We're so sore.

Our backs hurt, his legs hurt, my blister hurts (a new one, on my hand), and we're darn tired.

This weekend we moved everything that we have on the first floor of the lake house into the basement. The Sheetrocker told DH that he wanted to start this week, rather than the week of Nov. 5, which is what we had planned.

And instead of saying, "No, sorry, we won't be ready for you this soon. How about maybe next week?", DH said, "Ok, we'll get the house ready this weekend." Keep in mind that this means two less weekends than we thought we had to do this, PLUS we had rewiring to do on several fixtures, phone lines to run, some framing to fix...

For the record, don't try this. Ever.

We moved (until we stopped counting!) two dressers (10 drawers total, filled), two bookshelves (12 shelves total, filled, which had to be unshelved and reshelved), two sofas, one bed, one quilt rack, one table, six chairs, two lamps, the entire contents of four open kitchen shelves, the microwave, the coffee pot, the paper towel holder, the box of miscellaneous stuff that accumulates on your counter when you don't have a junk drawer, two glass containers filled with dog biscuits for the dog we don't own (but we have a neighborhood dog that visits us!), the dish drainer, the cutting board, nine framed pictures, two handmade wreaths, a computer table, a computer monitor, two speakers, two CPUs, a coffee table, plus all the assorted crap we've managed to either accumulate over the past six years or relocate from our primary residence to the lake house 'cause there was room there, room to fill...

Remember. It all has to get moved back.

That sound you hear? That's me, crying. That other sound? My bones, creaking.

We've both decided "WE ARE NOT MOVING ALL THIS STUFF BACK UPSTAIRS." We've decided we will take this opportunity to sort through the junk before we move it back upstairs. We will either "keep it," trash it" or "donate it."

I want the clean look. I want a house that can receive visitors without being cleaned first. A house that doesn't need all the crap on the dining room table shoved into a closet or a drawer while we run to answer the doorbell. A house that I could take a picture of and not be embarrassed by if I chose to post it on a blog.

Here's an example of what I mean:

When we decided to get married, I spoke with our photographer and told her that I wasn't interested in all the cliche photos of the bride posing in front of a mirror, looking off into the distance, contemplating the massive life change she's about to experience... The photographer agreed.

When the day arrived, and the photographer did, too, she suggested she just take a few of those shots. That didn't mean I'd have to pay for them to be printed, blown up, included in our album, but I'd have the proofs. After all, what if one of them turned out to be my favorite picture of myself? (First of all, there are very few photos of myself that I actually like...)

I got carried away in the moment. I let her take the darn pictures.

The one I didn't want? The one of me looking into the mirror at my coiffed head, complete with veil? In the background, on the dresser, my husband-to-be's nose spray.

Obviously we never put anything away...