And so we’re back from summer break.   Now, I’m sure a lot of you out there did amazing things over the summer.  Good for you!  My summer was terrible! Well maybe terrible is a strong word, but over the summer, my family accomplished something that had to be more stressful than balancing the national budget. We did something that no one in his right mind does willingly.  We MOVED.  Moving, I am told, is a ritual that American families observe every decade or so.  I can now see why my family put it off for twenty years.  It can be likened to living for weeks in a warehouse full of cardboard boxes, and eating with plastic forks and improvised objects even though the silver ware has to be around… somewhere.  Here’s how the nightmare works: The moving process starts with the mover looking for a new house, as well as putting their current home on the market to be sold.  In order to do this, the victim… I mean mover, will hire a professional known as a real estate agent. These are generally women who wear too much perfume and refer to a 3x5 kitchen as “cozy.” Once the family decides on a home, which is always way too expensive for them, they will pack their things into cardboard boxes. These boxes are required by law to be difficult to both close and open, and to smell like mildew in a cow pasture.  It always takes around a year to unpack all of the boxes, not because there are that many of them, but because people get lazy. “Oh, I don’t need that book on first aid now,” they’ll say, “I’ll get along fine without it.”  Famous last words.   Well, once we got settled it wasn’t so bad. The house is actually kind of nice really.  And I won’t have to do this for… wait… I’m going to college in a year. I’ll have to move into a dorm… Darn.