A Random Image
 

Jett Superior laid this on you on || August 22, 2001 || 9:25 am

Okay, we moved into Large and Old-But-Interior-Newly-Done-By-Us House last October. Perhaps some of you remember.

Upon waking this morning, one unpacked box caught my eye. It sat there, challenging me, plaguing me, in turns demanding to have something done with it and then wheedling, “Please? PLEASE empty me and put the contents in their rightful places!”

In truth, I should just throw the whole darn thing out. I mean, come on, it’s been nearly a year now that the box has graced the hearth of the fireplace in my bedroom, virtually untouched. It can’t be all that necessary. Same for the box sitting over in front of the shelving unit that holds my CDs. And the smallish one next to the chest in the hallway. At the very least, I should dispose of them with extreme prejudice.

At the very most, I should unpack them and find a home for their contents like a self-respecting grown-up would. Why these boxes have been the focus of my passive-aggressive laziness, I have no idea. I unpacked, sorted, and carefully arranged a whole house-worth’s boxes….11 rooms and a couple of closets-worth, to be exact. What in God’s name is the hold-up where these three not-so-big cubes of cardboard are concerned? What is going on here? I feel like the boxes and I are doing some strange little dance, like we’re stuck in a Twilight Zone episode.

“UNPACK YOURSELVES! GET TO IT!” I command. They are silent, but defiant. They move not one whit.

The EXTREME lazy way to handle this would be to shove them into the depths of a closet where they will be out of sight, out of mind until I meet my demise and they are discovered and pilfered through by my children. I can hear Scout now, in her silky grown-up voice, saying, “Why in bloody hell would mom keep a box full of crappy odds and ends, virtually untouched?” Sam would reply in his man-voice (I shudder at the thought of my boys having man-voices), “I dunno, but the box was mom’s, let’s keep it.” Mathias would have no say-so, as he would be off living the life of a wizened world traveller somewhere, with a packet of my letters tucked lovingly in his pocket.

The only problem with the Shoving Them Into A Closet Plan (a.k.a. ‘Plan B’…’Plan A’ says to continue allowing them their cubic foot-and-a-half of space out in the open) is that there is no closet unfilled or remotely near unfilled in this home. Each of the five bodies that occupy this house have claimed their share of the spaces within it to the utmost degree and I don’t see any buckets of Lego’s, assorted Barbie appendages, or tools being carted out to the curb to be fingered delightedly and nabbed by passers-by anytime soon.

*sigh* So I guess Plan C is all that is left; that one’s the plan that’s subtitled The Get Offa Yer Lazy Dead Ass And Unpack These Motherfucking Boxes Today Plan. I hang my head in defeat, because the boxes outlasted me. I am acquiescing. I am turning off the computer and turning my attention to unpacking the remnants of last year’s moving expedition with no more delay.

Viva la cardboard!

Nobody worked it out »

Don´t be shy. Lay it on me.

RSS feed for comments on this post.

(you know you want to)