Packing

Oh my god, I own an iron. I even have a drill. No way! I found this great old purple sweater I'd sort of written off. It's a turtleneck my mom sent me (I look ghastly in turtlenecks). I have brass polish, for some reason, and a ton of candles, and incense. Wow.

Does anyone living in the area know of an independently-owned place run by a really nice person who could use the business? I have a watch that needs a band. Woah!



I was raised by two only children (sort of), one of whom used to bounce quarters off my bed to test my sheet-tucking, while the other posted a chart of chores on the fridge, with spaces to check off when each chore was done. To teach us a lesson about the system of justice, if a chore was not checked off (I had a little brother), we held a "trial" during which the transgressor could present their case, and my father would argue for the other side, and then all of us would decide the verdict.

One of my weekly tasks was to vacuum the Venetian blinds, and every week I did vacuum them, thoroughly. Another was to pull weeds from our beautiful poured-rock yard and to spray the roots with weed poison. Which might be why, today, I'm a little "forgetful" sometimes. The person I became isn't nearly so perfect, but I have my moments; they happen when I'm under great pressure. As I was until I turned 18 and moved out of the housing development where I grew up and on to a life of slatternliness, punctuated by moments of absolute godliness.

I think I'm about 1/4 done with all the packing. My boxes are pristinely taped and stacked, in order of size, neatly against the walls. Perhaps you are frightened, and perhaps you admire me. Either way, you have to admit that you're insanely jealous of me and my organizational skills. I know you are. I would be jealous, too, if I was not me, but you.