We have entered the traumatic brain injury and germ spawn stage of moving.

I'm not dead.  But I might as well be, because moving BLOWS.  As in, my head is going ka-boom and dripping gray matter all over the wallz.  It's gross.

Which brings me to my second point:  Moving is DISGUSTING.  But not until you move all the furniture and you realize that child boogers have been doing dirty things with the dust bunnies, reinforcing my belief that NOTHING GOOD happens in dark corners.  Ever.

To rectify this situation, we have an army of trucks and trailers camped out at our house and charged with the task of making it clean and shiny and livable by humans (and not amoebas).  I can't be sure, but I think they are planning to torch the place tomorrow, and simply rebuild it, because that seems to be the easier choice.  Or, possibly, they have found a dead body somewhere in the house--probably the shoe fairy, because I have been looking for her remains ever since it became obvious that the kids slaughtered her. 

Also, I am *slightly* on edge because we are in the final weeks of American Idol, and this is a bad, BAD time to be without a DVR-like recording system.   Tonight, for example, I took it old school and recorded on an actual VHS tape.  FOR REAL.   And then, I had to make a real-quick-like-switch-a-rooney at 8 p.m, for the season finale of The Office, and it's still completely possible that I sent a space shuttle full of teenagers into orbit while also recording MASH re-runs. 

That was a Space Camp shout-out, btw.  And that robot responsible for sending those kids into space was totally using the exact same VHS machine from 1984.  FOR REAL.

I digress.

The worst part about moving, as it has been revealed throughout this process?  F-ing LAUNDRY.  There is crap at the bottom of that pile that I haven't seen since I was 6-years-old, NOT KIDDING.  It has traveled space and time to make me miserable.  But as we are also amidst a seasonal change, our clothes must be washed and then sorted amongst no less that 47 different piles for proper storage.  And those piles are located in one of 6 locations:  Home, In-laws, the Pod, the garage, the dining room or that damn space shuttle with the teenagers that took off when I was in the 5th grade.  Inevitably, my current winter clothing has been thrown into a box with newborn onesies and a few canned goods, and this is sure to make my brain explode ALL OVER AGAIN when I unpack in the new house. 

The End.