... or maybe it's just sex. I'm not one to delve into intimate details of my life, so I'll just say that, quite recently, I had one of those experiences which makes you see colors that don't actually exist, hear time, and generally glow all over without a nightlight. Well, okay, since we're sharing, it was actually two such experiences this evening. So maybe that explains some of my current goofiness.

But I also really believe that there's something about the process of packing boxes, making telephone calls, and generally preparing to move that does bad, bad things to my active-neuron count. I have spent such a lot of time over the past few days going, "For the love of God, where did I put my _________?" I get in this mode where I see an empty box, I see some stuff, and I just have to put the two together, with reckless disregard for considerations such as, "Hmm, I might use that in the next week." We've probably gone through twice as much packing tape as we actually need, given my penchant for ripping a box back open again to pull something out again (only to pack it away in a NEW box 20 minutes later).

And then there's the fact that I can't seem to figure out that things have been removed from their normal spots around the house. Like, the glasses and plates have been packed. It is embarrassing for me to reflect on just how many times I have walked into the kitchen, flung open that cupboard, and then stared vacantly at the empty shelves, much in the manner of a Disney character costume. (Seriously, those things are creepy. I know they're supposed to be all cute and happy, but the eyes are blank!) Yesterday I unplugged and packed the printer; last night there were three different times where I hit the "print" button and then, because this was not a quick realization for me, thought, "Huh. I wonder why it's taking so long." Because the printer is in a BOX in the BASEMENT, ya doofus. Argh.

The up-side is, all this packing gives me a very clear, believable reason to screen my calls and not talk to my MIL. The woman called FOUR times on Sunday to "wish my son a happy Father's Day." Each time, we were either out or busy, so she left messages, every time. This is not a woman who trusts the answering maching to do its job. ("Yeah, sorry, Carol... the answering machine was on the fritz, so we had asked the toaster over to answer the phone for the day. Obviously it wasn't up to the task.") And, of course, we all know how many times she called me on Mother's Day. (Though she didcall Willem on Mother's Day, too.)

Anyway, there is an end in sight. We're running out of things to put in boxes, so we should be in good shape to move on Monday and close on Tuesday. I hope so, too, because I really need to be smarter soon!