I’m going to get hate mail for this—from my mother.
I haven’t written anything in like two months. That’s because Tom and I moved… into a house. A house! (But that’s a post for another day).
My mother helped us pack. Few things in life bring her as much joy as sorting, labeling and neatly stashing things away in an aesthetically pleasing way.
She’s a hoarder’s worst nightmare. While a therapist will spend weeks convincing some poor old woman to throw out a block of cheddar cheese from 1962, my mother will throw a match through her window and convince her to chalk it up to “the great fire of 2015.” I’m not kidding. She actually dropped this in someone’s living room once.
I’m not a hoarder. I hate clutter and cats make my face swell. But according to my mother, I pack like I’m “fleeing from an abusive husband in the middle of the night.”
She’s wrong. I just employ a different method of packing. Think: $25,000 Pyramid. Remember that show?
In case you don’t spend your days off forcing your 16 month-old to watch 80’s reruns on the Game Show Network, here’s a clip and some stills:
With this method you’ll end up with a pile of boxes labeled and sorted something like this:
Things That Remind Me Of The Beach: Towels, souvenir sand from Playa Del Carmen, my “I got crabs at Bum Rogers” T-Shirt, sunblock, large red Solo cups and vodka.
Things That Scare Me: My Michael Meyers mask, calculators with pie symbols, the baby’s National Geographic Insect Edition, cook books, Tom’s hockey socks, the neti pot.
Things Associated With Exploding: My hair dryer, Miralax, bug spray, Easy Cheese, Pampers.
Things That Make My Ass Fat: Chocolate chips, potato chips, pancake batter, bite-sized Kit Kats, those jeans that are too new and too expensive to throw out yet.
Things That Make Watching Netflix All Day OK: Orville Redenbacher Movie Theatre Extra Butter Popcorn, fuzzy blankets and everything in the “Things That Make My Ass Fat” box. (So you really have a box-in-a-box situation here.)
Things That Never Belong In a Car (Like Never): Plants, plant food, planters, leaves, branches, bushes, camping equipment, anything with any kind of foliage. (I had a very traumatic experience that involved a fern, a wolf spider, and the Garden State Parkway. Someday I’ll tell you about it. For now, don’t put these things in your car.)
Things that end with the letter “T”: The clarinet I tried to play in 6th grade but my mother wouldn’t let me practice in the house. Grapefruits. Jackets. Salt. Frozen chicken nuggets.
Anyway, you get the gist. Or maybe you don’t. Maybe you’re just like my mother and have no appreciation for a solid packing strategy. In fact, I bet she’s home right now thinking about my strategy and planning “the great fire of 2016.” Actually, she’s probably home thinking of words that start with the letter F. Crap. (And that’s definitely not one of them).