Mr Smith-Park is getting much more done than I am. Either I am in the deepest layer of denial, or I am subconsciously trying to wreck the whole deal. For all of our sakes, I am hoping it is the former. I keep running off to spend time with my friends, and not packing, not repairing things on the house, not cleaning. Today, I was only supposed to go to lunch with the ladies, and we ended up going from the restaurant down the coast to the Firefly distillery. Great way to be an adult and face all my obligations, by running down to sample dessert-flavored liqueurs. The house is not packing itself. But our realtor is trying to talk us into hiring someone to re-carpet and clean it after we leave, and that level of automation is starting to appeal to me.
I can tell this is all getting to us. We're tired of the game, and we are starting to get silly. Between freaking the hell out of store clerks and waitresses with our Eeyore-like humor and spending far too long being bombarded with comedy recordings, we have escaped into a world of nonsense. We've been giggling over inappropriate songs about weed and old Robin Williams' bits all evening. I haven't got a serious bone in my body tonight. Maybe the thing to do is back up the DVR and watch the final late night show from David Letterman. We can get serious later. Will have to, but not now.
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