Urgh

Remind me to never, ever, ever move again.

After nearly six hours, three trips with varying numbers of automobiles, one bent and broken fingernail, six pizzas, numerous beers, several threats of cannibalism, three highly confused children, and a very sore back, I'm almost out of the shithole. I have an atlas laying on the dusty floor that Annette was reading while she waited for the van to return and some garbage I left laying on the floor to clear out, but that will take all of twenty minutes. Then I leave the keys behind, never again to return.

I owe a great debt to my friends, who handled my spaciness with relative good will and entertained the kids while Jeff, Dan, Annette and I loaded stuff into a minivan and Dan's Jetta while literally playing in traffic on Beacon Street. I also owe the people I babysit for dinner, since they fed me all three meals yesterday. The kids stole glimpses into my room, asking who was in pictures. The baby was especially curious and somewhat behind the curb on names.

"Who's that?"

"That's my friend Sharon and I."

"Who's that?" She asked, pointing at me.

"That's me."

"Who's that?"

"That's Sharon."

"Who's that?" She asked again, pointing at me.

But there are no rats in this new place (except the stuffed one Kristen and Marianne gave me to the delight of the kids) and it's very quiet in the evenings, which is nice. There's also the built-in entertainment of the kids. Last night, the baby wandered into the kitchen. She's learning how to use the toilet, so her father asked her if she had anything on her bottom, meaning underwear or a diaper.

"A rash," she said, then wandered out of the room while itching her butt. Try the veal, she'll be here all week.