I'm almost done getting my kitchen set up. And, this state of almost-doneness (never mind the armageddon that is my bedroom), led me to realize, yesterday, that my knives were missing. My wood knife block filled with two sets of gorgeous, sharpened, luscious Sabatier knives. I love my knives. And they were gone.
I opened every box labeled kitchen. I also opened every box labeled family room, dining room, and living room. I figured the movers might have put the knives in a box from an adjoining room. No dice. I did, however, manage to make my hernia pop out about an inch further.
We went out to dinner AGAIN (fun place called Kitsch'n - mediocre food, wonderfully kid friendly. Dylie got her dinner in little bowls served in an old metal lunch box. How cool is that?) last night, and I decided that today I would find my knives.
After I fed us all breakfast, I took the kids over to my storage unit. OMFG. The movers must have been REALLY hating me and my walk-up Chicago apartment when they filled that thing. To get to the boxes, I had to lift an overturned wheelbarrow (helloooo hernia), move three bikes, balance the bottom half of my patio hearth on a dining room chair, and dive in. Dylan, in the meantime, stood outside the unit with Max in his stroller, and narrated the whole thing for me. "Why is all this stuff piled like this? Why did you pick these movers? Those guys were NOT very good. Why did you pick them Mommy? Why are those boxes all in there? Why can't you find our knives?" As I cursed and sweated and moved EVERY GODDAMN BOX BECAUSE THEY COULDN'T EVEN FUCKING PUT THEM FACING FORWARD SO I COULD SEE THE GODDAMN LABELS, she kept on and on with her commentary. Finally, I found the knives. In a box labeled books. Of course.
P.S. Tonight I'm cooking. Yay! Simple, though. Maybe pasta with Italian sausage and zucchini. And wine. Lots and lots of wine.