What a hellacious flight! It took the better part of two months. Okay,

not really. But even after being here for nearly two months I’ve still
not completely unpacked. There is one small suitcase of papers and
video tapes that I’ve no idea what to do with. I’m grateful we don’t
have a fireplace here or THAT problem would have been solved
weeks ago. And probaby with calls to the local EPA office, what with
all the melting plastic fumes. But you know, come on! VCR tapes?
I don’t even have a VCR. Aiman broke ours years ago. Didn’t I
mention a broken VCR in the list of lovelies I found when cleaning
out my husband’s closet pre-move to the US? Yeah, you remember.
So, the unpacking. It’s nearly all done. There’s one huge one with
clothes left in it but I’m so bored with the job that I just shoved it
under my little vanity table in my room and it sort of sadly eyeballs
me now. Like it’s telling me, “Come on, Lazy Bones! Yew’ve gone and
unpacked all me sisters and put dem out in de garage!” (Because in
my mind, my last brown suitcase speaks with an Irish brogue.) And
I counter with, “True, and it’s not that I don’t like you, but….” And
it interrupts me and shouts, “Yew DON’t like meh!” So I admit the
truth, “You’re right. I don’t like you at all. WHO buys a hideous
brown barrel-shaped duffel bag of a suitcase and proceeds to break
off 3 of the wheels from the bottom and then loads it up with exactly
36 kilos of crap knowing full well that there is only 35 kilos allowed
per suitcase and then stands on the scale sadly noting her own weight
and then picks up said crap-laden suitcase and attempts to read the
scale again in order to be forced to do math in her head so as not to
have to write down the original weight on the paper thus making
it true!?” The suitcase just stares blankly as only suitcases can.
“You’re right. It’s ME I hate. Me and my fat clothes. I’ll unpack you

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