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Moving boxes

Moving boxes (Photo credit: Andrea_R)

If all goes even a little bit according to plan, we’ll be moving out of our 2,600 square foot house into a 1,200 square foot townhouse before Thanksgiving.  There are financial issues to resolve, repairs to make, and an ocean of paint to be applied, but  we’re pretty much on track.

After the garage sale a few weeks ago, you’d think I’d finished purging and could proceed with packing.  Nope.  Every time I start to pack a box, I find even more crap that I:  a) have no use for; or b) didn’t know I had; or c) don’t remember acquiring; or d) all of the above.

I’ve got AmVets and Salvation Army on speed dial to come pick up boxes of crap.  I’ve got to be ruthless, because the math isn’t in our favor.  Unless we live like hoarders, there’s no way to cram 2,600 sq. ft. of stuff into a 1,200 sq. ft. space.  And did I ever really need 5 oversized cookie sheets?  Eight different cake pans?  Seven variously sized cutting boards?  Sixteen Tupperware-like containers with no lids?  Five lids with no matching containers?

It’s kinda cool now to open a drawer in the kitchen and find it empty.  Or look in the downstairs coat closet and see that it’s only a third full.  I’m literally trying to get rid of half of our possessions by way of a garage sale and donation.  Only the gnarliest of items gets put in the trash.  And those orphaned Tupperware containers and lids?  Recycled.

Unfortunately, I have to hold on to a crap-ton of papers because the divorce has just barely gotten started.  I’m afraid that men’s rights attorney Voldemort hired will ask for the one bill/statement/receipt I can’t put my hands on.

But everything else is fair game.