So I feel like moving. Just up and go. To where, I have no idea. No particular reason, either. Just have that wild hair.
So I start looking around my house. Trying to figure out what all has to be done so I can move. In each room, I imagine how many boxes that I would have to pack. Since I have a two-story, I would also have to carry all of that crap downstairs.
As I enter each room, my pack of dogs is following me wondering what the hell I'm doing walking into each room, standing there, checking out all the stuff, then walking to the next room.
I actually start dreading walking into the next room. Granted this was only after the first room, but still. Then I thought about hiring someone to do it. Then I thought about the cost of hiring someone. Now, I could pay my daughter's friends with food. But that would mean one of two things:
1) I would have to cook. A lot. I mean A LOT. So, nah, don't wanna do that.
2) I could order food. Easier, of course, but I would have to buy out a restaurant. Seriously.
Also add to that the fact that they are seriously slow and make everything into a game or party. Yeah. That's not gonna happen.
So back to the thought of hiring professionals. I call one mover place. I would have to black market my kidney and possibly part of my liver as well.
After all the stress, I pour a glass of wine, walk outside, and start with the dogs and their tennis balls. I think I will remain here for a while longer. Just the thought of moving voluntarily stressed me out. When I actually do move, I'm ordering a case of wine and putting myself up in a hotel. And the dogs? They'll go to their own hotel.
Maybe I should just order the wine and do all the other stuff and forget about moving....