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Of course, I am speaking of our Pat Boone albums and my precious moments collectibles.

Issue Date: Monday, Jun. 21, 2004

Hi there, [waves]… my name is Miss Lazy McIdlebottom. The Mister and I are moving to a new abode in … hmmm, less than four days from now. Guess how much I have gotten packed. No really, go on. Guess.

The kitchen, the closet and most of the master bedroom you say?


As of Saturday night at approximately 9 o’clock, we had a bunch of trash moved to the front of the garage… the garage, which has been used for lo on this past year as a storage unit for my stuff. We also … hold on to yer britches… packed and taped up five, yes five boxes.


I’m not saying we haven’t given it the good old college try. We purchased 30 medium boxes, 10 large boxes, some of that poofy packing material for breakables, and a mattress bag from U-Haul for the California King bed… as well as a package (of three) and two single rolls of packing tape, a big honkin’ black marker, some labels (to mark each box with the room it should end up in) from Office Depot and the three buckets of vodka it will take for me to get through this move.

So, yeah… the squeamish tummy and the heartburn have taken hold of me pretty firmly. I do not take well to packing up all of my stuff into a herd of boxen (TM Brian Regan). I still haven’t gotten over the move from last year. Most of my stuff is still in boxes. I also have a king sized bed, a dresser, an ugly ass couch, three rows of my hanging clothes, my bathroom mats (and various bathroom accoutrement), a table/lamp combination, a desk and a bunch of other stuff all still in the garage. Has that garage been used for its’ intended purpose of housing a car? Nope. Not since Mister and I moved in. It has been used as a storage unit.

And all of my stuff smells like Quaker State.


I swear, for the first three months that we live in this new place, I am going to be flitting around like a fairy on crack, spraying everything that was housed in the garage with Febreeze™ like eleventyfour frillion times a day.

Ah, good times.

Actually, Mister gave me the bestest gift in the world yesterday afternoon. Whilst I was sitting in the living room floor rending my flesh from bone, wailing and gnashing my teeth, (Gnashing? Oh yes, loads of gnashing.) Mister agreed that we might need some help with the packing.

The Internet was consulted and we found a company that specializes in packing your stuff, moving it, and then unpacking it where you need it. Hmmm, that sounds like just the thing I need to allow the queasy alien to move out of my esophagus and on to greener pastures.

Clearly, I am a hothouse orchid that needs to be pampered and coddled lest I wilt. I might break a nail yanno.

We called the Gecko Moving Company and spoke with Teri… Terry… Tarrieoiux? Whatever. Some nice lady that spoke to Mister for about 10 minutes, even though it was Father’s Day and we are thoughtless bastards for interrupting family time and all that. Teri and Mister ran over the inventory list, all the big things that need to be moved… washer and dryer, check. Two king sized beds, check. Two bureaus and a dresser, check. Entertainment center, surround sound equipment for indoors and out, enough computers to fill the inventory list of Circuit City?… checkity, check-check bitches.

Teri told Mister that she would check (hee!) the schedule, work up a quote and call him back; he confirmed that she had his numbers… yep, and they ended the phone call.

We went out for a bite to eat, because in my state only a bona fide Gazebo burger would soothe the savage beast of anxiety.

While at Gazebo burger, Teri called. Quote for packing and unpacking (using their own boxes… BONUS!)… and a quote for the move. Hmmm… only 23 dollars over the original amount we budgeted for the move. Rockin.

I started to giggle.

I couldn’t help it. I felt a manic release of pressure. If this packing/moving company can pack/move us on Thursday or Friday, for the amount that Teri quoted us… then that leaves just the nervous packing of our things of questionable nature.

:: blink ::

Of course, I am speaking of our Pat Boone albums and my precious moments collectibles. Because nothing says “Jesus Loves You” more than some creepy ass, hydrocephalic, doe-eyed pair of freaks sexually assaulting a turtle. Am I right?

Yep. Going to hell. I know.

Annnyways. I just got off the phone with Mister. He hasn’t heard from Teri yet, so I am not going to cancel the movers I have scheduled for Thursday.

Am I still nervous? You bet your sweet ass I am.

Currently the back of my throat is in the state of… FIRE!

If they can’t pack/move us… mainly I’m worried about the packing part… then I have (all together now) three days to pack up our whole lives into 40 boxes from U-Haul.

I would never make it as a nomad.


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To understand this dear reward (above) at all, you must hie thee on and read gatsby’s grape ape entry and my comments.

And because of said comments he sent me my very own dream turtle in an email titled wee gift with these words attached, “my purple monkey is booked solid so i ordered you a tangerine turtle. hope he proves helpful.”

The Graphic Below Courtesy of Papernapkin.

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