A Surprisingly Sane Blog

The moving company is coming on Monday to pack up all our shit.  And when I say they “pack” for us, I mean they actually come into my home and daintily wrap all my knick-knacks and wine glasses in bubble wrap before placing them in boxes.  It’s part of the relocation package, and I’m not complaining at all.

Last time we moved, it was from a crappy little upstairs apartment into our house.  I was pregnant with Julie, and a baby practically escaped from my hoo-haw much too early on the stairs from the strain of moving all that stuff into our house.   Which still looked nearly empty by the end of the day, I might add.  I had been the one to pack up nearly everything, which wasn’t all that much, and I pretty much single-handedly unpacked all of it into our new home as well.

This time, it’s different.  Not only is the moving company responsible for packing all of our stuff up for us, but because they’re insured, if I happen to pack a box or two, they’re going to unpack and repack it to make sure it’s up to their standards.  For real.

My dance students (all adults, no kids… you’ll see why that’s relevant in a second) have all been really impressed that I can just spend the day in pajamas if I so wish while big, burly men unpack my cupboards full of office and school supplies and stick all that crap into boxes for me.  They’ve all told me how nice that’s going to be.

And you know what has poured out of my mouth nearly every time?

“Yeah, it’s really cool, except I keep thinking, ‘how the heck am I going to hide all of our sex toys and my naughty underwear and James’ Playboy collection and shit?’”.

Yes.  Yes, I say that.

And I keep kicking myself in the butt and telling myself, “Dude, Tamra, what is wrong with you?  You don’t just tell everyone that sort of thing!”.

And I am so horribly amused by my own lack of ability to censor myself that I decide to write about this on my blog, which gets an insane number of page hits a day so that all of my readers know we have a set of fuzzy handcuffs and a paddle and all kinds of fun toys hidden in our drawers.

Oh my gawd, someone stop me. The brutal honesty is pouring out of me like a bad case of the ultra-fiber-diet-induced shits and I just can’t hold it back.

Um, I’m dreaming that I just wrote that, right?  More coffee, please.

I asked the moving company if I had some *cough* personal items that I didn’t want seen, would it be okay if I packed them myself?  The sweet lady on the phone said, “Oh sure, just mark the box ‘private’ and they won’t open it.”

And all I could think was,  “Is going to matter?  How much you wanna bet I’ll still be standing there guarding that box with my husband’s ninja sword braced between my hands and warning the movers to stay away from our naughty box lest they be subjected to a pile of flavored lubes.”

Maybe by next week I’ll develop a little self control.

Current Mood: Alarmed