Or: Why I Should Really Stop Moving so Much

Back in January, at the very fresh start of the new Year, I ceased to be the last single girl in my pride of ladyfriends. Two friends of mine conspired to bring me relationshipical bliss by introducing me to the man now known as Boyfriend.

This is an accurate illustration of how we met. Except possibly pizza and bowling were involved. Possibly.

He’s the bee’s knees, folks.

They’re the best knees, the bee’s knees that he is.

There are many stories about my adventures with Boyfriend, but today, I am only telling one. Today’s tale, sweet readers of the Internet, is about the time Boyfriend asked me to move in with him. It wouldn’t be much of a story if I said no. Not to ruin the ending or anything, but I said yes.

It's always better to quote Ghostbusters

Cats and dogs, living together y’all.

Those who know me know that I have moved frequently in my life for reasons ranging from “my parents are moving and I am a minor and their legal responsibility” to “I am bored and would like to try having adventures in a new city/state/geographic location.” So I’d like to say I’ve gotten good at moving by this point in my life.

Look at those labels! Look at that expert taping technique!

Nope.

This is an accurate depiction of how my living space looks while I am moving.

What I have become skilled at is enlisting everyone I know in the moving process. My excellent friends are completely aware of my semi-routine nomadicism, but still come to my aid, lured by the promise of pizza and adult beverages*,
*Like extra large chocolate milkshakes and banana smoothies.

Also to keep the adult beverages flowing AFTER the fragile things have been moved

The important thing is to keep the pizza out of reach until the moving is complete.

This last move, however, happened without much planning**. Boyfriend and I had decided to live together, so obviously, that should begin immediately, right*?
No planning at all.
***Not when you own 8 million pounds of stuff.

So, with barely two weeks’ warning, I declared that my apartment’s contents would be emptied and relocated into the house-to-be-shared. This should not be a huge problem for a girl moving out of a one bedroom apartment.

Except that I am a 29 year old female American.

Which means I have so. Many. Things.

The “ALL THE THINGS” meme is the brainchild of Allie Brosh over at Hyperbole and a Half. Click to discover and applaud her awesomeness.

And with only two weeks’ notice, I could only gather**** three friends to tackle the movement of all my worldly possessions.
****Bribe, blackmail, and beg.

So Boyfriend’s family also came to help.