At the moment I am struggling to focus on my keyboard through a Nyquil-induced haze that is preventing me from achieving my usual rapier wit and exquisitely expressive narrative skills. Forgive me while I look about and think to myself, in a somewhat cliche and mixed-metaphor-ridden fashion, "Be careful what you wish for, because at some point all the Things you think you want will happen all at once and you'll probably have a dreadful headcold - which you will generously and with great maternal love share with the children - so the whole mess will end up biting you in the butt."
And so it has. More of the Things have resolved (these include Brainiac's securing gainful post-graduate school employment and the fixing of a date for our persons - if not our stuff - to move permanently to The Other House), a fact that we would be celebrating if not for the astonishing amounts of mucous being collectively produced here at the current house.
The first visit from a moving company representative came today to give us an estimate of costs for transporting our rather motley collection of sprung-from-a-relative's-basement furniture to The Other House. (That he was nearly a half hour late does not inspire great confidence in his company's abilities in this area.) When I asked how long we could expect the 239 mile transport would take, he shrugged and said, seemingly surprised that I might consider the question at all, "Oh, three or four days. Or maybe six. Definitely not more than a week."
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