We're going to do it. We are going to get me moved into Mr. B's house.
Stop laughing! I mean it, this time. We really are.
Sure, I've been talking about it since shortly after we started dealing with The M-word, and here we are, ten months later, still going back and forth between the two houses. They're only three miles apart, but it's still a pain, trying to remember who has underwear where and which house has the new bottle of cumin*.
Oh, sure, I've tried to re-frame it, dubbing Mr B's house the City Home and mine the Country Home in a lame attempt to make it seem like a lifestyle choice, but all the lipstick in the world ain't gonna make this pig any less of a hassle**.
It's not like we've been making no progress. We've had some work done on Mr B's house to get it ready, and we are maybe one weekend away from calling it ready.
But then we must face the real problem (cue scary music): My Garage. The garage where I threw the boxes I threw everything into when I finally moved the last of my crap out of the Ex's house a year ago.
Sorting those out sounds like tons of fun, doesn't it?
The alternative is to drag all of that old crap (literally and figuratively) over to Mr B's house. Frankly, I'd rather not. I'd like to sort it out and be done with it, IYKWIM.
I just don't want to actually have to do it.
But I am going to do it. We are going to get moved, and we are going to get it done by the end of next month, which, coincidentally, marks the beginning of our record-breaking Second Anniversary Season.
Srsly. I'm not shitting -- it's going to happen this time. Start the clock. This game's on!
* BTW, it's always 'the other one'
** No, I have no idea what that's supposed to mean.