Sorry for the light posting. I’ve been moving stuff to the house, one carload at a time, which really means I pack stuff in the apartment, carry it downstairs to the car, drive it to the house after I go to the Y (optimizing fuel usage -- Y is on the way to the house), then carry it into the house and try to figure out where to put it. SH will be gone for most of the next two weeks, so I am very carefully packing his CDs and wondering why he has a copy of the soundtrack from “Pocahontas.” Maybe I don’t want to know. I am also trying not to ask questions about the Britney Spears, Debbie Gibson, and Avril Lavigne CDs. I love the man. If pop music is his worst vice, I can live with that.
My friend Bruce is driving up from northern Illinois on Thursday with his van to help me move a bunch of stuff from the storage unit to the house. I didn’t even ask for his help. We’re at an age where you don’t get to ask your friends to help you move any more, even the friends who have a pickup (pickups?). You do it yourself or you hire someone. But he volunteered. I said yes before he could get the words out.
So – I am going on a baking rampage tomorrow. If the man is willing to spend a day carrying my stuff up and down the stairs, I can at least make him some triple-chocolate brownies and some oatmeal cookies. Yes, I suppose I could stop at the brownies, but I know SH will want some and we have (I am not making this up) at least 15 pounds of chocolate (it fills the produce bin in the refrigerator with four bags of chocolate chips, two boxes of cookies, and the fabulous truffles that Cheeseguy and the Bodacious Red-headed Pediatrician brought for us left over) that we’ve accumulated since we met, so it’s time to get cracking. The oatmeal cookies are for Bruce alone – SH does not like them.
I am thinking perhaps I should wait until late tomorrow night to bake. Just to make the crazy laundry people happy.
The end of the line
1 year ago