is only the first step to another move so it's just layer one of my stress cake (food and stress all in one metaphor, so me!). The dogs always hate it and barf all over the car, I am just horrendous at helping to move heavy things (t-rex arms), and it's always so hot on moving days, have you noticed that? It never fails. But at least I have a former moving guy as a husband and my dad is super good at carrying heavy things and there's cheese this time, cheese helps.
And here are some photos.
I miss my stuff already.
Who knew we owned two ladders? Also, that one on the left is deceptively heavy.
My unfinished clothes for storage pile. I'm going to regret some of these decisions, I just know it. Handy though that I just gained enough weight to where half this shit no longer fits. Maybe it will by the time we move again? (probably not)
Commence 15 minute discussion on whether we should bring these chairs or not. Tough decisions, people.
Obligatory and, might I say, amazingly flattering moving self portrait.
Our guests that are coming next week should feel so comfy and homey in our guest room. Urp.
Tuffy has made himself quite at home.
Texts on the drive there. Oh, Virginia traffic...
Drugged Gizmo on the way home. Poor guy.