All the books to US destinations are mailed. Except the stack for my Dad (sorry, Dad) because the cobbler's kid... er, the writer's father... goes bare. Bear. Something.
Total postage: $98.13. I forgot to count how many envelopes.
The ones to Parts Foreign are packaged up, but they might get mailed after the move. I'm sorry, but I have to fill out these customs forms, you see, and I am not sure I have the anything to do it right now.
Current state of the Bear: wander around devastated apartment meeping softly. Pick up fragile or unwieldy object (that's all that remains unpacked). Meep softly. Look around for packing material. Put object back down. Shuffle off through piles of paper.
I did figure out how to pack the Hugo (reminds me of an absolutely adorable story about Louis Gossett Jr telling his house-sitter to abandon the place to a wildfire and get him or herself to safety--and then ringing back thirty seconds later with, "You think you could grab my Emmies on the way out?" Good man) and I left it with monkeys intact. (Usually, it wears a couple of monkeys for decoration, you see.)
So now I have a bunch of oil lamp shades, cups of pencils, cast-iron frypans, and the like. Also my knife block. And the plants. And the cookbooks and a cabinet of food and some geegaws and phneh.
And some keening and rocking.
Packing is worse than unpacking, because unpacking gets better the further you go--boxes go away, a comforting and pleasant den emerges from the rubble--and packing gets worse and more chaotic and more impossible as you get closer to done.
I am not well-suited to systems of increasing entropy.
This is where I need a spouse. Because somebody else needs to come over here and pack these last four boxes for me, and maybe sweep the floor, while I keen and rock.