This is one of the few, simple, incontrovertible truths of the universe. Show me somebody who loves moving, and chances are it’s because they’re making money off of it and aren’t moving their own goddamn stuff.
For some reason that is completely unfathomable to a good little Jewish boy like myself, the shiksa girlfriend insisted on hosting a lavish Christmas dinner yesterday.
Now don’t get me wrong. I’m all about dinner parties. Cooking for friends (and having them survive the experience) is a heck of a lot of fun. Especially when the hospital bills are covered by insurance…
Okay, really. I like cooking. I even like cooking for others. And when Skye offered to do this massive Christmas dinner by herself since I was working, well, I wasn’t going to complain. But… hosting friends and expectations of sociability go out the window when stuff is piled shoulder height and you don’t know where the forks are.
Or why the shower’s been left running for 30 minutes with an occupant who had better be dissolved by this point or have a good explanation for wasting so much water.
Skye did cook a lovely meal, our guests were enormously tolerant of our barely-unpacked abode, and the only stomach pains were from eating too much. Nevertheless, moving still sucks.