Today, I am unpacking the wrong books. I'm unpacking whatever happens to be in these boxes and putting them on shelves: guide books, food books, cookbooks, science fiction, fantasy, other fiction, grammar books. There's space for some of them here in the office, but not nearly as many as I'm unpacking. My work books - I finally realized - aren't even in this room right now, so no matter how many of these boxes I unpack, I will not find them. Eventually, however, the shelves will be mostly full, and then I'll need to clear them away again for the books which need to be here, work books, in this room, on these shelves.
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The packers stopped short in our living room, confronted by floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that covered two walls.
"Crap," one muttered. "Readers!"
I helpfully did not mention the bookcases in the bedrooms, hallway and basement.
But they mixed up all the books! Took me forever to get them back to the right shelves. I'd would have preferred to pack my own friggin books.
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I would think collectors of glass knickknacks would get more mover ire than my books. Breakable trinkets have to be wrapped in bubble wrap and newsprint. It's in the contract and everything.