You know how I'm moving next month and then moving again 3 months later? Who could have predicted that this little event could have thrown my apartment into complete chaos? That is, further chaos than on any average day at my apartment. I'm really not that into cleaning.
There was no problem until DH and I drove the pickup to his mother's house this past weekend and collected all the furniture and assorted other things she's been storing for us. She was storing things because, well, she lives by herself in a three bedroom house with an attic, and Brendon and I live in a 700 square foot, one bedroom apartment with all closets already jammed full of year-plus-old wedding presents that still haven't made it out of their boxes. But in a couple of weeks, the Navy is sending movers out to our apartment, so it makes sense having all this stored furniture there for them to pick up and take with the rest of our stuff, so we don't have to worry about how we'll get it down to Jacksonville ourselves later on. It just means there will be a few weeks where I'm tearing my hair out because I can't walk through my own house or find anything when I need it.
See, we don't exactly have a dining room for the table my mother in law kept for us when she bought her new dining room set. But now... the table is in our "office," in pieces. Along with the rocking chair that I was rocked in as a baby (which went to my MIL's house when my parents moved, again because of the space issue at our apartment). Then there are a bunch of Rubbermaid tubs holding all the contents of Brendon's old bookcase. And then, to make the whole thing that much more ridiculous, yesterday I picked up all the leftover boxes from my friend Rachel's recent cross-town move, and they are currently towering over the mess, just mocking me. I mean, really. I just can't take it.
The point of bringing in the boxes in was so that we could pack everything in that room up and just give in to the fact that the room has become an inaccessible storage room instead of the office it once was. I know we aren't going to get to that project before the weekend. Until then, I just don't even want to be in the apartment at all. The killer is - and this is the whole reason I'm bothering to post any of this long complaint on this blog - that my yarn stash, hooks and needles, books, and general yarn artifacts are directly on the opposite side of that tower o' boxes, in the cubby-hole you can kind of see carved out of that wall. (Rest assured, I do have my current project safely away from all of that madness, but everything else is back there, out of reach.) It makes me want to cry.
Riley isn't too happy about the mess either. He has been through enough moves that I think he has a sense of what's going on, and he's freaking out a little. Poor little guy.
On the upside, I did get to make an excursion into the social scene last night. Brendon and I went out with a couple of friends from his ship, one of whom is about to leave for her next tour in Japan. This translated into a dinner of German food and a bunch of expensive imported beer at the Bier Garden in Portsmouth. Mmmm, expensive imported beer. I had an Oktoberfest I can neither spell nor pronounce, followed by a Wiehenstephaner. The only other time I've had a Wiehenstephaner was when we were actually in Germany by accident. If you can find it, I recommend it. And by the way, October is the best month for beer. Especially German beer.
At any rate, I haven't gotten a lot of knitting done these last couple days. Oops.