Sure, we've leased a great place in Houston and I'm psyched to get there, but moving bites. Stephen and I are tweaked to the extreme. Every discussion has the perfect ingredients for becoming a huge argument. Tonight we sat sunken in the couch, shoulder-to-shoulder, irritated that we were touching, watching the A’s and surfing the web figuring out if I should sell or donate my car. Blue Book says, “you can’t give it away.” We nearly killed each other because I forgot our current zip code and was certain he was using the wrong one to figure out the value of my car. I had to get up, retrieve a piece of mail, and admit that I was wrong.
For some reason I can't remember the details of when the movers are coming and when possible renters are scheduled to view our place. Today I spent 30 minutes hiding near the garbage cans out back while two women toured our apartment. They must have thought I was nutters. "You didn't tell me they were coming at 4:30." "Yes I did." "You're being a snot." Is it the Scottish accent or have I finally tuned him out? Is this result of moving or our one-year anniversary blues? Maybe both.
If only we could snap our fingers and be in Houston with all our stuff unpacked and ready for living. We're offloading tons of things via Craigslist. In fact, it is so easy to sell I am searching for items, “$50 or best offer for Scottish bloke with exotic accent and crazed look in his eyes, slightly used by hard-of-hearing, emotionally tweaked wife.”
