>I hate packing. I hate it, I hate it hate it. And the weird thing about packing our house up to go to the brown house is that the only thing that feels good is throwing things away. That gives me a grim sense of satisfaction. Everything else is a big old drag. I have been trying to round up boxes, and it is like panning for gold. I’m serious — the other day, I was behind a supermarket, digging through the snowy dumpsters to get boxes. I was tossing aside fishy styrofoam containers and reaching determinedly for the elusive wine box that was just out of reach when I thought, “Gee, there ought to be an easier way to do this.” So I called up a big supermarket to ask them for boxes and they told me to come by the next morning. I traveled half an hour to get there and got two boxes. Two. In that whole supermarket, they had a grand total of two boxes. “We sent the boxes to the depot already,” said the woman at the information desk. Finally, I was able to score six egg boxes (surprisingly sturdy) from the market across the street from the house, but it took me about 45 minutes to fill them all. “Now what?” I thought. What is it about cardboard boxes? Are people hoarding them? Do I look like the kind of person who would do something dangerous with a cardboard box? Is that why no one will give me any? I mean, I am asking, no, begging people for their _garbage_ here. Hope is on the horizon. My mom took pity on me and bought me a stack of boxes, and my brother in law is going to bring some from his factory, and I think I have formed a shaky alliance with the guy behind the meat counter at the market in our neighborhood. With any luck, this weekend will be a more productive packing venture.