As you know, I try to only say positive things about Dennis in my blog. But I'm going to make an exception now, because I just have to vent about the fact that my husband is the worst mind-reader ever. Seriously. Through this whole moving project, he has insisted that I need to use words* to tell him what elaborate plans I have put together. Just thinking it and deciding that it's a done deal is somehow not enough.
*I suspect he would also accept mime, of course. Help! I'm trapped in a moving box! And walking against the wind!
I do this a lot; I over-think something to the point that I'm certain that everyone else has been along for the mindfuck ride and has come to the same conclusion. And then I get all confused when they look at me like my eyebrows are on fire.
Actually, Dennis gets me better than anyone else on the planet; he can usually figure out what is happening inside my head. I just haven't been making that especially easy lately because I'm So! Full! of! Ideas! many of which are not possible due to basic laws of physics. A sofa and a chair cannot occupy the same physical space, for example.
One of the more entertaining aspects of moving is trying to remember what caused the various bruises on my body. My extreme lack of both grace and upper-body strength means that there is much bashing things into my body and bashing my body into things. There's a weird perfectly round bruise on my thigh which probably has a good story.
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