Moving really forces you to take inventory of all of the things you own and decide really and truly which things matter most. At first, everything is significant. Every scrap of paper scribbled by a toddler hand. A vase from a floral arrangement five years past gets wrapped in bubble wrap. That magazine with the scallop and bacon recipe you plan to try gets saved, that {insert ill fitting piece of clothing} you vow to fit into once again, even the boots that are too small for your feet — but hey! you never know — goes into a carefully taped, clearly marked box.
Then, it gets to be the night before the move and all hell breaks loose.
You take the shovel out of the shed and just start scooping junk into boxes, taping them with scotch tape and writing “misc.” in a broken crayon across the top. Garlic powder, yesterday’s gym clothes, two cereal boxes, a half torn permission slip from last fall, and a canister of Clorox wipes in one box. Swiffer pads, the Keurig, the telephone, taco seasoning and two boxes of tampons go into another. In the end, stuff has multiplied despite your vain attempts to either box it or trash it. Stuff is everywhere and stuff is no where you’d expect it to be.
We’ve successfully moved in, though. Of course, if you define success by putting all the randomly labeled, who-the-hell-knows-what’s-in-here boxes on the uppermost floors and out of sight, then yes, we have achieved it in spades. I had a dream, that one day, as a veteran of moving, I’d conquer the last minute chaos and discover the orderliness that comes a well-thought out move.
Then I woke up and discovered the children had wrapped themselves in packing tape because they were playing “Curse of the Egyptian Mummy”. While they’d had the foresight to leave their noses and eyes uncovered, they had forgotten to tape up their mouths. “Just like really mummies,” I said, wrapping it around their lips. . . but I digress.
Back to the business of the boxes and boxes. It’s been three weeks since the move and all of the more carefully labeled boxes have been unpacked. Our dishes are out. Our clothes are put away. The cable is in. Yet, boxes remain and I’m breaking out in hives over it. I can’t find anything! I don’t even know what I’m looking for! I’ve got a large tote bag with a very primitive filing system in place so that I can keep all the medical records, summer enrichment enrollment forms, photography contracts, and the latest issue of Real Simple at my fingertips. This ain’t going to work much longer. We have an office, one of the boons of this new house, however, it looks like that warehouse scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark.
It’s exactly like that, especially when I ask Craig who’s going to shift all those boxes around. I need boxes out and office furniture in. I need some organization! I aspire to that state of bliss I get when I look at images like this,
and this. . .
and this. . .
I keep thinking, if I just get 1) a desk, 2) an empty room in which to put it and 3) some really cute desktop accessories to go with, I will achieve it. Success! Independent wealth! A personal chef! Omnimedia! 20-20 vision! They will all be mine! {insert evil laugh here}.
