Flaming Fur Balls and Other Moving Day Hazards

        Are you like me? Do you have a tendency to fall simply while standing still?  If so, then you will not find it at all odd that I fell off the very top of my couch this evening.  (If you have a good grip on your surroundings and a fair amount of balance for a human, you will just think I am a crazy person, but that's par for the course at this point.)  It wasn't like I sat, and then lost my balance.  That's practically an every day occurrence in my world.  I mean, I completely air-balled the couch.  All I could muster was some kind of a muffled "Aaarg!" as I plummeted ass over tea kettle into a sea of moving boxes.  (I think I might have a concussion because I just typed "wright" instead of "write" for a minute in that last sentence.)  Also, Eric asked me if I am having a stroke.  It could be worse, but I think it's safe to say that these are all bad signs.  Of what, I'm not sure.  Then again, if these are just the signs, I don't want to know what they are trying to tell me.

Now who looks like they're having a stroke?  (No offense to stroke victims.)

       By the way, sorry I haven't posted any hilarious blogs for a while.  I have been busy packing up all our junk and directing laborers on where to plop it down at our brand. new. CONDO.  

For those fools who haven't seen this already, this is the view from our balcony

        We've all moved before, and we all know it blows.  This move was no exception.  First, you have your packing.  In this instance, we had all our crap to pack up while my little sister was living in our second bedroom taking up valuable space.  This resulted in boxes piled almost to the ceiling in the living room, which wouldn't have been a big deal except for I have a facially challenged cat who kept climbing the boxes and either trapping herself in them or knocking them over.

        One night we had soup for dinner from Met Market (kitchen packed up- obvi.) Eric set a steaming bowl of soup to cool on a box dangerously close to where Kittles was Indiana Jonesing her way across the living room.  

        Me: You better move that soup.

        Eric: It's fine.

        Me: It's not fine! The cat's going to knock it over!

        Eric: The cat is not going to knock it over.  She's not even near the soup.

        Me: She will knock it over! If she knocks that soup over and burns herself, we are divorced.

        Eric: Nicole, she is not going to spill the soup.

        Me: Fine.  Do you want to deal with a burnt cat!?

        Imagine, of course, that my voice is getting screechier and screechier by the millisecond.  I would also like the reader to note that I often argue with mute points.  Of course Eric doesn't want to deal with a burnt cat (and yes, it should be burned cat, but burnt sounds so much more severe.)  Nobody wants a burnt cat.  He did, however, move the soup; though I would like to point out it was only after my mute point was made- not after the threat of divorce.

Et tu, Eric?

        If any of you ever move in the near future, I would highly recommend a Gerber knife.  My dear friend Joe has given me more than one, actually, but the one that has come in most handy this week is...

This bad boy

        If you are an individual that thinks that pocket knives are for hicks and boy scouts, then you, Sir, are sadly mistaken.  As you can see by my delicate hands, I am neither a hick nor a scout of any kind; thus, rendering the Gerber Dime a renaissance knife for a man or woman of equal caliber.  (Shouldn't Gerber be paying me right now?)  It's true, though! With this one tool, I have opened many a box, filed my nails, and trimmed a hang nail.  Anyway, I highly recommend it as it also includes many other valuable features, not the least of which is a tool that can help one effortlessly open the hard plastic on packaging of, say, a new Gerber knife.

        My sister recently had some advice for me as I was bemoaning the fact that I am not one of those likable people that everyone wants to be friends with.  I just don't have that magnetic personality.  I more have the "f- you- if- you're-an-idiot- personality." (You know the one?)  In fact, many people tell me, "I thought you were an asshole when I first met you."  Usually, when a conversation gets to that point with another individual, they have peeled my onion layers to discover that I am not really an asshole; I just make a lot of faces, and if I don't like something or someone I will make it clear.  Some people think that makes me an asshole, but others find it endearing.  My sister's words of wisdom were as follows:

        "Yes, but Nicole, if you were one of those really really overly nice people, you wouldn't be you."

        Right.

        I feel like in some strange way it applies to the whole difficult/wonderful experience of purchasing our first home and moving into it.  Yes, there has been drama.  Yes there have been near death experiences for both myself and poor Kittles.  Yes, we have packed, moved, and unpacked until  we can't stands no more.  But if this had magically happened without a hitch overnight, with no meltdowns to be had, it just wouldn't be ours.

In case you haven't seen me lately, I am not actually bald.  I only play a bald person in this photo.