Boxes, bins, bags
I’m sure there are more rewarding things to do than read a blow-by-blow account of someone else’s packing. (Makes watching paint dry sound rather appealing, in a soothing Warholian kind of way.) However, I have bored the shit out of every friend I have in real life, all of whom hate me now because all I do is moan and complain about packing up the house. So you guys are next. I’ve got a week to go, and I think I may have reached the nadir of despair.
Mother of christ. Every drawer! Every shit piece of lego from every drawer, every penny stuck to the bottom of something, every key to nothing, every nail, every battery, every expired blister pack of Benadryl, every dried out marker. I thought I’d cleaned this place up! I threw away an entire dumpster of shit, took many station wagons filled with crap to Goodwill. Yet somehow I am still finding evil little nests of utter chaos. Why are there so many packages of unplanted basil seeds? Why did I end up with custody of the stupid fondue forks? What am I supposed to do with all these two cent stamps? Oh, god, an actual LIBRARY children’s CD, one I lied to the librarian about returning. I have no shame.
Several written, but never mailed, thank you notes, from years ago. Mine, and the children’s. These I had to stuff way down in the trash can, my face burning.
A plastic film canister that smelled suspiciously of marijuana, which I have not smoked in…well, in as long ago as there were plastic film canisters lying about, I’m willing to bet.
Dessicated play-doh. Lots of it. Un-played-doh. Little hardened beautifully colored disks. The waste is appalling.
And there is no shortage of actual dirt, either. The books I’ve dutifully carted up and culled were apparently nothing more than repositories for enormous quantities of dust. And dead bugs. And spiderwebs. And actual spiders. One bit me last weekend when my boyfriend and my father were here–my hand swelled up rather impressively. This is to be expected when one is digging around in boxes brought up from the basement, and rummaging in bookcases and the backs of drawers, but the bite in question took place IN MY BED, when I absently rested the back of my hand against one of my pillows. Jesus. Short of having blood pour down the walls and voices urge me to get out of the house, you couldn’t ask for a clearer sign that it was time to pack up and move along.
This is what’s behind me, right now, as I type:
Those are the doors to the porch. The porch is exactly the same–I retreat to it when I need to feel…furnished.
The kids are fine. They’re cheerfully accepting suppers concocted from freezerburned vegetables and expired cans of cream-of-tomato soup. They find tripping over boxes vastly preferable to having to keep the house immaculate, and I must say I do too. They’re not sad about leaving the house. I am, truth be told, a little. I’ve left a lot of houses before, and it’s sad no matter what. Especially at this stage, when you’ve already lost the house you actually liked, and are living in piles of shit and dust and cardboard.
I go from thinking I’m a hero for doing this all by myself, to feeling very martyred indeed. But it doesn’t matter what I think, in the end…in a little more than a week, we’ll be out of here for good. And I do mean good.