Awkward Turtle

I HATE packing. On most occasions, I've been able to knock it out in one day, piling everything into my mom's minivan and dad's truck and then going off on my way. I'm not afforded that luxury now. Half my stuff will go to Greenville, where I'm living for the summer, and the rest goes back home, only to sit in boxes and bins and garbage bags and God knows what other types of containers until I get to start the whole process over again when I move to Boston in September. I also have way more stuff (read: junk) to account for since Charlotte was really my first home.

*Extended side note: YES, my mom still has a minivan. She bought it after all three of her kids were already in (or graduated from) college, complete with an entertainment system in the back. Why, you might ask, would a mother with kids in college need a minivan with an entertainment system in the back? When we take road trips now, we generally come in separate modes of transportation since we're coming from different places. And no one needs a DVD player when you're driving around town, especially when your town is approximately one square mile. She got it so that when her and my dad are traipsing around for retirement, she can sit in the way way back (we've always called the bench seat the way way back and I am just now realizing how juvenile it sounds in writing) and watch the Office/nap/stretch her legs out while my dad drives. But this is all beside the point.
 
So here I am, blogging up until the very last moment we have internet, surrounded by piles and piles of clothes and bedding and pens (seriously, how have I acquired so many pens over the past two years?), with nothing to do except sulk about how much packing there is to do (packing that will need to be done again in such a short amount of time). UGH.

This is my only outlet of escape. I can't watch TV because our TV's gone. I can't eat, because all our dishes are packed up. I can't work out because I am not very strategic in my clothing packing and the only thing I've left out for the past three days are my bathing suit and a pair of flip flops. I've had to pull random oversized t-shirts out of the nooks and crannies of laundry baskets and Sterilite snap bins just to go out to my car. Clearly, I'm under a little bit of pressure, especially with summer breathing down my neck and not a single thing planned out except that I'm moving to live with Jack and I'm bringing at least ten unread books. THAT'S IT. The other major stress is whether everything will fit in the truck when my dad comes down next week. Which leads me to mention- the Turtle.

The Turtle and I have a love-hate relationship. Wait... just a hate relationship. A long time ago, my parents decided that a minivan was just not big enough to pack things into when we went on long trips. They needed some kind extra space... a backpack for a car, if you will. So they bought the Turtle. A plastic hump that you strap onto the top of the car to give you a little bit more room to fit things. Why do I hate the Turtle? Let me count the ways.

1. It's loud: On a good day, the only thing you hear from the turtle is the occasional slap of one of its straps hitting the side of the car. On a bad day (meaning almost every time it was on our car), you hear the constant FWAP FWAP FWAP FWAP FWAP, punctuated by a loud PING! every so often. We took a 24 hour road trip to Florida every year, usually without stopping. You do the math.
2. It's disgusting: You know what your car looks like after driving through the swampy humidity of southern states like Georgia. We'd have to draw straws for who would have to unlatch the front latch.
3. The latches: I should say "latches". There are none left. The Turtle is as old as I am, so over the years, the snaps that hold the thing shut have disappeared. You'd think that would be the cue to trash it and buy a new one (or just not have a Turtle anymore), but my thrifty father would have none of that. "There's nothing wrong with the Turtle!" he says as he cuts a wire coat hanger and threads it strategically through the clasps, securing it with pliers.
4. There IS something wrong with the Turtle: this one is going to need some sub bullets:

1. The time when the top wasn't latched down and it flew open, causing our tent and several pillows to fly off the top of our car on the side of the road. We found the tent three weeks later (What a save!).
2. The time when the top wasn't latched down and THE WHOLE TURTLE FLEW OFF OUR CAR. My dad went back and got it ("There's nothing wrong with the Turtle!").
3. The time when we crushed the turtle backing out of a carport. It got completely mangled. In my head, I was cheering- "Yes! The demise of the Turtle! They're finally going to throw it away!" My dad, banging out the dents with his hand- "There's nothing wrong with the Turtle!"
4. The time when the Turtle was leaking (aka every time after it got crushed by the carport) and we have to double pack everything in black plastic garbage bags. We looked REALLY classy unpacking this stuff when we went to Disney World.
   
5. The time when my parents showed up to move me out from college with the Turtle after I specifically asked them not to. I'm still not ready to talk about this one.
5. And finally- why is it called the Turtle when the picture on it clearly shows a snail?

I think it's obvious how much I hate the Turtle. Which is why this next statement is going to tell you just how much this whole packing thing is stressing me out. In a text message draft at approximately 8:32 pm last night, I almost asked my mom- "I'm afraid everything won't fit. Maybe you should bring the Turtle." I cringed thinking about sending it. It's like considering dating your third grade boyfriend again when you're living at home in your parents basement and you know you're better than that. But then, like magic, came the saving text from my mom- "Dad might bring an enclosed trailer on the back of the truck."

Phew! That was a close one.

*End note: I still HATE the Turtle.