The thing about moving is, you need your stuff. But not everything. Just a few things out of each box, because everything else doesn’t have a place yet, and if you brought it in, it would just sit awkwardly in the middle of everything until a) the MOG threw it away or b) you stop noticing it, and keep your Conroe Tigers Senior beer stein on the counter for a couple of years, maybe eventually putting loose change, guitar picks, and random screws and paper clips in it.
I need my STUFF. Only, not.
So we have boxes full of things in the garage, and are currently unpacking 1-2 boxes a day and assimilating their contents into our daily lives. Other boxes are just being ransacked, and having one key item removed, leaving the forsaken remainder staring wistfully from within, packing tape hanging askew.
I know we’ll get most of it done, and then we get to get to the funner part, repainting the “orphanage green” stairwell, and various crafty projects I am envisioning. The reasons I am a little stressed about it are a) we might never unpack it, and our garage will just stay in its fallen state forever and b) there is a MOUSE.
I know, it was too good to be true. Perfect house, albeit quite a bit quirky on its random assortments of crown molding and various other “special features”. The other night, as I sat eating my sad, sad excuse for guacamole from Price Chopper, I saw something dart across the floor. I actually found myself hoping it was a cockroach. I was so alarmed I squealed like a little girl, and then remained frozen on the couch until Han and Richy came home. I tried to break it to them gently.
“I have TERRIBLE news,” I explained
” We have….a…… MOUSE.”
(laughing at ME noises, explanations of the goodness and friendliness of “mouses”)
“Mouses are not bad,” Han explained. Imagine my relief.
Lucky for Mighty Mouse, I haven’t seen him again. Because if I do, I will break Hannah’s little heart and destroy him.