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I had a weird moment last evening, when I suddenly burst into consciousness and found myself dancing around with a hoody sweatshirt caught on my head, singing Billy Ocean's classic "Get Out of My Dreams, and into My Car" to my cat. She is my only friend. I was supposed to clean and package up the contents of my bedroom 3 weeks ago. I still have not done this. Garbage and clothes are strewn all around me. This is a form of passive resistance to the inevitable 6-8 week move we must make. Ghandi would be proud. My plans for a hunger strike were thwarted when I found an old pack of twinkies under some hot pads in the kitchen. I am hoping the move is delayed about a month because then we might actually get to live somewhere nicer than a 2-room motel suite. I am campaigning for Ocean Grove, in the tent houses. SUmmer rentals are expensive. The dachshund is not house-trained.
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