Moving...
I'm currently sitting amidst my own filth, in a bedroom that is so far beyond a fire hazard that my mind can hardly comprehend it. To say that it looks like a tornado has passed through would be an understatement bearing such enormity that it might actually fall into the category of lying. And I don't want to commit any sins on my blog.
I have nothing but faith that my packing will be done quickly and efficiently. I am an excellent packer. I can be packed for a three day camping trip with the use of a backpack and five minutes worth of digging through my brother's outdoors gear. I can pack for a week long family vacation in ten minutes. I have a little checklist that I ring off in my head every time I pack: Do I have my crazymeds? Do I have my keys? Do I have my phone? Do I have no less that thirty-two pairs of clean socks?
And then I pick up all my stuff and exit the building.
My mother, Bless her, is starting to realize that perhaps having kids brought with it a lot more stuff than she had imagined. My mother hates stuff, and is the master of throwing stuff out. Occasionally, I go on a throwing out rampage myself. The difference between my throwing out rampages and hers lies in the fact that she never throws out full bottles of hair products that she ends up needing because she unexpectedly comes up with a date for the following Friday. Not that I have any dates this Friday, or that I've thrown out any valuable hair products of late, but I do fear that if I toss that half-full box of dryer sheets that there will suddenly be a world-wide dryer sheet shortage and I will never wear static-free clothing again. I will forever be known as the girl who got tossed from her first big job interview for having a sock stuck on her left shoulder.
Thus far the family has successfully given up on the fact that we will ever be the types to exercise; as a result, we have tossed our giant, space-consuming weight machine the way of that song I wrote on a scrap piece of paper towel in the barn in the seventh grade. I have no idea where is went, but it was a really good concept for a while, and now it is gone forever. There is now that much more space in the middle of the room I am planning to occupy. Praise Be.
My books are very precious to me, each and every one of them. My father and I tend to drive my mother to the brink of insanity on a regular basis with our love of books that we simply can not part with. Sometimes I will sit for hours, flipping lazily through the pages of my text books. I can read the same novel for again and again, and I look forward with glee to sharing my anthropology and Globalization text books with my Dad once I get home. It's nice to have someone as book obsessed as I am in the house, because we can conspire together to one day ownevery book that was every printed, excet Harlequin Romances and anything by Danielle Steele.
My main fear here is storage of my books once they are brought back to CowTown. I mean, our house is already full to capacity, and every weight bearing wall has a bookshelf of some sort leaning on it or built into it. HOW IS THAT HOUSE EVER GOING TO HOLD MORE BOOKS? They are already housing my cat, they are five days away from housing me, and my books? My precious, knowledge-filled, wisdom-laden books?
What comforts me the most here is that my family IS the type of family to have trouble housing books. We don't have nearly the space we would like for them, and I must sigh a huge sigh of relief at that because hey, I could have gotten one of those dads who is obsessed with DVD collections of The Simpsons and I wouldn't change him for the world.
I just fear for my mother's sanity if she ever has to re-arrange and dust off another bookshelf that is jammed to capacity and buckling under the weight of such treats as Gun Dog and Sho Gun.
Add to that The Practice of Applied Anthropology and Development and Social Change and, well, you've got yourself a throwing out fest to contend with. But it's OK, Dad. You got a really, really crazy daughter and I'm the best hoarder around. We can sneak about the house, hoarding books in obscure places, and no one will ever have to now the difference.
Toonses
I have nothing but faith that my packing will be done quickly and efficiently. I am an excellent packer. I can be packed for a three day camping trip with the use of a backpack and five minutes worth of digging through my brother's outdoors gear. I can pack for a week long family vacation in ten minutes. I have a little checklist that I ring off in my head every time I pack: Do I have my crazymeds? Do I have my keys? Do I have my phone? Do I have no less that thirty-two pairs of clean socks?
And then I pick up all my stuff and exit the building.
My mother, Bless her, is starting to realize that perhaps having kids brought with it a lot more stuff than she had imagined. My mother hates stuff, and is the master of throwing stuff out. Occasionally, I go on a throwing out rampage myself. The difference between my throwing out rampages and hers lies in the fact that she never throws out full bottles of hair products that she ends up needing because she unexpectedly comes up with a date for the following Friday. Not that I have any dates this Friday, or that I've thrown out any valuable hair products of late, but I do fear that if I toss that half-full box of dryer sheets that there will suddenly be a world-wide dryer sheet shortage and I will never wear static-free clothing again. I will forever be known as the girl who got tossed from her first big job interview for having a sock stuck on her left shoulder.
Thus far the family has successfully given up on the fact that we will ever be the types to exercise; as a result, we have tossed our giant, space-consuming weight machine the way of that song I wrote on a scrap piece of paper towel in the barn in the seventh grade. I have no idea where is went, but it was a really good concept for a while, and now it is gone forever. There is now that much more space in the middle of the room I am planning to occupy. Praise Be.
My books are very precious to me, each and every one of them. My father and I tend to drive my mother to the brink of insanity on a regular basis with our love of books that we simply can not part with. Sometimes I will sit for hours, flipping lazily through the pages of my text books. I can read the same novel for again and again, and I look forward with glee to sharing my anthropology and Globalization text books with my Dad once I get home. It's nice to have someone as book obsessed as I am in the house, because we can conspire together to one day ownevery book that was every printed, excet Harlequin Romances and anything by Danielle Steele.
My main fear here is storage of my books once they are brought back to CowTown. I mean, our house is already full to capacity, and every weight bearing wall has a bookshelf of some sort leaning on it or built into it. HOW IS THAT HOUSE EVER GOING TO HOLD MORE BOOKS? They are already housing my cat, they are five days away from housing me, and my books? My precious, knowledge-filled, wisdom-laden books?
What comforts me the most here is that my family IS the type of family to have trouble housing books. We don't have nearly the space we would like for them, and I must sigh a huge sigh of relief at that because hey, I could have gotten one of those dads who is obsessed with DVD collections of The Simpsons and I wouldn't change him for the world.
I just fear for my mother's sanity if she ever has to re-arrange and dust off another bookshelf that is jammed to capacity and buckling under the weight of such treats as Gun Dog and Sho Gun.
Add to that The Practice of Applied Anthropology and Development and Social Change and, well, you've got yourself a throwing out fest to contend with. But it's OK, Dad. You got a really, really crazy daughter and I'm the best hoarder around. We can sneak about the house, hoarding books in obscure places, and no one will ever have to now the difference.
Toonses
posted by Amanda at 03:48
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