Moving is an immense pain in the ass. And lower back. And feet. It’s just a pain. Since last Saturday, when Allied deposited 8,300 pounds of our stuff here, I have spent several hours each day moving boxes, opening boxes, emptying boxes, refilling boxes, dreaming about boxes, and learning to hate boxes.
We’ve played the “what’s in this box?” game a lot. Sure there are labels on the outside, but the third grade hand writing often defeats my ability to figure out what is in the box. And some of the labels are, ah, creative. “Garage Misc.” appears on several boxes out there.
We’ve managed to find most of the things we use in daily life, but some items continue to remain hidden in the sea of boxes filling our tiny little garage stall. I can’t for the life of me find my tools. No hammer means no pictures on the walls. Today I gave up looking for the box of tools and bought a new hammer. If my memory is right I did the same thing at least once before. This is the third hammer I own.
I had hoped, a week ago, to be ready to move this stuff to storage by this weekend. Now I am hoping we’ll be ready for that chore next weekend.
One good note: one of our neighbors is moving out and they are taking all the empties as fast as we produce them. They get much needed boxes, and I don’t have to haul them all to the trash compactor.