Boxes Everywhere

There are so many reasons to hate moving. The worst part? Having your nice clean, once sanitary things placed in a box where they are touching stuff that you really thought you threw out. Like when my beautiful throw pillows that can’t be disinfected are placed on the same shoe racks that once held shoes. And not just any shoes. Shoes that walked on ancient European streets that were riddled with stray dog excrement and a trillion years of disease. Remember there were plagues in Europe and your history books had illustrations of carts holding bloated corpses they took off the streets due to said plagues. Hence why my shoe dirt is not ordinary shoe dirt. Plus the road across the street from where I lived had animals on it daily when the farmers walked their cows down it. Why? I still have no clue. Maybe cows need exercise? But it is interesting to note that European farmers dress a lot better than American ones. They would spit on a John Deere hat. But nonetheless, the dirt on my shoes is nothing you’d want on your throw pillows.

Since my stuff was coming over from Europe on a boat, and we informed it would sit at the port for a good three months, I decided to put my books and papers and past work in plastic storage bins. I figured it would keep everything clean, dry, and safe. Well, safe-ish. Then, yesterday, I found 2 of the plastic lids with a mystery crud on them. Was it rat poop? Innocent dirt? Nasty, slutty dirt? Or Indiscriminate unrecognizable sludge? No clue. My worst fears tell me it’s rat poop. Or mice poop. Rat poop sounds grosser, but really, is mice poop any better? No. And of course one of the nasty bins somehow had the top pop off and the tape that was holding it on as a secondary security system also came off. So did anything get inside? No way to tell. Things like that make me wish I had just set the books in that box on fire. It’d be less painful than letting them get defiled by whatever that evil is on the lid. And even if I do convince myself it’s just some odd shaped dirt, I know myself well enough to know I’ll never be comfortable putting those books on my nice bookcase.

I haven’t even opened that many boxes and so far I’ve found wrinkled scrapbook stuff, boots with mildew, and a purse that looks like an elephant sat on it. I haven’t opened any of the boxes with breakables in it yet, but I admit, that’s partly because I’m scared. Oh well, here’s hoping the rest of the boxes are poop-free. And pray that no bats fly out. I don't think my heart could take it.