There is a lot to hate about moving: the endless sorting and sifting of belongings, the eternal search for the right-size boxes, the mess.

And then there’s being confronted with the fact that as a housekeeper you rank only slightly above Templeton the rat in Charlotte’s Web.

Yesterday as I was pulling books off the shelf to pack them for shipping to Abu Dhabi, I found—not dust bunnies, oh no.  These were dust hippomatami, veritable mammoths of dust. Dust that, with the right leadership, could’ve organized itself and killed us all in our sleep.

Guess at some point in the last ten years of living in this apartment, I should’ve vacuumed behind the books.