FFS Friday - the Moving Edition

FFS Friday is being hosted by the lovely Georgia at Parental Parody who shares my disgust at Dear Baby G and Hippy Brad for taunting us with cocktail photos and toilet spider wars episodes from BALI while we are stuck at home drinking out of the cask.

Join up, have a whinge. It's good for your soul, and cheaper than MOFO therapy.

What's given me the shits this week?

Well I'm moving. Which is the biggest head fuck known to civilisation for a start. FFS.

 

No matter how hard I try, packing is never neat, just one great big enormous mess. FFS.

I don't have enough boxes. FFS.

I have a garage sale planned for tomorrow, and on Wednesday I realised I forgot to put a note in the paper. Cue scramble to stick posters literally EVERYWHERE! FFS.

I opened the door of the storage room that I have been asking WonderMan to sort out for six months now, and a box fell on my head. FFS.

So I am selling his slot car set AND his Playstation and will no doubt have to explain why. FFS.

WonderMan's boss "remembered" two days ago that he hadn't registered the truck he was letting us use to move. And he insisted we pay for it to be registered to use, because he didn't see why he should. FFS.

So eight days out from a move we are completely committed to now, we have no way of moving our stuff. FFS.

This has meant the demoralising and embarrassing beg, borrow, steal round of the family so we can hire a moving truck. FFS.

If this had been known right from the start, we would have had the money, instead I used it to pay my bills ahead and give us a little less pressure, BECAUSE I WAS ASSURED WE COULD USE THE TRUCK. FFS.

I can't get my house clean and there's so much CRAP everywhere. FFS.

Frog spent over two hours dancing the Hokey Pokey on her bed last night after I put her to sleep. And if I left the room she followed me. I have no way of locking her in so I spent the two hours curled up on the floor playing games on my phone and telling her to get back into bed one hundred and fifty three million times. FFS.

That number is not as much of an exaggreation as it should be. FFS.

I am dusty, cobwebby, sweaty and cranky. And guess what arrived today to top it all off??

F.F.S.

UGH.