The large truck pulled up to my house at exactly 9:27 yesterday morning. I know this because I looked at the clock after getting my son to sleep for his morning nap.
Apparently we had 183 boxes of household goods.
I thought we'd have around 50. Of course, the dryer counted as two.
Don't ask. I spent the whole day trying to figure it out and I have a headache.
Or maybe that's from my moldy fridge.
I nearly fell over dead after opening it. It was like a bad chemistry lab. Or Erin Brockovitch's house.
Regardless, our house is now full of shit. Ha. Full of our shit. The shit that my daughter has no memory of, so every box of toys is like a whole new world. And thank goodness they packed that empty bottle of baby food. And the two nasty kitchen rugs that reek of dog. And the 14,932 toys I could have sworn I threw out.
Note to self: Never leave your husband with the packers.
And it's so great that the movers clearly mark all the boxes -- like the one that said "hats." Try "helmets." Or the one that said "toys." Try "chairs." (not even close there).
I was really hoping the one marked "Boos" was accurate.
Yeah. No such luck on that one.
So just when I couldn't scrub another spot of mold, a friendly neighbor drove by.
"Can I bring you dinner?" she asked.
"Absolutely," I said, not even thinking twice about being demure and waving her off with a kind word of thanks. I've been eating Hormel meals for the last four days and I'm tired of everything tasting like soup. It still scares me that they require no refrigeration. How is that possible?
And so she arrived later this evening with scrumptious pesto pasta, a salad, homemade cookies, and beer.
I nearly cried.
We talked about our kids, the weather, the neighborhood, and our work. She's a writer. So am I. She's a culture and arts writer. So am I. Well, if you call dildos culture and arts.
We hit it off, and vowed to meet again for a playdate. "Come over and have some wine," she said.