The only one single lame thing about the move last weekend is that it has left me an invalid.
I basically broke my back in half, in two places and severed my spinal chord (no big deal) and I am consequently finding unpacking the labyrinth of boxes that I currently live in a bit of a challenge.
Rather than argue this morning, when Thing 2 and Thing 3 declined my offer to let them help me assemble a bookshelf and unpack plates,
I simply shut the kitchen door (*bliss* my kitchen has a door that shuts) and unpacked and washed all the dishes myself, while crooning Purple Rain along with the radio and licking up the ibuprofen flavoured tears that cascaded down my cheeks.
Also, I pretty much look like this now:
Which is cool.
After I finished the kitchen, cursed my children, and my boyfriend, and Phoebe – Look at her, all not helping and sleeping and shit:
Then I wished, chanted and prayed for a masseuse/chef/werewolf to come save me – then I realized that my house was in no shape to receive visitors (especially not the hunky, massaging, cooking kind), so I inhaled a bottle of pain killers and got my ass in gear.
And next thing you know, this:
Now looks like this:
So…. if I do receive a visit from a certain folkloric man/beast, he is sure to be seduced by (if not my hooded burlap cape) my inner
martyr machismo, which will, in turn, inspire him to pamper me endlessly and make hot sweet love to me under the moonlight – while he howls like the beast that he is and I cry…
“Owww. ouch my back. Ow. Stop”
“No seriously stop.”