Shit or get out of the kitchen

So yes, much fun was had by all this weekend at the Harvest festival. The fabulous K and J were in town from Seattle (though J has been completing an internship in LA for the past three months), and we got an early start on the day by hitting up the local market for picnic foods. I was not feeling so hot, as Peanut and I had gone out for happy hour the night before, and "happy hour" stretched to mean "happy hour plus four more hours". I decided a chocolate chip scone was in order, and that little guy totally fortified me for the following hours of free-flowing wine. Once we got to the festival, we realized that we really hadn't needed any picnic food, since every fancy restaurant in the area had a booth, and there was plenty of yummy things to munch on. Also, all of the wineries there had expanded their tastings and had brought four or five wines to pour. Good, good times. I managed to not be slovenly and spill wine all over myself, though I did not escape the chocolate from the chocolate-dipped strawberry. That ended up on my shirt. Sunday was spent lounging around. Peanut got some new gym shoes. We did a little grocery shopping. I did not go to Spinning, and it felt good.
My desire to move to Seattle came rushing back this weekend. I'm just not entirely happy with my job, and I am entirely unhappy about not being able to afford a home here. Those are two biggies, in my book. I'm a little intimidated about picking up and moving again, though. When I've done that before, I was young and unencumbered. I didn't have a lot of material possessions, I didn't even think about where I was going to live (when I moved from DC to San Diego); I just did it. Now that I'm all responsible and shit, it kind of freaks me out a little to think about the logistics of moving a household. Both Peanut and I would have to find jobs, he would have to enroll in school, we'd have to find a place to rent while we looked for a house. I don't know. But then I think that I don't want to stay in Santa Barbara forever. To quote Miss Doxie: I need to shit or get out of the kitchen, no?