So I’m moving.
Have I mentioned that?
Back to Chicago.
I’m actually not sure that I have, because it’s all happened quite quickly, so if I hadn’t told you before, my apologies. I think I packed my brain away in one of those boxes over there. I hope I remembered to wrap it with protective newspaper like I did with my teacups.
On Saturday I had some big plans to get more boxes and pack up more of the massive amounts of stuff I had no idea I accumulated in five and a half years or could actually fit into a studio apartment, but there you go. You think you’ve been living in a small shoebox that can’t hold more than a few books and a pot or pan or four, and then you discover that you’ve been living in what turns out to be Mary Poppins’ carpetbag. Excuse me while I move my coatrack and potted fern.
But my plans were thwarted—ah, gee, damn, pisser, because I do so love packing so much—when what I thought was going to be a break for brunch and a movie with The Swede turned into a wine tour party extravaganza complete with The Swede, my girlfriends, and a rented pimped out SUV.
Packing could wait. Virginia wine country could not. And neither could making a few more memories with my DC family.