So that offer probably isn't our buyer, so life goes on. Or rather life in this house goes on staged, cleaned and from a cardboard box.
Friends, I'm tired today. I'm tired from all of the stupid details that I have to attend to, the running and other ridiculously necessary things I have to do in a day.
One of those really irritating errands was a blood test this morning. This is a requirement for a new life insurance policy, because apparently State Farm has determined that if I should die, Sean will need quite a large sum of money to replace me. I'm not sure why this is, but I totally suggest getting into the rodeo clown business if you're looking for a career change because that's where there is great income potential.
Anyway, I had to fast for this test, (Because lord knows a cup of damn coffee might just throw off my body chemistry counts so hideously out of whack that modern science could not deem me insurable) so I was particularly cranky and headache-y in that hazy way when the nurse asked me to get on the scale. (For a split second, I was glad I was fasting.) It was one of those real official types--sliding weights and measures around like an abicus and so accurate you can't even take off 5 pounds by removing your shoes--but the nurse was having trouble with it.
"114, does that sound right?"
"Um, sure if we're not counting my bones, skin, and vital organs."
"Oh, sorry. I was 10 pounds off."
And you know what, I didn't even correct her that she may be a hair off from even that.
Because moving sucks and today the universe owed me at least 10 pounds.
And a damn cup of coffee.