Maybe it's my crime fiction background, but maybe Designated Hitter *is* as scary as it seemed when I first read it.

My last move I left the bed as a bare mattress and slept in a living room chair for the first night. (I'd spent the previous 4 years mostly sleeping on the now-absent sofa and occasionally in a large bedroom with big windows and transparent scrim curtains - no way was I falling asleep in a windowless 10x11 cubbyhole.)

Go checklist, and checked off things! Having a productive day at work myself.

Our last move was a biggie, but the one before that the SO did almost entirely himself and furthermore had the bed set up and made before I even arrived with the van. It was great.

Every move, I tell myself, this time we're not going to rent the cheapest POS truck we can get and do it ourselves. And yet that's exactly what happens every time.

Have settlement docs. Woah.

Ah, that so reminds me of when I went shopping for my first new car. We were still living in Nashville and it was for a Jeep, the combination of which caused the salesguy to continually ignore me in favor of speaking to Lewis despite the fact that Lewis kept saying, "The car's for her-- seriously dude, she's the one buying it and if you don't want to lose the commission, you'd better start speaking to her."

Dad went car shopping with Mom once. My mother purchased every car our family ever drove. The salesman kept talking to dad when he finally looked at my mom and said, "Deloris, I'm going across the street to have a beer. Come and get me when you're ready to sign the papers."

When dad came back to sign the papers with mom the salesman told him he knew why dad let mom buy the cars. Dad just smirked.

I just called in the sushi order for dinner. So hungry.

Back when I was a kid, my parents bought a Toyota. Since my Dad was a tough bargainer, the Salesman turned to my Mom and said: "you really love this car don't you. Isn't it worth what I'm asking". My Mom replied: "Actually I was thinking you are being too stubborn on the price, and that maybe we should go over to the Dotson dealer".

When my parents were getting ready to move to AZ, my mother (who had done all the banking for the family for 30+ years) was told by BofA that she couldn't close the account, because only my father's signature was on file. My mother pointed out that the account was first opened in 1962, and the bank paperwork didn't have a space for her signature at the time.

Things did not go smoothly.

Timelies all!

Happy Birthday ND!

Happy Birthday, ND!