I found my red sweatpants this morning. I usually wear them to bed but have had to settle for a threadbare pair of blue ones for the past several days. The red sweats were actually in a box labeled "Marianne's dresser clothes."
When the move occurred two weeks ago, my dresser drawer stuff was quickly emptied and dumped into boxes. So, I've spent the past several days strolling along the many box aisles in the garage and shop, looking for something that might resemble a container of my clothes.
If only I'd asked St. Anthony, the patron saint of lost items, he would have promptly directed me to the bedroom where the clothes belonged in the first place. My friend Ela from London told me a similar story yesterday about months and months of searching for song lyrics to Lord of the Rings, only to discover them in the book she'd read long ago.
If I could be so lucky with the myriad of other needed items both Bill and I have pursued in vain during our short stay at this new home. More than a year ago, my blogger friend, Cis the Retired, counseled me on the perils of moving and subsequently going through daily disorientation after having lived at the same place for decades and knowing where most items were located. I took her advice and decided to stay put at the time.
But, when everything worked out that we could come to this farm, I hoped I could organize our move well enough that Cis' admonition would not come true. I organized all right, but my brain didn't keep up pace with the extent of my meticulous planning. I clearly remember putting Bill's vast supply of batteries in a box, but I don't remember what the box looked like. Was it a Kokanee beer box from Schweitzer Conoco, or was it one of those apple boxes from Yoke's? Damned if I know.
Yesterday, Bill bought Triple A batteries for the new TV remote before coming home from his third load of leftover items at the former place. Of course, I threw away the instructions for the new remote which tell what code to type in so the batteries didn't do much good when I tried to flip on the tubes around the house.
A few days ago, I needed an envelope to pay a bill. Not one of those 50 boxes out there in the garage would raise its hand and say, "We've got envelopes." I finally found some old greeting cards in a pile from a kitchen drawer that I'd rubberbanded together for the move. Within the stack was one unused greeting card-sized envelope, even with no writing on the outside. I was getting so desperate to mail that bill that I even entertained the idea of crossing out the writing on a used envelope.
The next morning, Bill asked where the envelopes were. He needed to pay a bill. That night we stopped at Yoke's and bought envelopes.
I cannot find my place mats for my new dining room table. Again, the labels on boxes give no clue. I've gained a strange fondness for those many boxes that say "Bill's books" or "Marianne's books" because, at least, we know that we didn't stuff the envelopes, batteries or placemats inside them, and we can just walk past and leave them alone.
This morning, those boxes offered up a great find for Bill who was getting ready to go to church. After ironing some clean clothes, he realized he hadn't seen his dress shoes for two weeks. I was shoveling Rambo and Casey apples out in the barn when I heard him holler, "Marianne, I've got a find!"
"Whaddidyou find?" I yelled back.
"My shoes," he said triumphantly, holding them up for me to see. "I've got shoes!"
Speaking of needed apparel, the most urgent problem I've encountered from all this confusion is the location of my half dozen bras. They're lost somewhere among the stuff we packed, but I'm guessing St. Anthony is just too embarrassed to come around and tell me where they are. After all, he showed up on the scene long before women's lib, and I'm sure he must be "old school" when it comes to telling women where their undergarments are located.
Having been unsuccessful so far in the uncovering the mystery of my bra whereabouts, I've been wearing the same one since we moved. Finally, the other day, I planned the wash cycle in the Maytag to occur early enough but late enough in the evening that I could remove my sole, sweat-soaked and soiled bra, wash it, and throw it in the dryer so it would be ready to serve me the next morning.
In the meantime, I continue to search the garage and shop without much luck. I'm pretty sure Bill won't be to enthusiastic about stopping by J.C. Penney's any time soon to pick out a 38 C to bring home to me, so I'll keep searching and hoping.
Cis, why didn't I listen to you?