Death by a thousand paper cuts...

...is how a friend described the way I opted to move.

That way being, taking a carload of stuff over to the new house every time I went over there anyway, and maybe a few times deliberately, and a few more when friends with bigger cars were helping me out. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

All in all, the move itself wasn't painful, as moves go. It was the rest of the process. And since the rest of the process was such a clusterfoxtrot, moving was the icing on the shit cake.

Apparently, I'm still scarred, because I dreamt that I went back just to get Gracie and my laptop, and I kept finding more stuff that I needed to pack and move. It never ended.

On the agenda for Monday: retrieve Gracie and laptop; wait for the alarm people; troubleshoot the staple gun; saw apart four inches of gate without lacerating my arm; make another attempt at the closet door.

Then, Gracie and I are going to have a conversation. It will go like this

A.: Gracie, I know that this is a stressful time for you, too.
Gracie: Meow?
A.: And I know that you often choose to deal with stress by (1) non-stop whining and (2) strategic defecation.
Gracie: Meow.
A.: I'm telling you know, though, that if you poop outside your litter box in Mommy's new house, I will kick your furry little ass.
Gracie: Meow.
A.: You know how your uncle J. pretends to be your friend? He's suggested that to deal with this behavior of yours, I duct-tape your ass. At first I dismissed it, but I've been going through a lot, too, and I may just consider it.
Gracie: Meow?
A.: So your m-f litter box is over there. Learn it and use it, or else.
Gracie: Meow. Meow.