Even though we only moved last week, most of my belongings have been packed since before Alex and I got married. I’ve had one foot out the door for a while now– but who could blame me. Getting to unpack all my long lost shite felt like Christmas. Even the things I just threw in a box last Friday (like my Blog U hooker boots) were extra exciting to discover.
Alex, on the other hand, hates everything to do with moving and unpacking.
This works in my favor because I get to decide where everything goes, then delegate the unpleasant task of breaking down boxes to him. Like every man that ever walked the earth, he prefers to do things in his own time, which means I prefer to find creative ways of motivating him. Even better if I’m able to exact a little revenge on Zola (you know she deserves it).
And yet she didn’t seem to mind.
My desire to force Alex’s hand began to fade as my desire to annoy Zola increased.
Then it just became a sort of personal challenge.
It was like a reverse game of Jenga with incredibly high stakes.
I finally had Alex’s attention. But Zola’s? Nope.
We decided to up the ante. Alex staged himself by the pantry and began rattling a scoop of food. Like most things in life, I didn’t really think through the consequences of my behavior.
“Did I break my vase?”
I did my best to repair it, which means I mostly glued pieces of ceramic to my own fingers.
This is why we can’t have nice things, you guys.
Do you love or hate the process of moving? Have you ever broken something in the midst of a stupid stunt? What’s your favorite form of pet torture?
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