Well, I have to admit, this is a little dark. How can I be my ebullient self when suffocating in this cave? Its like the proverbial dark night of the soul. I have enough trouble as it is. I'll try out a couple different themes, and y'all can let me know whatcha think. It'll be a contest. I will win.
My husband is cleaning out the refrigerator. I'm not sure why. These are things I only do when I move, and since I'm not moving, he may have a point. Cleaning the oven and the fridge. Not my gig. I've moved more times in my life than I can count. I tried once. I counted 48 moves from the time I left home at 17 through my 33rd birthday. Random, I know. But 48? That's alot for anybody. Some of them were porches, but they counted. Anytime I had to pack it up, I counted it.
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