(I wrote most of this one Thursday evening... but then I didn't get finished... so here it is now...}
So, remember in, like, February when I said that Steady and I would be getting a place together come July? Well, that somehow turned into June. ("Somehow" = we fell in love with an apartment building and had to hurry up and reserve a place before they were all gone) Somehow that turned into "it makes more sense to get the next bigger one anyway."
(I would make a joke here about how my boyfriend can ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS be upsold, but he had to make a decision on the spot and really, I think we'll be happier in the larger apartment even if it does seem to be completely devoid of closets.)
Then, it was going to be "sometime in June, before July 1". Then it turned into "let's just move June 1, and be finished with the old apartment." Then suddenly, Wednesday, it became "Let's move on Sunday."
We've had to really dive into packing, because, hi, I have approximately six metric assloads of possessions and approximately 3% of them are even put away at any given time, let alone, anywhere near packed.
I hate packing. I HATE it. I can't articulate why, but I fucking hate packing.
Wednesday night, we had to get started on the packing. It was to be "laundry and books", because the bulk of my clothes and books is rivaled only by the "kitchen and kitsch" category. I asked Steady which thing he wanted and he chose "laundry".
Now, you should know that if there's one thing I actually do put away when I am finished with it, it's my books. I do actually take care of my books. I don't take care of my clothes or my shoes or paper or dishes or anything else really, but the books? Are all shelved except for the one I am reading.
The clothes? Are everywhere in piles.
I thought he would take books, because books was very obviously the easier category. He didn't. He took laundry.
It got ugly.
"Okay, I started the wash. Now what?" "Put the clean clothes away." "Which ones are clean?" "The ones that have a shape, don't smell and don't appear dirty." "I don't know which clothes you're talking about. This pile by the door here, is this all dirty?" "Probably not." "Okay, well, I think that all the clothes on the floor are dirty." "Okay, if you're gonna wash them all, what do I care?" "Okay." [sits down on the couch and stares at some television.] "Is there something I could be doing?" "Do you want to trade and you'll do books and I'll do laundry?" "No. I just think it would be much easier for you to tell which of these clothes are clean." "What do you want me to do?" "I am just saying that I can't discern which are clean and which are dirty." "Do you want to pack the books and I'll pack the clothes?" "No. I just don't know which ones are clean." "There aren't, like, magically sorted piles. The stuff in the hampers is dirty. The rest of it is open to interpretation." "I can't tell what's clean and what's dirty!" "I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU WANT FROM ME! DO YOU WANT TO PACK THE BOOKS? I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU ARE ASKING ME TO DO HERE!" "I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU WANT FROM ME EITHER!"
And then we switched jobs and everything was fine...