I'm sitting on my couch with two bottles of vodka I pulled from my freezer nestled into the small of my back. The ice packs, it seems, have already moved to the new place. But the bottles of vodka are performing their job just fine, and if I want a swig, I can just reach behind me, right?
Moving is hard work. My master bedroom closet looks like an ad from one of those closet places, and the bedroom itself is whispering. Buy me. Buy this place, and your life will become as serene as this room. My study is another story. It is the epicenter of the next de-cluttering war. But the war is on hiatus. A truce. Something to do with vodka. Yes, I'm going to have to drink the vodka because the lovely glass of water I poured myself is now being drunk by the cat, and I am just too tired to get up.
Disclosure re the photo: That's not my cat or my glass of water. As stated above, I can't get up.
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