Yesterday we moved in Fixer-Upper’s newest tenant, my younger brother Cody.

For those of you who knew us back in the day, rest assured there will be no over-the-head wedgie attacks, spit torture, or flying furniture. We’re WAY more grown up than that now. At least we pretend to be.

Like most siblings, my brother and I are very different. I am the overly anal obsessive-compulsive sibling. When I move, my possessions are packed pretty neatly in cardboard boxes. Each box is labeled with the name of the room it should go in and a list of it’s contents. Then it’s taped shut and stacked, ready to go. I am usually completely unpacked within 2 days of moving. It’s a sickness, really.

Cody, on the other hand, has never been great at cleaning or organizing. When we got a call yesterday around 11am asking if we had any boxes, I got the feeling that *maybe* Cody wasn’t quite ready for his move. When we arrived at his apartment at 2pm and saw the state of things, I had a flashback to our “cleaning our room” days back when we were kids. He was panicking, and his friend Kim was stuffing DVDs into garbage bags. The (very few) boxes he had were falling apart at the seams. It was quite the sight.

Luckily, he doesn’t own much stuff so the garbage bags sufficed.

Luckier still, his massive couch and projection tv both fit up the stairs, through the hallway, and into his new living room.

Tada!