I am hating moving this time. Normally it is a very relaxing thing - organizing, deciding where things go, throwing things out - all things I love. This time? Not so much.
I have been helping Dad get packed for his move to Ukraine. On top of packing up all my things for my move. And working. And going out (I have a life now, it means I have to multitask) and walking the dogs and sometimes I sleep too.
The dilemma is how to fit 60 years of a man's life into 10 boxes. Boxes which are not allowed to weigh over 66 pounds. Boxes he wants to load with 400 thousand books.
I have packed three. Three boxes. First I packed one and realized it hadn't been wrapped in plastic first. Oops. So, I had to unpack it. And wrap everything into garbage bags and repack. I don't know why this is, but I am guessing it is in case the plane lands in the ocean, they don't want your stuff to get wet. Then I packed the second box. Wrapped it, packed it and taped it. LOTS of tape. However, I forgot to weigh it.
Dad came up with a brilliant way to weigh. (Ha! Say that ten times fast.) I would get on the scale and he would weigh me and then pass me a box. Then we would delete one amount from the other. Seems simple. However, the second time I got on the scale he pointed out I had gained two pounds in the interim. It had been 30 seconds. Who gains weight in 30 seconds? I do. That's who.
Anyway, on with the story. The second box was 20 pounds over. So I had to unpack it and repack it. Twice. The third box didn't go much smoother. I realized after the fact I had forgotten the damn plastic bag again. And then it was 10 lbs under and then 4 lbs over. I give up!!!!
I swear, he is NEVER allowed to move anywhere again. If he thinks he's coming back, I have news for him.