We've only one room left in our condo that's playing host to un-emptied boxes. I'd feel better about that were it not for the fact that this has been the state of affairs for the past two to three months.
It's the library. The library is, according to the floor plan, the master suite walk-in closet. It's 19' long! Seems large for a closet but I've been assured by a number of my women friends that they'd fill it in little more than a heartbeat.
Given the master bathroom suite has been taken over by the cats and the master bedroom itself is the home office and TV room—not to mention the primary domain of the cats, the closet won't be housing any of our clothes. The closet in the second bedroom suffices.
Last weekend I undertook to begin on the remaining boxes. I emptied a good dozen of same. They mostly contained books. The dead-tree variety. I was impressed to note how much money I've invested in my technical career over the years—as measured by the abundance of "charge for by weight" software-related books.
I also uncovered many volumes from my leather-bound anniversary edition of the Encyclopedia Britannica. You know, that thing we all used before the advent of The Google.
I stacked all these books, and more, against the long wall of the closet and congratulated myself on a "good start made."
The plan was to empty another box or two each morning before the start of the work day and spend another day over the weekend making a serious dent in the remaining boxes. A couple of weeks like that and there'd be no more boxes and we could declare this "moving thing" done.
The best-laid schemes o' mice an' men..." as Robbie Burns was moved to say.
Sunday evening we heard a crash. I wasn't sure whence it came, but thought to check the closet/library.
I haven't had the heart to do anything with it since.