I hate packing. I hate packing for vacations, for weekend visits to my Mom's, and of course for moving my household. The universe provided me with boxes via Donna (via Heidi); it did not magically provide me with the desire to pack.
I tried to bribe myself with bad TV, with movies. But there was only so much stuff in my living room, or that could reasonably be brought there. Can you say "procrastination?" (I knew you could.) I managed to get started. Then stalled out. Then started again ... but mostly stalled out. I've learned a trick or two throuogh the years, so I could look at it like this: I work well under pressure, so I was ensuring those working conditions. In the last 5 or so days before the moves arrived, it was finally time to get to it.
My cats are not the brightest bulbs of the lot, but they seem to know something is going on when I take out my "ditty bag" or a suitcase. Similarly, once the house was full of empty boxes, cat radar seemed to be working: "something is up. code yellow." Shindy, of course, treated all the boxes as the latest in kitty playgrounds.
But once I got serious, I could tell the cats had raised the security threat to code orange. Strange boxes everywhere. Familiar stuff missing or moved. When the movers arrived to pack my kitchen, and whatever else I wanted them to do, code red! Plus, the telltale ditty bag appears, and suitcases. And cat carriers.
I'm sure Shindy and Delilah were trying to communicate with the neighborhood outdoor cats. "help! bad things are about to happen! save us!" Shut in a room all day while strangers tromp around the house, shifting boxes and furniture. Not a great precedent for the move to Phoebe and Thorsten's. Poor dears.
Well, we all survived. And my stuff got packed, loaded and delivered.
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