Despite the incredibly high divorce rate in this country, I am quite confident that my wife will never send me packing. That’s because the packing I’m doing now is driving her crazy. As we prepare for carpet installation, Mary Ellen continues her methodical and meticulous approach to the task at hand, carefully wrapping each knick-knack and antique in newspaper or bubble wrap. My routine is quite different. I’m pretty much just scooping stuff off shelves and shoving it in U-Haul boxes and laundry baskets. Breakables? Give me a break.
The good news is: I’m done. Everything is packed. The bad news is: I’m done. Everything is packed. You see, the carpet won’t be here for almost a month. We can survive three weeks without the Dresden China Ballerina that my mother gave us, but I’m starting to get a little edgy about no bar soap, house keys or bed sheets.
My wife isn’t very happy. “The system you’re employing isn’t even user-friendly. Let’s see ... you have a giant box that says ‘junk,’ one that’s labeled ‘doo-dads,’ and one marked ‘stuff.’ And what’s the box with the huge letter C on it?
“That’s another method I use. Everything in the box starts with the letter C. Cameras, canceled checks, can openers ...”
“That explains why I haven’t seen the cat in two days.”
My son came in the room. He was distraught because I had packed his new video game console.
“Not to worry; it’s a C item, Brett. We’ll find it in the C box.”
“Dad, you packed my Xbox in the C box. That’s counterintuitive.” (When one of your children uses a big word like that, it’s a source of pride.)