What's happened to the time?

Moving from one house to another should be easy. You move your old kitchen into the new kitchen. Do the same with the living and dining rooms and all the other rooms. What's the big deal?
If only!
I'm into my third week of unpacking and putting stuff away where it probably shouldn't go, but, oh well. And the Goodwill and Soroptomist ladies, I'm sure, are getting pretty tired of the sight of me.
In fact, I'm tired of me. My normal, anecdotally-based relocation rule of thumb is: Two weeks out and two weeks in. (I also have a pregnancy-shape rule of thumb: nine months on; nine months off.) History tells me I should past the crap-stowing stage.
Except this move was NOT normal.
First of all, we moved nineteen-thousand pounds, a fourth of which consisted of packing materials. Another quarter consisted of anchors, chains, and rope with no boat into which they could be stowed.
Second, the house I packed and labeled for wasn't the house we bought and moved into. Two days before the moving van was to arrive, we received word that the house we'd been in escrow with since mid-December would not be ours because the owner had died, and his daughter wouldn't sign the papers. Eek! (Fast forward a second. The other house had two guest rooms upstairs in which I would stage the living and dining room stuff. The house we bought had one upstairs and one downstairs. Thus much of my time has been spent migrating downstairs' stuff up, and vice versa. A Capricorn's nightmare!)
Then, one day before the van was to arrive, the van arrived. Just to survey the job, they said. Ha! Within an hour, furniture and boxes began disappearing. Like a rabbit with a coyote on its tail, I packed even faster, sometimes remembering to label the box, sometimes forgetting to keep kitchen stuff separate from bedroom-number-three stuff. You can just imagine!
Third, we have such a fetching view of the San Juan Islands. Our front window has turned into a veritable TV screen that we can't take our eyes off. (We even contemplated arranging the furniture for stadium seating, but didn't because it looked stupid.) Thus, it's entirely understandable when, for great periods, unpacking takes a backseat to figuring out which ridge is on which island. Is that node on Orcas or Blakely? Are both those hills on San Juan, or is one a part of Vancouver Island? Is that bald eagle headed straight at us? I'll tell you, if you have a schedule to keep, this is not the place for you.
Anyway, my goal for today is to have the last of the stuff put away, so the next phases can begin: window treatments, indoor plants, guest rooms, and the garden (we still don't know what's a weed and what's a horticulturist's find). I actually thought I'd be done by noon, except, alas, David discovered marinetraffic.com, and now we spend hours identifying each tanker and tug plying its way up or down Rosario Straits before our very eyes.