Totally Whelmed

Totally Whelmed

The move went better than the last two—much quicker, much cheaper, much closer in distance. We loaded and unloaded 80-some boxes and 10 pieces of furniture in record time—two hours and fifteen minutes—with just two movers, three dollies, H.E., and me.

I wore ripped jeans for the occasion. My butt knows the drill.

But the cleaning of the old place nearly killed me. The day job on Monday morning finished me off. I’d taken Friday off, and while I was gone, none of the work moved, and today, as if to say, “We know you’re wondering how in the world can you be any more overwhelmed than you already are, and well, we can answer that,” work dealt me a bad hand. I learned that I have to completely redo the work I’d already redone at least a couple of times, and we are crazily behind in production. Yippee.

I’m way past overwhelmed. I am completely and utterly, totally whelmed. I looked that word up, and it actually exists; I’m totally whelmed by that fact, too.

At least I’m officially moved out of the old place. That’s one less place to clean. The new place, however, will take a long while to get settled. I now live above Mrs. Wilberforce, so I don’t want to move boxes around after dark, when I imagine she might be sleeping.

I can’t wait to get back to my usual underwhelmed self.

Oh, my frickin’ gawd. Turns out that’s a word, too.

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