A tornado has hit my home. My son
Sam is home from college to move the contents of his room into a 10 foot ft. truck and haul it back to Washington D.C. on Monday morning. I am trying like mad to to get him to take other major items off my hands and into the 15 foot behemoth truck that barely made it up the driveway. The truck rental place didn't have any more 10 footers so we're loading into a truck roughly the size of my studio apartment in New York.
After two trips to the pack and store place to get boxes, tape, rope and mattress covers, Sam and his brother and I are making, er, progress? Laurel and Hardy come to mind.
Today, thank god, a testosteronista friend of Sam's will join the packing and loading party, because frankly, I'm too old for this. In fact, I'm so freaked out by how big our moving job is, I'm thinking of having several rooms packed by my mover. Downsizing is hard. We're beat. And where, pray tell, is Mex? Nowhere to be seen.
In the midst all of this shlepping, we're celebrating G's confirmation at The Temple. The exlaws are up from Florida and it's been just jolly, Ollie.
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