Packing sucks. The End.
Here is an example of how packing goes in the Smith household:
For two hours, I am in the dining room, painstakingly packing up our china and crystal and silver and everything imaginable. I carefully wrap each item in bubble wrap and foam and place it in a box. I securely tape each box, and label it with a bulleted list of all the items. I even have color-coded room labeling tape (no YOU are anal retentive). I stack almost 15 boxes neatly one on top of the other against the wall, labels facing out of course. I stand back to survey my work...perfectly done, just as I like it, thankyouverymuch.
Over those same two hours, Tim has been upstairs packing our tool "closet" aka a condo owner's garage. He's banging, and clanking, and making insane amounts of noise. The cacaphony dies down, and he emerges holding the fruits of his labor. . .
One box. Labeled . . .wait for it . . ."stuff".
Ladies and gentleman, I married this man. Willingly. And for all his strengths and successes, he's just not meant to pack boxes. Apparently, as he tells me time and again, there is a Sara way of doing things, and a Tim way, and if I want things done the Sara way, then don't ask Tim to do it. He's so wise.