Boxes and boxes and boxes

Just when you think this publishing biz is all "have your people call my people and we'll do lunch" a day like yesterday comes around. (Note: I don't really have any people who make calls for me and I almost never do lunch. It's a real problem.)

Yesterday, Lisa, Jean, and I trekked over to the wilds of our distribution center hauling wagons filled with quilts and boxes of quilts. As far as warehouses go, ours is excellent, top of the line, state of the art, and all that. The first floor is filled with conveyor belts, fork lifts, and busy-ness. I try not to go there any more often than I absolutely have to because I have this mental picture of falling on the conveyor belt, being stuffed into a cardboard box and stuck on a truck headed for unknown parts. Or breaking one of those machines. Either would be really, really bad.

I usually go to pick up a turkey at Thanksgiving and am always certain to stay on designated paths.

The second floor is quiet. Or the only part I venture into is. These are pallets filled with boxes filled with old photo models. Years and years and years and years of old photo models. And behind the pallets are shelves. And behind the shelves are more pallets.

And because we most often borrow quilts from designers and return them, there aren't a lot of quilt boxes. Some of them are over here. And some are over there. A few are back that direction. And then one or two are sitting in that corner. It's an adventure. There's a map (map=list of locations). If you're good at reading maps, it's a pretty simple operation. The operation consists of pulling 6 or 7 boxes down because the one you need is always on the bottom, opening, pulling out or putting in quilts, resealing the box, and restacking the boxes. And repeat this around 30 times. Throw in a sneeze randomly just for fun.

I'm tired is what I'm saying. But we have more quilts to admire in our hallway so that's good.