I Think We're Going to Need a Bigger Truck

I move a lot.

No, really. I mean, like, a LOT a lot.

To be precise, I have moved approximately 17 times over the course of my lifetime and a whopping 8 times since the year 2000. My father claims that he's erased a hole in my page on his address book, and I'm quite certain he's not joking. Just as an FYI for those of you who haven't figured it out yet, I'm definitely a girl whose address you want to write in pencil. 

Some people like a new car every few years... perhaps an upgraded computer. I like those things too, but I really love me some empty boxes from Publix and the musty, dank smell of a moving truck. Luckily Ryan's also got a pretty good case of itchy feet, so at least I know I'm not alone in having to change the address on my checkbook every twelve months or so.

It should surprise no one at this point that we're about to move, yet again. This time, though, we both have hopes that we'll actually stay put for a few years. Funny how getting older does that... you stop thinking about where you might want to go next and start putting down some roots. (Also, you can't get hammered, go to bed at 3 AM and be all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed by 8 AM, but that's another (very sad) story altogether.) 

Mind you, we're under no illusion that we'll stay in Florida forever. Once we start having kids (sooner rather than later), we'll want to be closer to family. Besides, neither of us are enamored with South Florida. (Why does Mother Nature give us the dubious gift of 90-degree weather in October? Why?) Nevertheless, it's a good move and, really, not very far down the road. We're just transplanting ourselves a bit further south to make both of our commutes easier and, in Ryan's case, significantly shorter. (Oh, did I not mention I finally found a job in August? Well I did! And I love it!)

Anyway, with all this moving, you'd think I'd be good at it, right? I mean, I should practically be able to do this in my sleep by now, yes?

Nope!

We have so much crap it's ridiculous... I'm surrounded by half-packed boxes... the movers will arrive next Friday and I don't even want to think about what needs to be done to the kitchen and our bedroom to get them in move out condition.... aannnddd yet clearly there's no time like the present to start a new blog entry!

Procrastination, thy name is Meagan.

While we're on the topic, I have no idea how we wound up with this much stuff. Actually, that's not entirely true. I am a pack rat... always have been... but I went all minimalist when I moved to Bulgaria two years ago. When we returned we had generous family and friends come out of the proverbial woodwork to foist off kindly donate their belongings to us and - just like magic! - we have a ton of really awesome shit again. I don't mean to sound ungrateful because I genuinely am excited by this. I like balls of foil for the cats to play with and authentic carved bowls from Samoa and seashells that Ryan gives me at the beach and birthday cards from 1984. Basically, I like mementos and knick knacks and homes that feel lived in. But when you pair this with the fact that Ryan is compelled to keep every single receipt he has ever received... and I am convinced that - why yes! of course someday I will really need the 250 pages worth of emails from 1998 - 2000 that I wrote/received and subsequently printed so I would feel like I had my friends and family with me when I joined the Peace Corps, then you have the makings of a really f*cking good episode of Discovery Channel's Clean Sweep.

Or else the kind of nightmare that causes Two Guys and a Truck employees to spontaneously quit and run screaming out the front door. I guess we'll find out which on Friday!

Here I would usually post a picture of the shambles that is currently our living room, but I can't find my camera, so you're just going to have to trust me. We are so going to have to buy these unsuspecting (but courageous!) movers a lot of beer or possibly a vacation to Italy to express our sincere apologies and undying gratitude.