Sweaters, Wardrobes, Moves, and Tents . . . it's all here, folks . . .

It's actually chilly today.
Well, for here . . . which makes it about sixty degrees.  I think that's like a summer temperature in Canada . . . maybe . . . I have no real idea. The point is that, in Florida, I have an excuse to wear Black Hoodie and not look like an idiot. If I REALLY wanted to, I could probably get away with a scarf, even . . . we only get to wear cold-weather clothes like six days out of the year so we over compensate . . .  that and we're sincerely cold at sixty degrees. Forty degrees just about kills us.
ANYWAYS . . . The point is that I love Black Hoodie. He's my favorite. About six years ago, I found a black hoodie in the lost and found at my theme park job, and, honey, I wore that sucker threadbare until last year. Last year, I bought a replacement . . . and I reiterate: I love Black Hoodie. I just do. Part of the reason I'm excited about moving somewhere that's between 50-70 degrees all year? I get to wear Black Hoodie all the time.
It's the little things, people.

FYI, when the hubs found out my favorite article of clothing was "male," there were almost issues. He got this scary glint in his eye and I worried for the safety of my beloved. I really did.

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Along, that same line . . . some days, I just don't care what I look like . . .
I wake up, throw on a tank top and button up a sweater, slip on some flats and foundation, and I go to work. Hair wet, glasses, and no jewelry. I’m hidden most of the day in a corner cubby in the back, I’m tired of the clothes in my closet (THANK YOU, PINTEREST--GAH), and waking up thirty minutes earlier to doll myself up for the gray and maroon walls of my cubby just doesn’t seem worth it. Maintaining the love affair with my mattress, however, is so totally worth feeling homely. I mean, really.

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Fellow in a pink button-up shirt came by to poke into every one of our cabinets and deep dark secrets to give us an estimate on the move.
I’ll let that sink in.
First off, this involves a stranger wading through the disaster that is my kitchen cupboard, which all the pots haphazardly stacked and the rice cooker in a compromising position with the Tupperware. Oh, and then our closets. I’m not even going to get into that. It doesn’t matter how much laundry I wash and fold, there are MOUNTAINS to be scaled in my home. And that’s just for two people. Lord only knows how I’ll ever manage more than that.
Secondly:
SOMEONE CAME TO OUR HOUSE TO TALK ABOUT MOVING. Like, “Hey, all this stuff? We’re putting it in a truck and shipping it across the country. When are you leaving? Oh, about three months? Great, we’ll get that estimate for you.”
My mind just exploded, peeps. Like blew up all over my monitor.
The hubs heads out in a little over a month to start training out there (NOOOOO!!!!!) and begin the in-person-no-longer-over-the-computer house hunt.
By February or March, I’ll be joining him . . . That’s three months. THREE. ONE HAND. THIS MANIES! THREE!!!!
I will no longer be a Floridian in three months . . . maybe four. It all depends on the housing search . . . so um . . . fingers crossed, prayers, and all that, yes?

We'll be just an hour and a half south of San Franscisco! SO EXCITED!!!
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Speaking of houses . . .

Chris and I were chatting yesterday, and I say, “Honey, we are going to have a place to live, right? I mean, you’re going to find a place?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Because, knowing you, I have this sneaking suspicion I’m going to end up on an acreage living in a cardboard box.”
He turns to me, looking completely aghast and offended. “No, not a box. I have a tent.”
And peeps, I lost it. The combination of his face and the deadpan practicality of it all.
Then, of course, we spent thirty minutes laughing at MY LAUGH (which only makes it worse), because, according to Chris, I sound like some maniacal chipmunk taking over the world.
I’ve been told I laugh like an old-school evil villain, but, when I really get going, it’s the wicked chipmunk that turns to old-man weezing.

It’s not pretty.

Yes . . . kind of exactly . . . yes . . . .
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