Living Like a Vagranat

Isabella has a shit ton of clothes

We close on our house.  On Friday.  Which means I've been insanely busy trying to get my house packed up.  Packing with a toddler preschooler is fun.  It's not your traditional sense of fun, like monopoly, water balloons, or watching your drunk friend fall down on the dance floor, but it's more the type of fun that sends you to the bathroom to literally tear out your hair and has you crying for a cup that is at least 40% alcohol by volume at noon.

Anastasia Steele has her inner goddess and sub-conscious, whelp I have my inner type A and right now she's spazzing out in the corner and convulsing into her merlot.  I think it might have something to do with the fact that I'm surrounded by boxes and bins, tissue paper, packing tape, and garbage bags.  My floors are dirty and I feel like I'll never finish.

The cherry on this cupcake is that while we've managed to sell our lovely home, we have not found one to live in which means that we are preparing to be homeless.  However, the thought of their daughter, grand daughter and son in law living on the streets of a New Jersey suburb proved too much for my parents to bear so they are letting us live with them for the summer until we can find something and close on it.

The fun continues.

I'm 30.  I've been living on my own for the past 6 years.  I'll be spending the summer with my parents.  My parents whom I love, but really?  Really?  This is happening.  Good bye to privacy and to days that are unencumbered by questions.

This is my mom: "Are you hungry?  Thirsty?  Cold?  Do you want me to open a window?  Do you want tea?  What are you doing today?  Where are you going?  Who is going with you?  Where is that?  What time will you be home?  Do you want me to come with you?  Did you pack a sweater for the baby?"  Albeit this stems from love, but it was annoying when I was 10, 16, and I'm certain that it's still going to be annoying now.

This is my dad:  He'll be at the far end of the table on his computer, I'll walk into the opposite end of the kitchen for a drink, "Oh am I in your way?"  "No Dad"  "Are you sure because I can just move.  Here let me move my stuff."  "Dad I'm just getting a drink and going to watch TV"  "No it's ok I moved."

This is my real life.

I figure most of my summer will be spent in a drunken haze, looking for houses, and taking advantage of live in baby sitting.

It's the packing right now that I'm worried about the most.  We're still living here until Wed/Thursday so I still need some stuff (like toys, cooking junk, and clothes), but I'm fighting the urge to pack everything that we own in boxes and be done with it.

I hate being so unorganized and chaotic.  It makes me frazzled.

Deep breaths.  I can do this.  I think.

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