Pack Up We Are Moving

My husband comes in and says “Pack up! We are moving!” It is a game that he plays, frequently, for he usually hates someone. I am thrilled to death of course, so I begin dancing and grooving. Pack up three gerbils, two dogs, three daughters. What fun! What a great time for me! I think as I quit yet another school. At this rate I shall never have a degree of any kind at all. We eat cereal again, for the pans are packed, which is so cool. I am starting to load the van up with sixteen boxes from the hall. Moving! You just got here! Says a neighbor who does not understand. What it is like to be married to a “green grass is there” kind of man. I yell at my sister and mother to come over and give me bit of a hand. They get here after I have filled up our make-shift moving van. Can you please just take the sixteen bags of garbage to your place? Vacuum the house and lock the door and return the key to Grace? My relatives know the score; they stare at me, shaking their heads. I give a jaunty wave, and jump in the van, eager to put up our beds.