Pack. Pack. Packpackpack.

I have packed little but supplies so far.  I am sitting here staring at eight (8) paper boxes which are full of beads and jewelry bits. 

My car is a PT Cruiser.

It don't work.

Apparently we can get someone to ship some of it, which is good.  Very good.  We'll probably ship everything that isn't beads or clothes at this point.

Yeah, pictures of materials are going to have to wait until we get home.  I have a bunch of fun ideas, though, from the stuff I've located that I didn't know I had.  For a long time I was keeping pendants and focals in labeled workshop drawers, but this really doesn't work for me -- I do better having vaguely-themed containers to sort through.  I don't know what I would do without M, who has labeled all my bead boxes and sorted them by color so I can select matching shades to go with my drops and charms and found objects.  Unfortunately this also means 54 divider boxes to pack.

Other than that, it's a pick-through-and-see-if-I-want-it thing.  I'd like to have my Egyptian perfume bottles, and I'll bring the flower press.  Not the construction paper, but yes on my pad of glitter cardstock.  Not the childhood fiction notebooks, but the more recent ones, and where does that cutoff fall?  Tedious work, and arguably work I could have done before, but there's also a lot of stuff that was M's pre-me.  It's a nightmare, sorting other people's things.  Hopefully what with moving in together (we've lived together for two years, we've just never moved together, if that makes sense) it'll all become communal property.

Also ironing out finances and such.  Closing bank accounts.  Trying to remember all the thousands of places I have to change my registered address.

Amusing: One of the things I've found?  When I was about thirteen my church did this thingy where the girls were supposed to start journals to present to our future husbands as a wedding gift.  I kept mine for about two weeks.  The first entry is all about why I'm doing this, and also I apologize for my handwriting and explain why I chose the journal I did (answer: it had seashells on, and looked grown-uppish and reminded me of pirates, an excellent combo).  The second entry gets into me trying to imagine what Future Husband, Esquire will be like.  I don't seem to have come up with anything concrete, which maybe should have indicated something to me.  The third entry is me trying to figure out what the hell I'm supposed to talk about, because I've run out of ideas for what a man I'd be interested in might want to read about.

Judging by how it turned out, I should have been writing about things I did in art class, my growing uneasiness about my tendency to get into abusive relationships with Scorpios, and incidents in my career as an amateur pornographer, including the time my parents found my Star Wars slashfic.  (Don't ask if you value your innocence.)  M might not have appreciated the prescribed "To my Dear Husband" salutation, though.

Here the journal ends, which is a little disappointing.

Ooh, so remember how I gushed about the Orleans Hotel-Casino in Las Vegas?  Guess where M and I will be making a stop, as my graduation present.  I've wanted to see New Orleans since my mother gave me Interview with a Vampire for my birthday when I was eleven.  I'll also, for the first time, see the Mississippi.  Which is cool.  BUT NEW ORLEANS OMG.  The French Quarter.  Two nights.  GUSH.

Also, remember how I had a nice three-day-a-week blog schedule going?  I'm allowing this to be utterly murdered until mid-January.  I think I can be pretty proud of myself, though: I kept it faithfully while taking five classes and holding down a job, so I think I deserve to award myself a mental Certificate of Excellence.

Yay.