::cue Chariots of Fire music::
Can you hear it? Can you see it? Our slow-motion assembly line of packing, starting with a cat, who nudges the box toward the toddler, who shoves it toward the child, who carries it proudly to his mother, who lifts it gently to her husband, who piles it with precision into the trailer?
What? No? You CAN'T?!
Well, good, because that shit is NOT happening.
Plus One: I want to start loading the BIG! TRUCK! NOW!
Me: Well, we're not quite ready yet, buddy, and I think you--...
Plus One: RIGHT! NOW! I! SAID!
Me: Would you like to sleep in the truck, darling?
Him: Did you save the receipts for the packing tape? We can claim all this stuff...
Me: RECEIPTS?! [*SOB*] WHY DO YOU HATE ME?!
On that note, I'm guessing that I might be sparse around here for a few days. (Or months, depending on the length of my hospital stay.) In the meantime, know that I feel like a (genuine) ass for not reciprocating and responding to all my readers and commenters lately. It's at the top of my list once we are somewhat settled in TAY-HAAAS. (Or, you know, until I can get an unaccompanied visit from the hospital grounds.)