The problem with moving is not the wrapping of fine crystal.  It’s not the thought of packing up the entire house.   It’s not trying to figure out what needs to stay until the final move so that you don’t end up with stuff stored here and there while you frantically search for the rice cooker to make Alpha Hubby’s lunch.  It’s not the cost of purchasing bubble wrap to wrap the aforementioned fine crystal.  No, the problem with moving is THIS – this creature gearing up for the Olympic run he’ll have to make when he gets to my house:

No matter how careful you are and where you get your boxes from – the grocery store or a professional moving service – sometimes you end up with a nasty, squeaking, Speedy Gonzales wanna-be running around your house screaming “¡Ándale! ¡Ándale! ¡Arriba! ¡Arriba!”  He’s confused because when he went to sleep in that cardboard box, he was at the “We Charge You Out the Kazoo to Sell You Boxes to Move You Budget World” in a pile of boxes.  He woke up to a mad woman freaking out because she keeps catching glimpses of him running here and there, thither and yon, praying he doesn’t go “Up! Up!”

I don’t do mice.  I hate mice.  I’ve lived with mice, lots and lots of mice.  And while mice are definitely better than RATS, of which I’ve experienced exactly one in my life when he came in my house through the dryer vent, munched his way through the entire lint screen of the dryer and an entire loaf of San Francisco sourdough French bread, and leaving one piece of bread holding up the wrapper enough so it was sitting there as if it were still full of bread.  He died because he touched my San Francisco sourdough French bread.  Not because his stomach exploded because he ate so much bread.  No, because he was stupid enough to eat the poison I put out after I discovered his perfidy, crawl up under the fridge and die, causing me to beg a neighbor to come dispose of the body.  I don’t care where you stand on rat poison.  You were not there.  He had to die because he ate my San Francisco sourdough French bread.   NO ONE touches my San Francisco sourdough French bread.

OK, got side tracked there.  While mice are better than rats, I don’t do mice and will not live with them.  I call in The Exterminator.   Here is his, “If you don’t stop taking pictures of me” glare.  I’d run… if I was a mouse… wouldn’t you? 

When we first married, I’m sure he thought that was the only reason I married him.  You know, to kill bugs, spiders, snakes, and mice.  Once he got the house sealed so we only deal with an occasional spider, life got easier and he figured out that THAT was not the reason I married him.  Heh heh heh.

I digress.  In order to facilitate packing up this house, I bought home the boxes and bubble wrap…  and a pesky mouse.  He started squeaking last night from somewhere near my fridge.  I don’t know why.  I don’t want to know why.  I just want him gone.

Squeaking, squeaking, always squeaking.  UGH.