Welcome to my (our) hell.

Yup, confirmed. Looks like hell to me!

Moving should really be a four-letter word. I've used enough of them in one day to fill up a swear jar to fund a four year ivy league education. If you don't want to hear about the drama, turn back now -- but if you're like me and you can't miss out on watching a train wreck happen, plod on.

Our problem is we're people who feed off of each other's enthusiasm and dreamy ideas. Sure, we say, let's just take this dump of a house and we'll magically turn it into the cozy modern farmhouse/cottage/loft-feel (I'm still deciding on what to call it) house that will shelter us for many years.

REALITY CHECK:

Actually looking at how we're going to live out these next few weeks/months/years (PLEASE SAY IT'S NOT YEARS) and then living through them is going to be where I wonder if our cheese has truly slid off our collective crackers.

I mean, come on, we're living in a TEMPORARY trailer. (Side note: you'll notice I say TEMPORARY a lot because it makes me feel better. Give me some shred of hope.) It has no plumbing and is a box with three windows and a door -- oh, but it has air conditioning, because we be livin' the life here.

It was a struggle just getting the damn TEMPORARY trailer this week. Our supplier *cough*Britco*cough* are stubborn bastards who don't really understand the idea of customer service and returning phone calls. Although we do have the TEMPORARY trailer now, it was hit and miss for a while (great for your mental well-being), so I will begrudgingly give them some kudos for having it eventually show up. BUT. When it comes to our containers to house all of our worldly goods in, it's been a big, fat, gigantic FAIL for them. (Must go and add another $550 to the swear jar.) Those containers were supposed to arrive today, so we could move all of our worldly goods into them tomorrow, and not the stinky dump house. FAIL Britco, FAIL!!!

I'll spare you all the nitty gritty details, but it involved many, MANY phone calls, trips to the house, money being disbursed and then MANY more phone calls of a threatening manner...and these containers are to appear via winged unicorn chariot tomorrow morning. (Okay, do I have to explain that one? It's my version of telling a story without you actually seeing my arms flail.)

Combine that in with plastic wrapping every piece of furniture you want to see survive the containers, packing boxes, and trying to work at the same time...well you'll get a nice cocktail of crazy. So that will explain why I feel like a deflated balloon with an Advil in it.

(Oh, and did I mention that I dropped an entire six-pack of glass beer bottles on the kitchen floor today too? Yes, our house now smells like a brewery. Welcome to your new home new person!)