I broke Mom's toe.

Well, actually, no. To be honest, the milkcrate broke mom's toe. But it's my milkcrate, so really, it's legally my fault.

Anyway, I've been pretty good. I don't complain about mom too much. Okay. So, I'll complain now.


Let me preface this by pointing out that I'm moving to Maryland. So, I started packing like, three weeks ago. I started with box #1. Box #1 was massive. It had my new bedlinens -- "twin extra long" -- and a whole bunch of clothes. Okay. Fine.

I couldn't lift it.

So I unpacked it, and it became boxes #4 and #7. And if you see how the boxes were packed, it would make perfect sense. #2 is books, manga, and two pair of shoes, #3 desk stuff, fragile stuff, wall stuff, a lamp, and a pillow. #4 is the bedlinens. #5 is clothes -- along with #7 -- and #6 is stationary, and towels.

Okay. Now, I have an itemized list in dark tourquise Sharpie™ on the outside of each box, detailing what's inside each box. My system may not make sense to you but, that doesn't really matter. It makes sense to me.

So mom decides that we have to pack today.

I point to the pile of boxes in the dining room. The boxes that are already sealed with packing tape. All but two of them. So she goes into the ones that aren't sealed, and starts giving me a hard time about what I'm bringing.

"Do you really need to--"
"Yes, I need a lamp. That's important."
"But what else is in here? It's a big box."
"A pillow."

(This is the point where she takes the lamp out -- in pieces, because I couldn't get it in in one piece -- and pulls the pillow out. She stares at the sheer amount of newspaper crammed in the bottom of the box, to keep all my good mugs -- my decorative, I-don't-drink-out-of-these mugs -- from rattling around. Plus all my other important stuff was in there. My Dante awards were in there. The pillow served the same purpose as the newspaper.

Okay. Fine. Whatever.

I had to fight with her over whether or not I needed to bring two boxes of clothes.

I'm going to let you all in on a little secret: even though I worked in a Theatrical costume shop here in Nowheresville, I can't fold clothes. So, those boxes were more fluff than substance, so to speak.


Oh, and, since I know you're all wondering about the bit with mom's toe... well, I don't actually own a laudry basket. I mean, we have some, somewhere, but, uh, I didn't get one. I got a black milk crate that says "Tuscon Dairy" and "misuse liable to prosecution". Okay, so, I was using it to cart my stuff to the pile of boxes, to pack.

...and I kinda left it there.

...and mom kicked it. Or tripped on it. Or stubbed her toe.

I'm not sure what she did, but I heard her scream at me from the other side of the house for leaving it where I did.

But, y'know, hey. I've broken a toe or two on those old fashioned irons (the kind that had to be heated on a stove), because mom insists they make excellent doorstops. Funny thing is, when they're a hundred years old and they're unpainted, they blend in very well with an Oak floor.

Yeah.

But every time I do that, I get a lecture about looking where I'm going.

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