Leave My Door Open, Just a Crack (Please Take Me Away from Here)

It's 48 minutes to midnight on December 16th (contrary to the inevitable mis-date of this blog entry) and there's a basset hound on my bed and no less than four containers holding various knit-stuff surrounding me.

Which means, of course, that I'm moving within 48 hours. 

Hugs, Shopping Sprees and Packing Tape

I'm not sure why, but I simultaneously need to buy things, and be hugged today.

Welp. When did I become such a chick?

But seriously, I've got some leftover money burning holes in my pocket, and a desperate need of hoodies and other geeky gear. Along with the completely random, out-of-the-blue, longing for a hug. The type that you just kind of melt into, y'know? All warm and soft and snuggly and everything people imagine a hug to be, but isn't. They're always brief and sometimes stiff, necessary and not an actual desire- just a daily requirement of life. Wake up, hug your family members, walk out the door. Eat dinner, hug your wife, go to bed.

I don't want that. I want an actual hug- But then again, I want a lot of things that "should be", those dreamy ideals, and I'll never get them. So I'll be fine with the hugs I get, and I actually shouldn't complain, anyway.

Now, time to address the actual topic of this blog post:

Rolling Girl

I awake this morning to packing.

My mother has decided that she can stay here no longer, has rescheduled her surgery (that would render her immobile for a day) and today we are packing up whatever we may need for a few days. We're not leaving the house permanently; my dad works a 7 AM - 6 PM shift most days, so we'd be able to indulge in the "luxuries" of our house during the daytime.

Clothes, food, books, computers, etc. etc. . . We're packing it all up and leaving. We're also going to be meeting the real estate agent from a few days ago, and sign for the condo we checked out. If we can't move in right away, mom says, we'll get a hotel. She says she needs to breathe, and that dad's not letting her do that.

It's an interesting sensation, I guess. Packing up as if we were moving yet again. I've moved about 4 times in my life, but it's been years since the last one, and therefore I am blissfully out of shape when it comes to art of packing boxes, sharpies and tape. Tissue wrapping valuables is a skill I've long since lost. So I'm just going to jam as many clothes as I possibly can into my suitcase, grab a few books, all electronic gizmos and whatever remains of the Mountain Dew.

Clearly, my plan is fool proof.

Anyway, finger's crossed that the next time I write you, it will be in that condo with the hideous floral couches.