What a Dump

Why is it that before you move, when you're sizing up the place and trying to evaluate the task before you, it seems pretty simple? Okay, we'll just pack up the desk and set it right up exactly as it was, and just slide the four-poster bed into the truck (no problem!) and what's a couple of refrigerators between friends? Is that the sound of my vertebrae cracking?

But it's not even the furniture that's the worst. It's the pissy little junk that finds its way into every corner: the dustbunnies that dwell furtively under the dresser, the socks that fell behind the chest where we too often pile our laundry, and the tiny plastic toys that Trailhead Kid dropped behind the chairs during the "Let's see what happens when we drop things from high up" phase. The list goes on ad infinitum.

It's strange how the mess of everyday living piles up during a move. There's a blob of mustard on the counter that has been taunting me since yesterday, but I cannot seem to find the time to wipe it up. There's a pile of toilet paper on the bathroom floor that Trailhead Kid liberated from its roll this morning, and a gaggle of empty soda cans littering the counter, little aluminum casualties of my overconsumption of diet soda.

But when I look at my new house, the elusive dream of clean living seems so close to fruition. The wood floors glow, and still lack pawprints. Trailhead Kid has not yet attempted to determine whether markers work on carpet as well as they do on paper. The prolific dustbunnies have not yet arrived. Even the deck is clean, fresh-smelling, and decidedly free of leaves. The clutter is still in the apartment, behind the chair that is waiting to be moved.

But California beckons. When faced with an incentive, even the spectacularly slothful Traihead can be motivated.

Time to go wipe up the mustard.