No kidding, I'm dreaming about packing. Weird dreams. I'm Lucy Ricardo in one, the assembly line bearing boxes to pack instead of candy (which I would gladly stuff in my mouth -- the chocolate craving is intense). In another I've packed myself into a tiny space, surrounded by boxes and unable to get out. The worst is the one where that designer from Trading Spaces shows up and starts creating a room with my boxes and I keep screaming I need them for packing only she doesn't listen to me and just creates an even uglier cardboard room than she did on that episode a few years ago. And so it goes... Is it any wonder I wake up exhausted?
Tomorrow we call a temporary halt to the palletizing so the hubby can help me sort through his "office" (which is a corner in the basement). I can't do it by myself, he can't do it by himself. This is definitely one of those joint projects. I'd throw everything away, he'd throw nothing away. Together maybe we'll strike a happy medium.
So we received a letter a couple weeks ago from the company we have our life insurance through. Turns out we bought a 20 year policy...twenty years ago. So we're in the process of trying to get a new policy. Which wouldn't be a big deal except we're moving out of the country and that apparently raises all kinds of red flags in the insurance industry 'cause they think every other country is a third world country or war zone. Seriously! We did phone interviews with one company rep today and she honest-to-goodness asked (1) if we'd be visiting areas outside of major cities [read: uncivilized] or (2) if we planned to move into a war zone. So we may or may not have life insurance when we leave.
But we will have plenty of boxes.
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