It’s hot in Baltimore right now. If you’re on the East Coast at all, I don’t have to tell you. It’s miserable. Our new apartment has central air. The new apartment we’re supposed to be moving into next week. Here? Well, sheeeet. I can’t hear anything but fans!
And thank God/Jesus/Allah/The Donale for peppermint soap. Oh, peppermint soap. Dude, get some. Get some, and tell them I sent you. Tell them I said HI.
But we haven’t packed a thing. Boxes are on their way. I’m a pretty stellar packer, though. Maybe I’m wired to be nomadic? I have a feeling our distaste for home ownership might be masking a growing desire to move around some more, maybe just travel a bit. Maybe just, I don’t know, change things up?
And we need to measure rooms and furniture and the massive volume of books that we own, go to Ikea (though that part’s fun, and Charlotte likes the colors and the toys she gets when we go there), actually think about what’s going where.
And we need to not melt before then.
This is all cause for stress, but I don’t feel particularly stressed about it. Rather, I’m looking forward to receiving the wood-handled umbrellas we ordered yesterday, in time for a rainy weekend. I spent like two hours researching umbrellas. (I shit you not.) I couldn’t get the color I wanted, and I’m hoping that “khaki” is not code for “off-white.”
Also, all this sitting around sans shirt has me wishing I could lose weight. That I would, rather. That I would.
Would if I could, and all that.











