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 powers...plus 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|
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 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).