Moving is stressful. Especially all the dismal compromises on what you want and what you can afford to buy or afford to transport. I went shopping with my father and 15 minutes into the trip I was curling my hands into tight little fists. I appreciate that my parents want to help me out and that they're trying to make the process easier. But they don't. Inevitably. They ask too many unnecessary questions at the wrong moment, make unsolicited suggestions about what to buy, what to take, how to pack, how to schedule the trip. They alternately drive me mad and tell me to "relax and smile a little." I'd rather continue to gnash my teeth, thank you very much.

I'm anxious because tomorrow is the big move, and all I can think about is stupid orphan Annie and her wretched song, "Tomorrow." It's all very well to sing shrilly about tomorrow when it involves Daddy Warbucks picking you up and handing you gold lockets and other delights. I'd like to take Orphan Annie's freckled face and kick it through a goalpost.