No writing yesterday. I'm trying again today. The packing continues. I feel as if I ought to be saying more about the move, about...a lot of things. I used to go on and on and on here. It likely means something, that I'm not writing more about these days, about the preparations for the move, about my feelings regarding it all. But I'm not sure what it says.
Today, Lydia is one year old.
Last night, we got dinner from Bucktown. The kitchen is getting too crowded with cardboard and half packed to cook. And then we watch reruns of Drag Race, because we were too tired to do much else. I didn't get to sleep until well after Spooky. I watched all of Billy Wilder's The Apartment (1960) and started Howard Hawk's Bringing Up Baby (1938) before I finally slept.