She's a little crazy, this girl. A little controlling, to say the least. It was her idea to have them unpack. Jayne, she says, it will be easier this way. It will force us to get things organized and put away, Jayne. I love when she uses the term "us".
But then she runs off to go play Vice President every day. Leaving herself little time to attend to the trivial pursuits of daily life. Like finishing the unpacking.
So who does she dump it on? You guessed it. Yours truly. When she knows I'd rather be off writing up some new fiction. Shoe shopping. Running off to the beach house with Betty. Anything but trying to figure out where the piles of stuff she's accumulated over the last 17 years will fit in 600 less square feet.
There's one box the movers wouldn't unpack. Which is odd. What could it be? I do a quick inventory of her stuff. I can't think of anything critical she's missing.
I grab the box cutter and slit the tape. It's not a heavy box - and it doesn't make much noise. when I flip back the cardboard, I see why. Unmentionables. Which is kind of a funny term, given that I'm mentioning them here.
At first it's nothing dramatic. 40 pairs of pantyhose in a variety of shades. Some with holes in them (is she that cheap?). Sport socks. Couple chemises to sleep in. Really tame ones. A pair of flannel PJs.
Old underwear. Really old. Like why was she keeping these? Just in case there was a break-in, and the thieves snuck in and stole everything from the REAL underwear drawer, she'd have a couple pair of old backup skivvies? Just in case? I'm telling you, she's nuts. The shape these things were in, she'd be better off commando.
Then comes the odd things. An old-fashioned hankie. A yarmulke with a relative's bat mitzvah date stamped inside in gold embossed letters. Her great grandmother's salt and pepper shakers. Scarves. More pantyhose. Thigh high stockings. Now we're talking.
A garter belt. Two garter belts. Her wedding bustier. A garter (like from a wedding, but its not hers . . . aren't the guys supposed to be the ones catching the garter?).
A leather studded dog collar? Oh, wait, that was from her wedding. Long story. Well, short story, just long time ago. Catch me in Vegas between hugs and I'll spill.
Black beaded necklace and matching earrings, along with rhinestone bracelet. Damn it, that's where it's been this whole time! She thought I lost it on one of my escapades. Sheesh.
More rhinestones. Except they are attached to some weird velvet halter and shorts set. ???? More velvet, attached to satin. More satin, attached to sheer. Sheer attached to fishnet. This stuff is older than the hills. It's like going to a Frederick's of Hollywood garage sale.
Oh wait. That one is cute. And that one? Well, you never know. She might want to keep it. Ok, the fishnet stockings might be good with a Halloween costume.
Hand-knit booties? Fail. Old bra, with no elastic? Fail. Pink socks with holes in? Fail. How did one of the kids plastic toys get in here . . . wait, not a toy.
More pantyhose . . . wait . . . catsuit. What is a 40 year old mother of two doing with this? I'm going to save her future embarrassment - I'm sure when she was 25 that seemed like a good idea.
No wonder they didn't want to unpack this stuff. I'm starting to wonder if they weren't rolling their eyes the first time they packed it. Or snickering as Miss You-Know-VP-Who walked in with her conservative navy suit, high-necked sweater and sensible closed toe pumps and asked "how is the unpacking coming, gentlemen?" They're thinking "closet freak".
I can finally see cardboard on the other end, and I toss the box to the side. But something rattles. One last item. A small satin pouch, with something hard in it. Two halves of a plastic golf ball, filled with velvet. A makeshift ring box from 15 years earlier, when the Dr. knelt on the green and asked her to be Mrs.
We'll keep that one.
Treasure among the trash. Hope she's not too busy to appreciate it.