All packed up. House empty. Hotel FULL.
In addition to runnin around packin and cleanin like a freak for the last six days, I also had a moving sale for two of those days.
While all this was going on, I lived in chaos.
I’m not a neat freak. I know this, because the actual neat freaks are neater than me. For instance, actual neat freaks worry a lot about water damage. I don’t wipe down my shower walls for fear of water spots, nor do I wipe out my sink. I don’t panic when water is spilled on my carpet. I don’t wrap paper towels around my cold beverages so that the condensation won’t drip. Hell, I rarely even use a coaster.
I don’t arrange things in alphabetical order. My canned food labels aren’t all turned to face me. I let pens and lip gloss mingle in the pockets of my purse. A picture of my refrigerator would never be used as an ad. The floor of my minivan always has sand and dead grass hangin around, and I’ll let you drink in it. I almost never pick crumbs up from the table. I can go to bed with dishes in my sink: I often leave them to soak! I can deal with spots on my bathroom mirror. I do not press my jeans, my underwear, or my sheets. See? not a neat freak.
What I am, is tidy. I like things clean, but tidy is very important to me. Outside of my own children, in my own house, I couldn’t care less if anyone else is tidy. Neat freaks tend to scowl and fret in others’ messy homes. I do not. I maybe hover over your icky toilet, but you’ll never know. If you don’t have a towel for me to dry my hands on, I will wipe them off on my pants and go on with my life. I will not dramatically approach you while waving my wet hands in a panic. I’m just not that fussy.
I need everything in its place. I have a hard time functioning when things are in disarray, because not finding things easily causes me stress.
During that moving sale, my house was empty of furniture and most of our belongings, and I was extremely uncomfortable in my own house. Drew asked me how I was doin, and I answered, “Not too good, virtually everything I own is on my bar. Nails, tacks, coffee filters, light bulbs, tape, papers, scissors, cups, binders, books, more papers, more tape, pocket knife, cookies, crackers, apples, more papers, more tape, paper towels, dog treats…” (I could go on for some time.) While I was outside, working my yard sale and getting sunburnt, I was fine. When I went inside to do anything, I got the panic. It was the spinny, shaky, can’t breathe kinda panic.
Eventually, the moving sale ended, and I was forced to deal with the bar, the countertops, and the piles of clothes and luggage that took up my entire dining room. As I loaded each container, The Mister took them out. With each container that left, I got a little of my sanity back.
Now, I’m in a hotel with about three percent of our belongings. Another five percent is in the back of a sixteen-foot box truck, parked nearby. Additionally, I had to break out the big bag, because I’m toting around piles of crap that I will need, or might need in the next few days.
I am a gypsy of sorts; traveling with my husband, two children, two cats, and a dog. It’s a bit like the Joads meet Noah’s Ark meets livin in a van, down by the river.
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