After packing and moving and unpacking and organizing for the better part of the last 48 hours, I’m surprised I have enough synapses firing to string together some sentences.
I like to think of myself as a minimalist. I don’t like to keep things, in fact, from time to time, I get nostalgic for the toys I played with as a child–my Sesame Street Playhouse, the doll my dad got me when I was 7 years old, or designing the trendiest outfits with fashion plates –all of which were tossed out on one cleaning binge or another. During the divorce, I got rid of almost everything, or so I thought. I mean, I kept four dishes, some mugs and my blender from the kitchen and the rest of the house fared no better.
Yet, during this move, my new roommate (who was the one helping me pack and move, mind you) called me a hoarder and it seemed that my stuff barely fit in the moving truck. And I still have ten or so boxes for “storage” in the garage. And the house is full. How did I accumulate so much crap in the last year?
If you don’t count the 11 boxes of clothes and the 6 boxes of shoes, I really don’t have THAT much stuff. Really. And besides, I threw out like, 5 shirts and sent a few dresses to Goodwill. And that stack of paper from my DayRunner 9 years ago, I totally just threw that away yesterday.
See, I am so not a hoarder.
Anyway, I am now an official Orange County resident. I live about 1 mile from the beach, and yes, everyone who lives here is attractive…