Packing

Sine I am now glaringly unemployed, I have plenty of time to pack. In theory.

I like packing, even if I do do it in a haphazard way. (Like I'll get to my destination without my toothbrush and toothpaste but with my bathing suit. And I'm in Vermont in winter.)

After Mardi Gras, we're moving into the guest house of a woman who should be annointed to sainthood. We've never met her - she works at the Times Picayune, where I once worked - but she supports our mission. (Oh my God. We have a mission. I'm not sure if I hate that or love that, leaning towards hate.) So I'm packing practical things, like towels and dishes, and things I just like, like candles and Scrabble. Then I'll get distracted by something I find in a closet or a drawer and the next thing you know it's 3 hours later and the room is in shambles in the name of "organization."

Packing clothing is a little more complex than usual. I've purchased a supply of $1 tshirts and $2 pants from local thrift stores for my house gutting efforts; those are my "gross clothes." Then there are the every day things and the nicer outfits. In the midst of all this, I'm emptying my drawers and closet so a friend can sublet the house while we're gone. The problem is I started packing last week, never taking into consideration that I needed to have clothes this week. Smart.

So if I'm home, there are a lot of scrubs and tshirts. Jeans and a black sweater have become my official going out outfit of January 2007. Last week, soon after I'd packed and when I was in the midst of my post-job hangover, I found myself wearing pajamas almost all day. Shower? Hair? Please. When I dragged myself into the bathroom to brush my teeth, I felt like calling KYW1060 so they could send a reporter over. Flossing would have merited breaking into regular television programming a la a presidential assassination.

One day, this is really what happened: Pajamas, gross, no sense of time, working on resume and cover letter and being bitter about it. There may or may not be a glass of wine involved. Jordan calls to ask, "Do you want anything from the outside world?" I'm puzzled, like why would he call now? Then I realized: it was 4:30 p.m. He would soon be home and realize I had hit bottom - and that would make me feel like I'd hit bottom. I raced up the stairs, hurled my body into the shower, threw on new clothes, willed the hair dryer to work faster so my hair wouldn't look like I'd just washed it, and made it downstairs again by 5:15 p.m. I felt like the woman in the old commercials who threw flour on her face when she walked out of the kitchen with the Mrs. Smith's pie.

I'm better this week. Like, it's 1:30 and ... OK, I lied. Scrubs and tshirt. I have got to find some other clothes.