You move me, baby.

I have been in packing city. And it’s not a good city. It’s like…….detroit.

There are boxes all over my apartment. I walked from my front room, past the kitchen and to my bedroom…and I stepped on like 75 things. I sounded like a broken whiny record, “oowww”…...”oowww”…..”oowww”, and then the last time I stepped on something I spun around in a circle, waved my arms around like a lunatic and yelled, “what the fuck!”

Packing sucks!

But soon enough…it’s moving day! And I loooove moving day. You get to hang out with family and friends all day, drinking AND exercising at the same time! How often does that happen?? And it’s socially acceptable to open a beer before noon!

Maybe I made that last part up, but I like events where you get to drink in the morning. Tailgating? Sweet. Moving isn’t as sweet as tailgating, but at least you are exercising and hanging with your family and friends. And then you reward yourself with pizza. Yum.

By the way, I don’t get hammered and move, okay people? And I don’t start really drinking until we are already done with the driving part. I really start drinking at the new house. So…everyone calm down….(mom)!

I asked my little three-year old niece if she was going to help me move. Before she gave me an answer, she looked at me very intently; you could see that she was thinking about it. I was like, “what, you have other plans that day too?” And then, still serious as ever, she asked me a few questions.

“well, krissy, how big are these boxes?”

“some are big and some are small.”

“I can’t really carry the big boxes.”

“I know. There are small ones too.”

“Huh. Well, will these boxes have a lot of stuff in them?”

“not all of them. There are some light boxes”.

“hmmmmm..”

We stared at each other in serious face mode for about 45 seconds while she thought about it…..and then she said, very confidently, “Okay. I’ll do it. I can help you move”.

You have to love the honesty and the fact that she isn’t going to commit to something she can’t do. So many people just say, “yeah, sure I can help” and then they don’t. She is like, “listen, let’s be realistic. I’m two feet tall and I weigh like thirty pounds. You’re asking ME to help? Well, that’s fine I guess…but you better have some small, LIGHT fucking boxes!!”.

(Yes…in my head she swears. Just like her mother. Hahahah. Jokes.)

Well, time to go rest up for the big move. Time to try and find my bed through the walls of boxes. It’s like I’m living in a fucking warehouse.

Do you know how many times I’ve moved?? (I’m sure my family does…heh.) I have NEVER been at a place for more than two years since I was like 20. WHAT??? That is INSANE. I have moved every year or so for ten years. Sometimes a few times in a year. I think the longest I’ve lived somewhere is a year and a half. Seriously, there is something not right with that.

I would like a permanent home someday…sniff sniff. (Aw…don’t you feel bad for me? I’m like a retarded wandering puppy.)

ANYWAY…this new home will be great. I instantly have a wife and two kids.

It's what every woman wants....right?