Saturday was the Director's last day in DC. He'll be back for 4th of July. But it was his last day actually living here.
He asked if I'd take him to get the moving truck in the morning, and I offered to help him move his stuff after that as well. He had guys coming in the afternoon for the furniture and heavy things, but we could do all the smaller stuff.
So after picking up the truck we get to his house and I discover that there is a ton of stuff left to do. A ton. Like, there is shit everywhere. I accuse him of not having packed anything beforehand. He points out his living room full of packed boxes. That I can't argue with.
But still. It's a disastrous scene. And I am just plain annoyed. So, after grumbling a little - OK, a lot - I decide to be constructive. He needs to get out of here. What can I do?
He asks if I'll pack his closet. I begin by putting suits and nice shirts in hanging bags, other clothes in bags, winter clothing in those big plastic containers for clothes. I haven't known him for very long, and it's been warm for much of the time. So I've only seen a fraction of his wardrobe.
Left alone in his closet, I have the opportunity to inspect much of it.
I come across a big, ugly, red fleecy sweatshirty thing. Actually, I should just stop and mention that he is a big guy. He's 6'1" with a solid frame and seems like he's twice as big as I am. So of course all his clothes are huge. And you could fit a third grader in one of his shoes.
So here I am, pulling out shirts out to pack, and it's practically like folding sheets. I am thinking how much room every single piece of his clothing takes up. And he's moving to a tiny NY place. So it behooves him to get rid of as much as possible now.
In other words, I'm doing him a favor by suggesting items to get rid of.
I take the sweatshirt out to where he is packing in the kitchen and say, "So should I just throw out this horrible red thing?"
"Big red? I love Big Red! That's my favorite sweatshirt to sit around and watch TV in when it's cold out. That goes with me."
A few minutes later. "What about this Mets shirt? Did somebody give this to you? You don't actually wear this, do you?"
"I do when I go to games."
And then I get to the shoes. There are sturdy work boots, cool winter boots, nice loafers, sneakers, and. . .a pair of wool felt Birkenstock clog kind of things.
Clogs? He wears clogs? They're grey and hairy and the kind of shoes that make me slightly nauseous.
So though I am loathe to touch them, because they remind me of enormous gobs of dryer lint, these get paraded to the kitchen as well. "I'll just chuck these disgusting old things out, 'kay?"
"No! Not okay! I love those shoes! They're awesome at home in the winter!"
"Oh, god. You skulk around in these clogs and that grubby red fleece all winter, don't you?"
"Lis. They're really comfortable. And warm. I don't wear them out of the house."
"I would hope not. You're lucky I met you in the summer."
"You hate me right now, don't you?"
"No. Only a little."
I decide to improve my mood and his unpacking process by labeling his boxes. According to my labeling, various boxes contain: kitchen implements and elf porn; bath towels, hamster and wheel; bowls, glasses, and Barbie collection; cooking spices and nipple clamps.
He has lined up some old NY friends to help him unload the truck and move in. They might wonder if they ever really knew him in the first place.