Move out blues

When you're in college, or just your first few years away from the home where you grew up, it seems that you move around relatively often. Leases end, new jobs begin, perhaps romance blossoms, and you end up like a pinball being bounced around by...by some kind of...pinball wizard, or something (hey, someone should make a song about that!). My copilot and I have continued this nomadic lifestyle a bit beyond your average time span. Since I don't plan on ever growing up, this isn't terribly surprising, but I despise the move out process. I'm not even just talking about packing and the move itself (which also totally suck, don't get me wrong), I hate the general funk that hovers (perhaps figuratively and literally) over the homestead in the weeks leading up to the move.

I've been renting a room from a very nice, laid back couple during my stay here at Berkeley. We'll call them M and D (no, I'm not living at home with my Mom and Dad). M has a propensity for doing her dishes immediately after using them, D doesn't really see the point in that. They've struck on a compromise where D has a tub that he puts his dishes in when he doesn't feel like cleaning them, and can come back and do them later. For the first couple of months, I was also diligent about cleaning my dishes right after I was finished with them. As time went by, I steadily lost motivation for dish doing, and M subtly put out another tub. I've come to think of it as the Tub of Shame. After that, I did my best to keep the ToS empty, but the move-out funk has rolled in. I noticed while eating breakfast this morning that a small pyramid had formed. So much dish related shame. I've completely lost motivation for bettering my living conditions. Here's a small taste, just the desk:

Oh hey, there's that sock I still haven't finished in the lower right corner there. Mmm I see some Joe-Joe's too (Trader Joe's equivalent to Oreos, which I may or may not have been eating in bed last night).

If a well-bred Victorian lady came into my room, she would put her handkerchief to her forehead and faint, mortified at the mess (a well-bred Victorian man would drop his monocle into his drink, of course). I started knitting what I've come to think of as the Infinite Cabled Hat last night in an effort to snap out of it:

I *heart* cables.

It's a hat(sort of. It's hat-ish)!

I think it helped a bit. I love me some Cascade 220 yarn, especially the Heathers line. So reasonably priced! Such pretty colors! My LYS back home has a whole wall dedicated to the 220. I heard that they recently changed owners, and the 220 wall better not be on the chopping block (I'm looking at you, Lakeside Fibers--do not make me drive into Fitchburg for my fix!)!