On my best day, I’m not the best blogger.  On my worst day, I’m pretty terrible.  I struggle with finding time to write, and I feel an ever-increasing pressure to perform to impossibly perfect standards that no human should ever have to hold themselves up to.

Full-time job?  NO EXCUSE.  Moving?  EVEN LESS OF AN EXCUSE.

So instead of a writing post, I’m going to wax (not) poetic about moving, and the stress of moving, because why not?

Which is how I find myself staring at a stack of boxes — innocuous, you’d think, I swear — that seems to be the end of me.  I was on a good roll unpacking.  I had built a mountain of boxes into a strange, modern art-esque jumble on my front porch.

This picture came from the pyramid of tightly packed, perfectly taped boxes that were stacked in front of my dresser.  But see, the cats would play on them every… fucking… morning… like they were WWII soldiers storming the beaches of Normandy in the glossy, digital textures of my husband’s war games.  They would launch themselves at the flapping tape and rake their claws into the soft surface of box flaps.

At 5 am?  THAT IS NOT A TIME, CATS.  But to them, it is.  It is time to scale the great pyramid and conquer it with needle-sharp precision.  So the first thing I did after returning home from my trip was to take down the cats own personal Normandy.

I’ve been home five days.  That’s a nice accomplishment for being home for five days.  Except in my mind, I need to have done more.  Mostly because I am freaking out about how close Thanksgiving looms and how I am not at all remotely ready for guests.  So there’s a giant pile of boxes — now that the cats have had their personal attack zone removed, they’re trying to tell me that they’re sweet and innocent and only want snuggles at night in order to take out my motivation to finish the unpacking — in the middle of my entryway.

Last night I came home ready to rumble.

Sat on the couch to finish an episode of Homicide Hunter and found myself surrounded by cats and a husband.

I swear.

The cats are in collusion with the husband to keep us from working — or that’s the insanity I tell myself to make myself feel better for doing nothing.

Once I get the giant pile removed (read: unpacked), then that’s the last really BIG pile.  There are other boxes… but… I can safely ignore those… I need to get other things ready for Thanksgiving.

Have I mentioned how much I hate moving?  I HATE IT WITH A PASSION.

I am never moving again.

Whatever insanity lead to this moment, I will remind myself should I ever think it again.

Moving sucks.

Oh, to end, here’s a picture of those sweet angels that make my life hard (and so much more awesome):

Those little Santa penguins are so awesome, as a side-note.  Got them at Buc-ee’s when I was in Texas.  Anyway, I think I’ve rambled enough.  This post has nothing to do with writing or coffee or anything else.  I’m shamelessly using it to vent about moving and unpacking.

(And because I’ve been told I need to have an online presence and I suck at blogging.  So everyone gets shitty posts about packing and unpacking and all that.  This is what my life is like these days. XD XD)

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