No thrilling stories of cat disappearance or misplaced dairy products for you today, but I do have something amusing to relate. (A bit of useful background here: my upstairs hallway has a railing open to the living room on one side, and is basically a catwalk over the dining room/entryway, with railings on both sides.)

The movers came out last Friday morning to do a walk-through of my house so they could write up an estimate. The previous night I had straightened up and vacuumed and generally made the house presentable, since they’d be traipsing all through it; no piling a bunch of crap in the bedroom and closing the door! The movers were nice, the walk-through went very quickly, and everything was dandy.

Jag came over that evening to help me start the Big Weekend of Packing. As we stood in the living room, he frowned and looked at the unplugged black torchiere pole lamp standing behind the couch. “Um, did you know that you have a pair of panties sitting on this lamp?”

Yes, a pair of my skivvies had apparently plunged through the railing from the second floor, probably while I was clearing out a pile of laundry in the hall, and had been coquettishly draped over a lamp the whole time the movers were here.