It has been hot hot hot here in South Carolina and even though my pampered, indoor, air-conditioned cats don’t know what it’s like to live outside a constant 68-degree comfort zone (except that time we wouldn’t turn the AC on), they still like to dramatically drape themselves over furniture as if the world (or life) is ending.
Happy last Caturday in South Carolina, y’all. Next weekend I’ll be up to my eyeballs in cardboard boxes, sweat and probably some tears as I attempt to move my life (Ralph, Weaz and all) up to Charlotte.
Moving is the worst, isn’t it? It is. I’ve pretty much been an inconsolable, dramatic, sensitive, broken down version of myself the last couple months since “The Move” decision was made. I understand people’s interest in and concern for what’s going on, but I promise you I will tear up if you ask me about it. And then you’ll feel uncomfortable. It’s best to just leave it alone until I get through next week. Then I’ll be all giddy about the new place. I’m just not there yet.
I can’t tell who hates moving more, me or the cats. Considering RALPH POOPED IN STEW’S CAR last year when we moved, I’d say she wins for least excited about next weekend. I, on the other hand, have no plans to poop on anything. Promise.
In case you’re curious, Waldo goes with Stew. He’s definitely his dog. Plus, this is how Ralph feels about him:
I’m off to see if I can get anybody up to help move this packing process along. I don’t see it going well…