I love boxes. I love them so much that I like to keep a few around every time I move to a new apartment. Sometimes I even leave them packed full of stuff. For months. With the exception of my baseball card collection, I emptied the contents of every last box I had when I moved to Atlanta. It's harder to avoid unpacking when you're living with someone, but there's no rule about getting rid of the boxes (see picture above for example of a first generation box*). Charrow put up some resistance to my acquisitional tendencies, so I finally gave in and toned down the prowling.
About two months ago, I had a legitimate reason to hoard them once again. The keys to packing are box size and item nesting. Too big, and you'll never get your arms around it OR if you're a poor packer, you or the unfortunate victims you enlist to help you move will never be able to lift it. Too small, and you'll end up with 4 items per box, and a lot of wasted packing tape. The copy paper box is the obvious utilitarian receptacle, although it's a little small for kitchen stuff. My second favorite box is now the wine box. If you get them from the liquor store, they still have the cardboard separators. I had way too much fun packing glasses yesterday because of those little inserts. No more wrapping mugs in newsprint and getting ink all over my fingers. I don't know what what took me so long to realize their usefulness. Last in my packing arsenal is the tall kitchen bag. Towels, bedding, jackets,
lumpy cats, blankets. They all take up way too much cubic space unless you shove them in a trash bag and throw them in the truck to fill in the cracks.
Charrow has been extremely patient with my "ways" as she likes to tell everyone. In other words, she stays in the other room and periodically asks me for assignments. I blame my systemic rigidity on too many moves as a military brat and too many games of Tetris. I was conditioned to be a packing machine.
On Sunday, the cardboard fruits of our labor will be loaded and ready to transport up to Chevy Chase, MD where they will sit in a moving truck until we get the nod from the co-op board. Our interview is (
finally) scheduled for Tuesday (12/16). Instead of flying up to NY for the interview and returning to the waiting area known as our apartment, we are setting up camp at Charrow's parents. If all goes well and they agree to let us in to their elite fold, we hope to move in by the 19th. If they inform us that we are unworthy of caressing their belly button lint, much less taking up residence in their building, we will be forced to get a storage unit and start a second round of apartment hunting (i.e. Plan B).
I'll take bodily fuzz worship over Plan B any day.
first generation box = box that item was originally packaged in upon purchase or receipt
