Mama if that's movin' up than I'm movin' out....

So this weekend was moving weekend. My parents are upgrading their familial residence to an empty-nester estate. Unfortunately for all involved, they are not quite empty-nesters: they still have me.

When I lived by myself, "I'm too busy" meant exactly that. Now, the parents know that "I'm too busy" actually means "There is a Star Trek marathon on" which actually translates into "Yes, I will in fact help you lug 18 tons of crap out of the basement, drive it five miles down the road, and haul it into another basement." Isn't language a beautiful thing?

It has become painfully apparent that when my parents designed their new palace they assumed that I would be living the fabulous life of an associate somewhere else. I am moving from a shoebox to a sardine tin (or an Altoids tin, if you are unfamiliar with the fish reference). The closet is the size of a casket and will be filled when I put just my shoes in there, let alone a fall and winter wardrobe. My mother said I could put my clothes in my sister's closet until she gets home from college, or I could put them in the closet downstairs. I am envisioning getting dressed in the kitchen or the front hall.

I will say this: my mother has terrific taste in hardware. All of the fixtures have a leafy-theme that would have looked perfect in Rivendell or Lorien. However, maybe if she had spent less on cabinet handles than on square footage I wouldn't have to make the choice between wearing pants or a shirt when I come downstairs in the morning.

The sexy misadventures of Jessica*

So this weekend was my friend Kathy's surprise bachelorette weekend in Chicago. Except she knew about it. And her sister Julie knew that she knew about it. And her friend Anna knew that she knew about it. And Kathy didn't know whether we knew that she knew about it. And I didn't know that Kathy knew, or that Julie and Anna knew that she knew but kept it from me. And Melissa from Chicago didn't know that Kathy knew, either, but she did not have to sit in the car for five hours figuring out who knew what. So really the only surprise was mine.

The best part of a bachelorette weekend, of course, is the alcohol. Rather than compile a hazy albeit highly amusing play-by-play of the entire weekend, I will relay one story that pretty much sums up the entire night.

I woke up on Sunday with my jeans on one leg and my pajama bottoms on the other. I was also wearing a scarf. On the floor were the contents of my purse, my purse being still in bed with me. I crawled out of bed and started putting things back in my purse (after I straightened out the jeans/jammies situation, which took more thought than it probably should have). I picked up a receipt from the night before. I looked at the laundry list of alcoholic beverages and recalled drinking a few of the items on there. When I got to the last item, however, I read something that made my throbbing head draw a blank. I stumbled out to the hallway, pausing briefly to survey the damage that is caused by dancing all night in front of an industrial strength fan that alternated between blowing my hair straight up in the back and sucking strands of hair into the rotating blades.

"Ladies, I just found the receipt from the bar last night........Did I pay $21 for Sex?"

Turns out it was in fact a bucket of Sex on the Beach with five or six straws. I didn't know whether I should be worried that I paid for sex at all, or that I only paid $21 for it.

Pictures to follow.

* Blog title compliments of Boko.