Monday, March 7, 2011

Mi casa es su casa

Although Thomas Wolfe is famous for saying, “You can never go home again,” I think the Swedish gods of pop, Abba, actually said it best, “Walking through an empty room, tears in your eyes. This is how the story ends. This is goodbye.” In other words, I sold my house. And so, for the last two weeks, I’ve been packing thirteen years of memories into boxes… and driving them across town… then stopping for comfort food… after each and every load. No really, it’s true. Clearly this was more difficult than I thought it would be.

Don’t get me wrong, I knew it would be hard. I just had no idea it’d be ‘four trips to Burger King in one day’ hard.

And last Saturday, before my dinner run but after my breakfast and lunch ones, the kid at the drive-thru actually had the nerve to say, “Welcome back. Would you like to try the Jalapeño and Cheddar Burger, or do you just want the same thing you ordered an hour ago?” God hates me. And… because I felt like that stupid teenage boy was judging me, I lied and said, “Oh, this isn’t mine. I’m buying lunch for the people who are helping me move.” Too bad he caught me inhaling my extra-large onion rings in the parking lot while sobbing and listening to the soundtrack to Mamma Mia. So, I did what any forty year old woman would do. I flipped him off then texted my best friend to say, “How could I have gained ten pounds this week?” To which she immediately replied, “That’s what happens when you consume shit-food, hire movers, and rely on Dancing Queens to help you. You get to eat, drink, and be Marys while someone else does all the work. See you at 5:30 tonight.”

With that, I'm off to unpack. Now that things have settled down, I should be able to write more regularly. Talk to you next week.

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