Night Of The Living Pack

Whoever said that you get better with each successive wave of packing preceding a move completely failed to take into my account my own idiocy. I think as I get older and live more and more in my head with my stories–or live in my fingers with my video games–I lose more touch with reality and exactly how it operates.

Case in the point:

The wife stopped me as I absentmindedly ran our beloved coffee machine under the tap when she asked me to clean it up before we packed it away for the new apartment. For some reason when she said “clean” my brain went into autopilot and equated that with “Dishes. Clean in similar fashion to” and so I got out the scrubber and the soap, and got the water going and did a bang up job of getting all that stained coffee and detritus off the machine until I heard her asking me exactly what the hell was I doing with the coffee maker. To which I responded, “Washing it.”

In other randomness, I also came across the house keys for my old home back in Canada. For whatever reason, they were sealed away in a tiny bag, and that bag itself was greasy with some kind of liquid whose presence I am at a complete loss to explain. It’s like the keys suddenly decided to bleed to death.

Also, Uno, the cat we rescued lo those many years ago, is exhausting herself by claiming every new box that appears, going through a meticulous process of rubbing her face against it, and then sitting on it while glaring at us. This lasts exactly long enough for her to A) notice a new box and move over to repeat the process B) Piss either me or the Wife off until we attempt to kick at her and moves away in that resentful, pudgy way she has about her.

Anyway, back to packing…