Thursday, June 06, 2013

"We do but turn another page..."

If there is one way to put a strain on a relationship, it's asking someone to help you move. Do that more than once in a five-year period and you're lucky anyone answers your phone calls.

Luckily, we've produced a few of our own handy-dandy vessels of muscle and stamina and are related to more, all of whom are vulnerable to my guilt-inducing I've sworn an oath that I will never consider another move unless I can afford to hire professionals.

That's right - it made the cut AGAIN
Our biggest hurdle has actually been the remnants of the last move, made a little over a year ago and for which I was unavailable. At the time, I was putting in 15 hours a day, seven days a week at the cafe. The move was performed by Dirtman, John Boy and Heir 1 over the course of a week. Needless to say, organization took a back seat to speed.

Apparently, the method employed at the time was to walk through the house picking up random items and tossing them in a box, then pausing at the garbage can to scoop up a handful of trash and adding that to the box also. The result was 78 boxes containing a mixture of unrelated items and mostly garbage. And, because of the aforementioned hours at the cafe, those 78 boxes have languished for our entire time here.

Don't get me wrong -- I'm NOT COMPLAINING!

But I'm also not moving 78 boxes of unrelated items and garbage a second time. So we're basically repacking everything, minus the garbage and minus a whole lot of those unrelated items.

That's right. I think I can safely get rid of the breast pump and the size 9 shorts (I was a size 9 for exactly two days after my wedding. After two days on my honeymoon, they no longer fit. I should have taken a picture.)

This also means I have to screen any box Dirtman attempts to save because he is totally incapable of throwing anything out. Ski pants (he's never skied), zipper broken, two sizes too small -- keeper; dirty baseball, lining coming off and no memory attached -- keeper; empty box, 4 x 4 inches -- keeper ("Somewhere I think I have the transistor radio that came in it."). This is a man who needs supervision.

Not the Athena - give her a helmet
The good news is that I am finding things I thought were long gone. About 15 leashes have shown up. Knitting needles, grabbed from its mate for any number of purposes for which knitting needles are so convenient and never reunited. A small photo album I'd apparently assembled featuring the Heirs' homeschool projects; specifically, the model of the Parthenon featuring paper towel rolls stuck into styrofoam and a Sculpey Athena head that we subsequently used for all sorts of nefarious purposes after the Parthenon was disassembled. Sadly, the Athena head was nowhere to be found.

The temptation, of course, is to linger over these memories. But moving ahead is the order of the day. To infinity -- and Beyond! (or so said the remnant of the Buzz Lightyear voice box stuck in a Leggs egg in box of washed popsicle sticks and paper doilies).

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