We are moving this weekend for two reasons; cheaper rent and more closet space. I am tired of the monthly heart palpitations that follow writing out our rent check and it would be nice to use our kitchen pantry for things other than storing my purses and winter boots, like, you know, food. Oh and our downstairs neighbor enjoys smoking cigarettes on the patio, in his underoos. He’s not terribly unfortunate looking but it’s still awkward. Also, he is dating a Kate Goselin doppelganger and it takes every ounce of willpower I have not to attack her reverse mullet with my kitchen scissors.
Which brings me to, packing; a necessary evil of which there is a laundry list of things I would rather do than put my shit, in an organized fashion, in boxes. My hate for packing started in college when having to sit down and put together a suit case for regular trips home interfered with my daily plans of binge drinking and going to the beach. Either I packed just minutes before I was supposed to be at the airport or while pre-gaming; alternating between chugging Keystones and throwing things in a suitcase. On more than one occasion I would get to my destination only to discover that I had packed just one shoe, a swimsuit top, my electric can opener, and a sweatshirt. This could go in the complete opposite direction of course, as demonstrated when my family vacationed in Mexico and I packed no less than 9 pairs of shoes and enough outfits for a month-long hiatus.
Moving when you’re single is bad enough, now there are three of us; but considering Rinn is roughly 1/8th the size of your average adult, one would think he’d have 1/8th the amount of stuff. That correlation is simply not true; babies have a ton of shit. I really don’t want to pack that shit, or any shit so being the professional procrastinator that I am, I decided my time would be better spent recording all the things I would rather do then pack. Enjoy.
Things I would rather do than pack:
Hug a cactus.
Wear Birkenstocks with socks.
Listen to Nickelback’s All the Right Reasons album while getting a brazillian.
Post my social security number on my blog and undoubtedly face identity theft. (Actually that might not be a bad idea, the thief would probably raise my credit score.)
Eat dryer lint.
Have my face eaten off by a homeless man on bath salts. Too soon?
Use a Neti Pot with boiling water.
Shave my legs using only my teeth.
Let Courtney Love babysit my child.
Vacation in Guantanamo Bay.
Watch a Ghost Hunters marathon with my husband.
Get a tooth pulled, with no Novocain.
Make out with a dingo.
Swallow push pins.
Cut off both of my thumbs, with a spoon.
Watch as William Hung and Rebecca Black record a duet.
Eat a pack of cold hot dogs.
Send all my clothes through a wood chipper.
Go on a date with Todd Akin
Side note: I read this list to my husband and he said two things: “I knew you liked GhostHunters.” (I’ll have to remember to go over the meaning of sarcasm with him.) And “We would move less if we just bought a house.” In the last year I’ve undertook an eighteen-year minimum responsibility to a child (we all know it’s more like a lifetime) and married a man till death shall do us part. Investing a long term real estate purchase is just not a commitment I’m willing to make at this point so to hell with it, bring on the boxes.