The packing begins. I'm starting the dread process by putting all my books away first. Books are easy. Clump, clump, wedge, wedge, stuff them into boxes and forget about them. Tchotchkas are harder, and must be resolutely given away at the yard sale we'll hold next month. Dishes are harder still, since we need them until the last moment yet they must be carefully packed right about the time we're losing all interest in order and just want to get the hell out. Most precious of all to pack are my collections of china and pottery. I'd just about lay down and die if I ever broke my favorite bread dish, my Limoge blue iris vase, or my mother's teacup collection. True, it's just stuff, and I probably could survive the loss with sufficient therapy and time, but I am going to try my best to get it back across the country intact.
After that, I'm not moving again. I've decided.
I don't care what happens, I'm staying in my beloved Bay Area. John can commute to Switzerland, or wherever, if he gets another job. To ensure we have to stay in one place, I'm going to take the plunge and buy a house. This is an enormous decision on my part. Not in the usual way, hating the paperwork and all that. Just the whole idea of me owning anything so permanent as a house is alien to me. But I'm prepared to do it so I have an excuse for not moving. And if that doesn't work, I'll just get another cat. This will tip the balance from "it'll be hell but we can do it" to "not in this lifetime." One big dog and two cats are an unbelievable amount of trouble to move, but marginally doable. Add just one more cat and the prospect of moving becomes untenable. I call it my One Cat Too Many theory.
You know it'll work.
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