Moving is the ultimate truth test.

As I pack up the house my husband and I have lived in for eight years, box towers line the halls, packed and stacked like big-city skylines. Each room coughs up its contents like a kid with consumption. I fear I might never see a clear counter again.

I don’t know about you, but when I feel out of control — and believe me this is one of those times — I cope by tackling tasks I can control, such as vigorously ironing tea towels. But that doesn’t get you too far, especially when you have a whole house to pack and move.

Don’t let me or anyone else kid you: Moving is a very bad time.

Actual conversation:

Husband: “Well, you’re cranky.”

Me: “Look, I’m miserable and I intend to make everyone around me miserable.”

Husband: “It’s working.”

The more I sorte

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