no idea where my razor is

Steve and I are now residents of Cranbury, (which is really East Windsor); it’s like saying you’re a resident of Yardley but secretly knowing that you really live in Morrisville. Friday was our big moving day. It went about as well as it could have considering I packed most of my stuff the night before.

I hauled all of my clothes up in garbage bags, Angelina style, because all my clothes were dirty. I own just enough clothes/underpants to get me through two months of outfits before I am really forced to do laundry. And of course, knowing that I would be moving into a place that has en suite laundry (is that something Americans say, or is that like a Canadian thing? I watch too much HGTV to know what’s what anymore) made me put off doing laundry even longer and led to me washing clothes in my bathroom sink. So by the time we moved, not one piece of clothing was clean. Which didn’t faze me until 11pm Friday night when I hopped out of a well deserved/needed shower and realized that I had nothing to put back on. Then 30 minutes after Steve leant me clothes I remembered that I had no idea where my toothbrush was or my hairbrush. Now, three days later, I still have no idea where my razor is. Lesson learned.


After two nearly sleepless nights I decided to drain my bank account on curtains yesterday. After perusing the isles of Target for the better part of my evening I concluded that there is very little reason that anyone should ever have a horribly decorated house. The big box stores do it all for you, all you have to do is buy coordinating sets of things: pillows to match the curtains, serving ware that goes with the napkins and make sure that every big piece of anything you buy or paint is done in a neutral color.


Clearly, the cats have adjusted to the move better than Steve or me.

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