The apartment has vomited

And it is everywhere. The place looks like it has been visited by a three year old, hopped up on every E number he can find. There's a definite air of getting worse before it gets better, although now The General has begun to help with the packing. His MO for this operation is to take whatever he can see and put it in a box. I'm hanging on for dear life to 2 cups, 2 plates and 2 bowls, and enough cutlery to allow us to eat dinner. I discovered earlier this evening when I turned off the baby monitor that he has put the charging station somewhere in a now sealed box. I hope for the next few weeks Beautiful Girl doesn't need anything when we think she's sleeping.

We have some form of glassware in most of the boxes. I have a peculiar penchant for beautiful wine glasses (and the ambrosia to fill them) and I like to have a matching set...or, I think we counted, 7. And then we have the vases, bought in the vain hope that if I had them he would fill them. (Hmmm, that's a whole nother post.) And the crystal we got as engagement and wedding presents. All of this glass is very carefully wrapped and protected in the dozens of towels we own (a genetic predisposition from my mother's side) and our somewhat less bountiful but equally excessive Egyptian cotton bed linen (that'll be the genes again).

We have a tower of boxes in the sitting room and another in the bathroom. I fear a particularly full bladder in case there's an undiscovered fault line and I am buried under an avalanche of shoes. And we haven't even started on the wardrobes. I'm trying not to think about all the boxes I have in storage from when I sold my house and moved in with The General 3 years ago. If I haven't thought about it and can't remember what is in a box I packed that long ago, do I either need or want it? I'm terrible at these decisions...thank God the new house has an attic.

I have promised myself that the next time I move will be to the nursing home, and Beautiful Girl can deal with the tape gun.