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Apr. 22nd, 2006 01:14 pmGarage: pwnzored.
It's hard to pwnzor the garage. All my earthly belongings are in ten boxes on a tarp out there, tidily squared away, and the rest is a RIOT of discarded toys/tools/hardware. At this point I can't even get to my stuff because three huge DELL boxes are in the way. Lucky, who works at Dell and knows how often they want things returned in the original box, refuses to throw them out, despite the fact that they take up roughly the same amount of space as all my belongings.
What makes it hard is not so much that there's a lot of stuff, but that my family won't throw any of it out, and donating it would mean sorting through it, which puts mum in a foul temper. Garage sales also put her in a foul temper because she hates people "pawing through her stuff", so we often put stuff out for the Texas Paralyzed Vets to come pick up, since they won't sort through and only pick out what they want.
I'm tempted to start subtly putting things in a box and just set it out for TPV without telling them. I'm not shocked that I tend to get rid of things in large quantities, given my mum's tendency to hoard. When I moved from the dorms to my flat in Oregon, we took all the stuff that I'd packed up at age sixteen out of storage; I was amazed at some of the stuff I'd kept, until I remembered that mum had supervised the packing.
I sold $500 worth of stuff on ebay in two months, threw out literally a dumpster's worth of trash, and earned close to $300 total in credit at the local second hand bookstore, with which I bought everyone's Christmas/birthday/etc presents for nearly two years and an absolutely beautiful antique copy of The Rubaiyat of Omar Khaayam, blessed be the tent-makers. All the books I own can fit into two boxes, which is an interesting thing seeing as it takes five to stash all the kitchen stuff I own. Most of the books have sentimental value -- they've been given to me by friends, signed by the authors, or like The Rubaiyat are antique. Some, like The Empty Space by Peter Brooks, have been read and annotated five or six times. Yes, I write in the margins. But only in books I really love.
Someday, when I have a place of my own and a stable life, I'll unpack them all and catalogue them on the Library Thing. I haven't seen all my books in one place, on a shelf, since I was sixteen.
Chores like this make me want a home of my own, a real home, not a university apartment or a room in someone else's house. A bedroom and a kitchen and a room to put a bookshelf in. A place where other peoples' neuroses don't dictate how my life is arranged.
Right. Job first, then nirvana. It's good to know my needs are few and achievable, anyway.
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It's hard to pwnzor the garage. All my earthly belongings are in ten boxes on a tarp out there, tidily squared away, and the rest is a RIOT of discarded toys/tools/hardware. At this point I can't even get to my stuff because three huge DELL boxes are in the way. Lucky, who works at Dell and knows how often they want things returned in the original box, refuses to throw them out, despite the fact that they take up roughly the same amount of space as all my belongings.
What makes it hard is not so much that there's a lot of stuff, but that my family won't throw any of it out, and donating it would mean sorting through it, which puts mum in a foul temper. Garage sales also put her in a foul temper because she hates people "pawing through her stuff", so we often put stuff out for the Texas Paralyzed Vets to come pick up, since they won't sort through and only pick out what they want.
I'm tempted to start subtly putting things in a box and just set it out for TPV without telling them. I'm not shocked that I tend to get rid of things in large quantities, given my mum's tendency to hoard. When I moved from the dorms to my flat in Oregon, we took all the stuff that I'd packed up at age sixteen out of storage; I was amazed at some of the stuff I'd kept, until I remembered that mum had supervised the packing.
I sold $500 worth of stuff on ebay in two months, threw out literally a dumpster's worth of trash, and earned close to $300 total in credit at the local second hand bookstore, with which I bought everyone's Christmas/birthday/etc presents for nearly two years and an absolutely beautiful antique copy of The Rubaiyat of Omar Khaayam, blessed be the tent-makers. All the books I own can fit into two boxes, which is an interesting thing seeing as it takes five to stash all the kitchen stuff I own. Most of the books have sentimental value -- they've been given to me by friends, signed by the authors, or like The Rubaiyat are antique. Some, like The Empty Space by Peter Brooks, have been read and annotated five or six times. Yes, I write in the margins. But only in books I really love.
Someday, when I have a place of my own and a stable life, I'll unpack them all and catalogue them on the Library Thing. I haven't seen all my books in one place, on a shelf, since I was sixteen.
Chores like this make me want a home of my own, a real home, not a university apartment or a room in someone else's house. A bedroom and a kitchen and a room to put a bookshelf in. A place where other peoples' neuroses don't dictate how my life is arranged.
Right. Job first, then nirvana. It's good to know my needs are few and achievable, anyway.
( Comment conservation )
