One of those mornings...

We finished packing the moving truck on Tuesday with the help of some strong and handsome friends.  I'm lucky to be surrounded by such nice and good-looking people, particularly ones with excellent spatial reasoning skills.  You guys know who you are.

Wednesday morning I packed up the Jeep with the essentials that I would be taking South.  A suitcase of clothes, my KitchenAid mixer of which I am overly protective, my jasmines and lavenders, Pup and her accoutrement, and my backpack stuffed with the laptops, my stats book, surgery reference books, and cell phone charger.  I was prepared.

Except  DH had forgotten to pack a few things.

Thus I added two coolers, a Rubbermaid container, a pair of antlers, a set of downhill skis, a broom, and a tree stand to the interior.  I strapped the kayak to the roof.   I tossed the cable box we had to return, the non-functioning laptop we had to recycle, and the library books we had to donate into the passenger seat. I was prepared.

Except Pup and I had nowhere to sit.

So I rearranged the plants, tucked her bed on top of the pile of electronics in the passenger seat, and put my lavender in my lap. She could barely fit, but we were just going 30 minutes away. I knew I would be able to move things into the Jetta for the trip to DH's parents.   We would be fine.

Except we got stuck in construction on the interstate.

I was hot, I was sore, and I was wearing the same grimy clothes I had been the day before because of a packing error on my part.  I had just scrubbed the entire apartment. I hadn't eaten yet. I was gross and cranky, y'all.  I just wanted to get to our friends' house, shower, and change.

One of the boxes kept shifting when we went around corners causing it to bang into the window switches.  This meant that at various times the windows would roll down, and I couldn't get my hand under the box to roll them back up immediately.  Annoying, but not that big of a deal.  I had one last glass of sweet tea that I had squished into the cup holder.    It was the only thing holding me together - the thought of how wonderful that cold sweet liquid was going to be when we got to K. and J.'s house.

Except someone had fed Pup pizza and ribs the night before.

She chose the moment when we were stuck in construction and the back window was rolling down on its own to stand up on her little bed, look at me, and throw up.

Everywhere.  In the cable box.  On my plants.  On her bed.  On the gear shift.  And in my last glass of tea.

Adios Amiga

I had a lovely post about mud pies all ready to go, but I find myself not in the mood for frivolity tonight. J., one of my closest and dearest friends, is moving to Chicago tomorrow. She's going for all the right reasons - love, career, better pizza. I can't say that I blame her. Instead, I blame her fiance. He had to go and be all smart and successful and charming and love her to distraction so she would move away. Stupid boys.

J. and I met our first year of medical school. She was my level-headed conscience when I came up with ridiculous ideas that had very good odds of getting me kicked out of school. She was also my conspirator in crime when I had ridiculous ideas that had lower odds of getting us kicked out. (Reference the "kick me sign" story and the "syphilis cookies" idea.) We solved a thousand crosswords together in the back of class, watched movies when we were supposed to be listening to lecture, pulled peanut brittle, and made caramels at Christmas. We cried over the same sappy movies and laughed at the same jokes.

She ventured south for me, and I braved going outside in Northern winters for her. We explored Spain together. We had dinners of goat cheese, baguettes, and honey; drank cava and vino in great restaurants and dives. We shared a love for dark chocolate and a hatred for monuments under construction.

She rescued me from myself and from the airport police. She has more shoes than I do, which is a feat unto itself. She emails me Pearls comics when they remind her of me or to cheer me up. (I am always Rat. You would think with my sunny optimistic outlook and eternal faith in humankind I would be Pig. You would be delusional.)

I will miss her terribly. I know it's not like she's moving to Mars....but it's close.

Moving up....21 Stairs

I consider myself to be a pretty strong female. Biceps of steel, thighs of titanium, abs of sterling silver. My abs have recently been downgraded from platinum.

Twenty one steps at a forty seven degree incline. My new apartment is determined to prove me a weakling.

I have now made the trip up those stairs carrying a couch, two sets of mattresses, five pieces of heavy furniture (including the stupid armoire with a curved top so there are no hand holds), six ice chests full of food (frozen and fresh), and countless loads of books and miscellaneous materials that I am pretty sure I am donating before we move again.

I am sore in muscles that I knew I had but had no intention of ever using. I have blisters. I have tripped twice and skinned my knee when my darling pup wrapped her leash around my legs as we were headed up the stairs. I hate those stairs.

However, I love the new flat. Having an oven big enough to hold a full size cookie sheet is totally worth the sore muscles.