Found!

Oh my God, we found Sprinkles. I was in misery and then in a moment I was joyous. Such is the power pets hold over their owners. Or for cats, the power they hold over those they own.

We had given up for the night. It was dark, chilly and she's a calico, which meant excellent at blending into surroundings. It was hopeless.

I went upstairs a little after midnight to grab something from the old apartment and I heard a thud. Akin to "That sounds like a silo tipping over," I thought, "That sounds like a kitten jumping off a surface onto the floor!" I turned around and there was Sprinkles peeking out of the bedroom doorway. My heart sang, it really did.

We had worked out that after she ran out, she then crept into the hole under the stairs and stayed there. At some point, much like the ninja she is, she snuck back into the apartment and had been hanging out there for some time. What a character. Had me in tears and depressed and worried, and all along she was safe and avoiding us.

When I went to her, she was spooked still. The move was unsettling, the strange person in the house was frightening (she is not fond of men), and she was not interested in anything I had to offer. I eventually cornered her, took her in my arms and snuggled her against her will.

I took the squirmy kitty down to the Dude, who had passed out on the couch and woke him up while holding Sprinkles. She was dusty and wide-eyed, he was confused and then relieved and completely jazzed. She and Bea have been exploring the new place and seem to have adjusted, though Sprinkles is still a little extra skittish.

I can't imagine how parents feel when their child goes missing. I mean, I was sobbing and in agony over a cat I've had three months. We let the Dude's brother know we found her. Her said it was a good Friday. And it is.

As for the apartment, more things are unloaded and moved down. We need a whole lotta stuff to make this place work for us. It's gonna be expensive. And now I'm feeling extra happy I've already put down deposits on wedding stuff while I had extra monies and was able to get finite numbers of what stuff costs. For the next few months, we're going to be needing furniture.

Man, if we were 23 we'd be looking for milk crates and begging off old crap from family. Now I'll be looking to finance some condo furnishings from The Brick. I feel old.

Now I'm off to my hometown for some Easter goodness. Lent is almost over and I can have cake. The Dude is staying behind to be useful, god love him. It's been one hell of a week.

Lost

Today has been terrible. In every way things could have gone wrong, they did.

Sprinkles is missing. When the couch was being moved, the underneath area being her favourite spot to hide, she zoomed out. The Dude's brother tried to interact with her, but she wasn't having it. So she made a break for it to the bedroom. Well, there was no bed in there and when the Dude went in the bedroom, she darted past him, down the stairs, through the open door... and the front door was open.

We all thought it was closed. Sprinkles was gone. I seriously freaked out. I'm still freaking out. I can't stop thinking about her. I love her. I can't stand thinking that I might never see her again. Holding Sprinkles, with her sweet face and her spunky tail and her pathetic meow is one of the nicest things I do with my day.

We all looked for her, but I knew in my heart it was pointless. She's so easily spooked. She's this squirrelly ninja kitten and you can't sneak up on her. She loves to run away from you. Approaching her is not happening. She has to decide to come to you, her way or the highway. But still, we looked under cars and around homes and in the alley. The Dude and his brother went well around the block and couldn't see her.

She could be anywhere in the neighbourhood. She could be close by. I'm really upset. I don't think someone will be able to pick her up easily, Sprinkles being a total spaz, but what if she gets hungry and can't find her way home? What if she gets hit by a car? What if she fights with other cats or a raccoon? She's only half a year old and she's never been outside before.

This whole move has been a wretched experience. I just want to crawl into a corner and sob. All I can think about is how much I want my Sprinkles back.

Sort of moved

I'm sitting on the couch in my apartment, the one I'm moving out of. There is little else left in this room: a lamp, DVDs, scratching post. Me. Sometimes the kittens, who totally have no idea what to make of this chaos.

The downstairs is really coming together. I have a lot ahead of me tomorrow. The Dude will be at work and after he's done, his brother is coming over and they'll be men and move the heavy stuff all man-like. I am no mover. I'm 5'2" and have the physique of... well, I don't know. No one impressive. Athletic I am not.

The Dude had a lovely time with me as I nearly dropped the TV stand, the bookshelf, the TV, unable to get a grip with my small hands and my short arm span with about zero muscle to get 'er done.

I'm kind of a liability with that sort of moving. I usually make better use of myself hauling the smaller, manageable loads. My thinking is that stuff needs to get done anyway, and it frees up the time and energy for stronger folks to do what I can't. That tends to be how moving goes with me. I'm essentially better than nothing.

But it was just the two of us this evening and the man I love must really love me because I would have driven a less enamoured man to drink. We painstakingly hobbled large things down the stairs, inching our way down. These various daunting trips exhausted me early, and further hindered stage one of the move.

What remains is our detachable couch, the bed, my vanity table, the bathroom storage unit and my work desk, none of which I can do anything about.

So tomorrow I'm lugging down clothes and toiletries, my nightstand, vanity chair, and the kitchen stuff. I also have to wait on the Bell guy to come and make the magic happen. So I'm still helpful, just not as helpful as the Dude's brother will be.

Home is where the effort is

Okay, so this whole moving thing be the pits. I'm really looking forward to Friday. Why Friday? Because on Friday all our junkola should be moved downstairs. And that would be glorious.

But some major work has been done. Painting, for example, is over like dover. McPal and his boyfriend came over and helped me get a couple rooms done Sunday. The Dude and I got it started Saturday and we polished it up today and then got to work cleaning the general grime 'n slime from the previous tenants. Not that they were dirty people. But there was the dust and goo and grit and crumbs that are standard issue in any rental and it all had to go.

Oh man... there is so much to do. More cleaning tomorrow, basically. And then we'll start the move and do that for a few days after work. Yep.

I'm feeling ambivalent about this whole thing. It may be that the impossible has happened. After 12 years of frequent, almost yearly moving, I'm finally completely over it.

What the hell have I been searching for? Why do I do this?

I guess I like the sense of promise a new place brings. Or a place I thought had charm was in a lousy location. Or the rent felt like too much. Or the neighbours were frustrating. Or I was going through a life change.

I've been wanting to settle in and nest for years. With this apartment we did that. We painted. We fixed things. We installed shelving. And now we're starting all over. It's really coming together and it's going to be nice, but damn if there's not a ridiculous amount to do. And when we're done moving in, we're going to need to reseed the back lawn, and remove junk and debris, and dig up a space for a garden. Why do we need to do this stuff? Because we're both aching for a home and not just a place to stay.

Is it weird how much I'm going to miss the living room? I really, really like it in here. The window is large and the light is lovely. The room is perfect for me. I think part of what holds me back from being enthusiastic about this whole venture is I kind of already feel like I'm home when I'm in here. I don't like moving away from home. Everywhere else since I was 16 has been a place to stay until now.

I won't be moved from the downstairs unit. Not til we buy. We've put more into this new place than we did to move up here. The Dude said something similar to this the other day. I was glad to hear it. My apartment wanderlust is over.

Unless it's haunted down there or something, in which case I take back everything I said. Ha!

Eight Days

So I've referenced moving downstairs before. We went for another two-year deal in exchange for being given free range to paint and have it paid for. Also, we negotiated $75 off per month to be property managers.

Well, the Dude is going to be the one. He's going to shovel the snow, take care of the garbage and recycling, and care for the common areas, plus repair any small things that need done. Also, we'll handle any onsite service people who need to come in or through the house. This basically means the landlady won't have to come by unless there's a real emergency.

The move starts soon. The lass downstairs (The last of her family to remain) will be out by the 15th. So in eight days time we begin our process of filling in holes, sanding and painting, and tweaking things that need fixing. We have zero things packed, no boxes and no movers. Essentially, we'll be moving room by room as things are done being painted.

It's going to be a hectic and stressful week. Cheapest move ever, easiest move ever, but moving in itself is never enjoyable. I'll never fully understand why I keep doing it. And the Dude being cut from the same cloth as I am, is worse, if that's possible. He's the one who really pushed for this change.

I'm excited to think of a yard and ensuite laundry, a proper office, a normal spacious kitchen, more storage and finally having a better space than the bathroom to store kitty litter. But I'm going to miss this living room. It's been my favourite room I've ever had. It's blood red with hardwood floors, the size is perfect, the shape is easy to work with, and all our furniture, pictures, shelving, books and knickknacks have their place.

Everything else sucks. The bedroom is small, there is a foolishly situated Wal-Mart cabinet hanging on the wall in such a way that prevents the door from opening all the way. The closet goes deep, along the wall, however accessing the space is treacherous and maddening. There is a fifth wall that cuts off where a corner ought to be and that's the window. This has the bonus of making the room smaller and more difficult to place furniture.

The kitchen is made from an old small bedroom. The shelving appears to be an afterthought. There is one sink, one drawer and a small cabinet to the side, and then two cabinets above. The rest of the shelving we installed out of pure need. We still can't house all our kitchen stuff properly, and we have put off acquiring things we need because they'd have nowhere to go.

And off the kitchen is a deck. The door to the deck was not built in properly, and the Dude had to insulate it between the cracks. The flooring in the kitchen is the same flooring as what's on the front porch. It's loathsome.

So I grieve not for the loss of those two rooms. Screw 'em. But we've made this place better and we're leaving it in great shape, nicer than we found it. Time to upgrade. Though we already know there's a handful of things that need doing downstairs, too. I guess we're not looking for perfect, just decent enough and fixable. I think there's something good in that.

I want kittens

Oh man, I want kittens. I feel like I'm getting the runaround from the cat rescue agency I've been in contact with. The actual head of the organization is great. She gets back to me. But the foster owner I've been trying to connect with won't return my phone calls. I left one a week ago and it turned out she was out of town till Friday.

So Friday evening I called, figuring she may or may not wish to take a call, but no harm in trying. She sent me to voicemail, so I didn't leave another message. Then Saturday I made a call in the afternoon and did leave a message.

Now it's Sunday and she still hasn't returned my calls and I've been waiting a week to meet these guys. I won't post their picture yet because I don't want to get ahead of myself. But they're three months old and bonded and I feel very drawn to them. I miss feline companionship a lot.

It's frustrating. I'm the sort of person that would have taken the call Friday and would never make someone wait on me on the job. Not everyone's the same, but I can't help but feel put off that days are passing by and my calls are going unreturned by someone whose job it is to find these cats a home.

But there are happy things underway. We got the apartment downstairs. And we negotiated with our landlord, so we're only paying an extra $75 apiece for more room, a yard (!) and a real kitchen. Sweet happiness. I'm going to have an office, we're going to be connected to our laundry room, and we can grow a proper garden. There will be room for my six-person kitchen table, a suitable place for a litter box (If we don't have kittens by then, may God help us all), and the Dude will have an annex for his photography stuff.

2011 is going to be a good year: kittens, new place and an easy move, and the wedding. Damn, that's very adult sounding, isn't it? Though it could be more adulty. I could be pregnant and getting a mortgage. Not this year, yo.

A step up by going down

I have a problem with moving. And by that I mean I move constantly. I've mentioned this before, probably when I moved the last time, in 2009, to this place. I keep finding a reason to pack 'er up and hit the dusty trail. Usually it's neighbour related, combined with some other issue.

For example, in the Village, they raised my rent, and I had a showdown with a neighbour in the laundry room. Guy was commandeering all four washes and four dryers for himself, and was planning on four more loads. Wouldn't let me use one. That's not why I moved, really, but it was awkward running into him on the elevator. More so because I lived on the second floor and had no business taking the elevator.

In Parkdale my neighbours were trash. C-word screaming, delinquent teenage daughter raising, smoking in the halls trash. And I just started working at home and didn't have enough space.

In Christie Pitts, The neighbour downstairs smoked in the house, and we shared air vents. So we were smelling it whenever we were home. The Dude, trying to quit the cancer sticks, was being driven out of his mind. Plus it was too cold, and then too hot, and too expensive.

Where we are now, there's the opera singer. It's also got temperature issues and the ladies downstairs act like they own the whole building, and yet neglect the duties that come with it, such as taking out the garbage.

What's all this got to do with anything? Well, they've moving out in the spring, presumably back to Australia, as they're selling off all their belongings. We've been offered dibs on their place. Why both move downstairs? Well, there's a few large bonuses.

1. The temperature is normal downstairs. When it says 21 C, it's really 21 degrees. Upstairs it's 17, but down there it's all gravy.

2. They have a yard. We have a deck that is too small for more than three people, but they have a real, honest-to-God yard. A yard in Toronto is like the promised land. We could plant vegetables and have people out for a barbeque. You can tell it jazzes me because I made two religious allusions and I'm sort of a heathen.

3. Two bedrooms. There's a bathroom, kitchen, bedroom and living room on the ground floor, and in the basement there's another living space and a bedroom. I could finally have a proper office. We'd have more space for our at-home work.

4. There's a door going to the laundry room. No more going outside in January in -14 weather. Actually, I beg the Dude to do that for me, but I wouldn't have to anymore.

5. A real kitchen. We're making do in a box of a half-assed attempt at a kitchen, where the room gets so cold the butter may as well be in the fridge, and there's no space to contain non-perishables or small appliances. There's storage, and space and counters downstairs. We could live like real people.

6. The bedroom is bigger. Things are a little squeezed in this place. It'd be nice to have more room, as the Dude's stuff is kind of everywhere 'cause it's got nowhere else to go.

And the cost? $200 more a month, $100 more a piece. Sounds like a no-brainer, doesn't it? Yes and no. By the time we move in and till the wedding, we'll have paid $1,400 more in rent. It's not like we can't use that right now. Also, we'd pay 20% more in utilities, which will be an extra $50 every two months. Again, not helpful when you're trying to save.

Ah, life. I'm a "bargain shopper" as it were. I don't buy into extravagance. Even when I spoil myself, I look for deals and scale back. I'm the same with my home life. I've never splurged on an apartment. This is barely a splurge either, this downstairs place, it's just better.

And the move would be ridiculous. Just call a buddy or two and move things downstairs at our leisure. Done. No truck, no loads of boxes, no deadlines, no driving around the city or worrying about stuff breaking.

This probably isn't the time to be frugal. This could be a chance at a life-changing upgrade.

Iceland

I want to go to Iceland.

I was working on a show about Iceland and I got interested and jazzed about the idea of going there. It's not that far away and it's totally different than anywhere else I've ever been. They're descendants of Vikings. Their farming is purer and more ecologically sound than our farming, which means better food. They are living on volcanoes. They have a restaurant that heats everything with volcano steam and they have volcano hot springs. They have geysers and one highway that goes around the whole island, and they have killer whales and puffins.

Neat, right? Apparently it's not that expensive to go either. It would still be really ambitious, though. I'm planning a trip to Vancouver to see my family at Easter. I'm planning to go to a wedding in California in May. My cousin who just got engaged has informed me she wants a destination wedding somewhere like Mexico. So yeah. It'd be an act of extreme frugality to be able to make all these trips.

But I went practically nowhere in 2009 and that was a little depressing. Travel has long been my thing that I do. I'm no globetrotter or extreme backpacker, but I do like to get out there. I like to change things up temporary-like. Some people change jobs or relationships or go back to school or whathaveyou. I like being in new locations.

Huh. Maybe that's why I am constantly moving. Like, every one or sometimes two years. I hate doing it. But I do enjoy growing into a new home. I make so little progress everywhere else in my life, maybe moving and travel keep things fresh. Thinking on it, it's a little easier to feel like you're moving forward in life and not just aging and accumulating if you're focusing on where you're physically going to be next.

I'd like the traditional things in life: marriage, my own home and children. And ironically all of those things don't lend themselves too well to packing up and moving and travelling around. But if I had those things or at least was moving in the direction of those things, maybe I'd feel less wanderlust. I already have a job I like and friends who matter and a relationship that makes me happy. I just feel ready for more. And without that more to focus on in my present, it is enjoyable to think about where I want to go next.

And right now it's Iceland. McPal and his boyfriend brought it up last time I saw them. Might be a golden opportunity.

Sweet Jebus

Moving is ass. It's so ass I could die.

The actual move went okay. We hired El Cheapo movers and they got the job done for almost the same cost as renting a truck + gas +mileage. That part was fine. It took $320 and three hours.

The hell began once we got here. Rogers. Fucking Rogers. Okay, so technician dude comes on time and can't get everything working. He says someone will come by the next day.

The next day arrives with no phone call. No one at Rogers seems to know what's going on. No one comes and I have to miss a day of work. (Read about my job here.)

This morning yet again no one had called me, and no one at Rogers seems to know jack. By now I'm missing a second day of work, and have no information. I'd called about half a dozen times and talked to about 15 different people. The last straw came when the tech guy I spoke to talked down to me, and essentially said he didn't like my tone. I was in tears. All I wanted to do was work, and be done with the whole thing.

So after hanging up with one more empty promise to call me on my cell once he knew something, the Dude and I called Bell and set up a service call. And then as I was on the phone with Rogers for what was going to be the last time, the doorbell rang and a Rogers technician was there to make everything better. We had no idea he was coming. The whole empty promises thing what with the phone calls and such.

And now we have service. The technician was cool and aloof and walked on eggshells around me, seemingly unaware of anything I'd been through with his company other than that I threw a fit over the phone with his boss.

Sweet Jebus. This whole thing has had me chained to my house for two days. I've not left in the event of possibly missing a window to have this crap resolved.

Now I'm sitting on my new couch, on the internet, and waiting for the Dude to come back home with dinner, and a spray to tackle the musty linen cabinet with. About 3.47 minutes after he left minus an umbrella, a torrential rain shower began. Poor soul. It's been a rough few days.

Paint + Melodrama = Ouch

Okay, I'm so ready to die. That was perhaps a little melodramatic. I'm in pain, I'm grumpy and hungry and yesterday was a small slice of hell. This is called moving out and painting the new apartment. It's comprised of ignoring where you currently live, not buying anymore groceries so you won't have to move them, focusing entirely on changing the way the new place looks and eating a lot of crap. Yesterday? Harveys and pizza. The day before? Yogurt-covered almonds and appetizers and cookies. This past year I've grown accustomed to curries and soups and wraps, all with lots of vegetables. I never used to be so into vitamins and minerals, but as opposed to being 20, I'm now concerned about my health in a more long-term way. I actually had a dream last night about tomatoes and zucchini. I miss them. I really do. Last night in a fit of productivity and bravado, I hurt myself painting the hallway. We got the living room and bedroom done and were feeling mighty good about ourselves. The Dude suggested I go in today to pick things back up. So in my wisdom I figured the more we got done then, the less I'd have to do in the morning. "Let's finish the kitchen!" "On to the hall! We can do it!" No, we could not. Rather, I could not. Halfway through, a sharp pain shot up my back and when I went to lie down and lengthen my spine (Thank you, Pilates) I realized I was in far worse shape than I had imagined. Now, nothing in life is nearly as satisfying and delightful as a good back crack, and sweet Jesus did I need one. Nothing came, nothing happened and the pain kept a shootin'. The Dude finished the hallway while I writhed in pain in the living room and admired the new colour. When we left, my feet had also given up. The arches were burning and protesting each step. Then my elbow started to give and soon all my rolling had caught up to me. I was a hot mess. Pardon the use of the phrase "hot mess", but I've always been really fond of it. But to be fair, there was nothing hot about the state I was in. I'm not going in today. I can't straighten my elbow. I feel frail and wimpy. I'm going to snuggle with my cats, and finish off those almonds. I'm sure the paint gods will understand.

The catalyst of the couch

T-minus four days until I move and I'm nursing my anxieties with yogurt-covered almonds, at 220 calories and 15 grams of fat per nine pieces. I've eaten about half the container for breakfast this morning.

We all have our ways of convincing ourselves we're not really getting chubby. I've known of women who claim that since their breasts are large, they're really 10 pounds lighter. When I see my expanding waistline, I think to myself, "Goodness, I'm bloated." What other explanation can there be with all the chocolate I've been eating?

I'm thinking that all this moving is really bad for my health. I can't imagine why I continue to do this to myself. It's a really patient method of masochism. Every year I must cause myself some mental pain, uproot, readjust and try again. My dad constantly moved around. As a kid when I'd go to visit him, every year or two he'd be somewhere else. In contrast, I lived in the same house from practically birth to 16 years old. In this respect, I suppose I'm just as much a vagabond as my father. With my mother's taste in furniture.

The Dude is painting right now. He's insisted I go to a friend's party tonight as I'm too tightly wound to help. He might be right. I had a small panic attack coming home from Sears after being shut down by the Sears guy. All I wanted was a couch that could fit up a narrow stairway. In a neutral colour. Maybe something that could be taken apart. All he'd do was shake his head no at me.

And walking home, my world suddenly consisted only of this absence of a suitable couch and I got home, laid down on my stomach and laughed and cried. If this were a scene in an indie movie, the audience would know it's not just about the couch, but a symptom of a larger psychological working of the mind and the couch and unhelpful Sears man were only the catalyst for this maniacal laughter and tears, which had been held in over other matters, which had been repressed over an indeterminable amount of time.

But it's not an indie movie and the Dude had no idea what to do with me. So he made me spaghetti, put on some Entourage and worked out some kinks in my shoulders. When I was sensible he more or less banned me from painting today.

I could use the break from worrying. And my friend always has cupcakes at his parties.

STFU

Okay, so I'm moving in a week, blah, blah, blah. Stress, stress, stress. I'm barely packed, other than my books, still haven't curbed or sold everything that needs to get its useless self outta my house, and we get the keys to the new place a week later than we thought we would. Still have to clean, patch walls, paint, pack, and basically haul our sorry asses all over God's countryside to get everything done. We won't have a couch for a few days and apparently it's nearly impossible to move one in to the new place. Can't wait to see if my new designated work area will actually be big enough. Excited to see if the closet space will be adequate and if there really is room in the bathroom for the litter box.

But I'm cool. Chill, even. And I hate that word "chill." Like when people say, "I like him, he's chill." I feel like giving that person a small slap on the cheek. But anyway, moving sucks. Everyone knows that.

What doesn't suck are blogs. I'm devotedly attached to STFU blogs. STFU Marrieds, STFU Parents, STFU Believers. I love them. Love, love, love. I can't start my day without reading their updates. Fill me with the bullshit of people who I don't have to know personally. Yes, please! And for good measure, top me up with some Lamebook.

I've learned a lot from STFU Parents, in particular. And from new parents on my friend list on Facebook, who are now updating their status more frequently. Or at all. Prior to parenthood, I suppose they didn't feel they had much they wanted to say.

Anyhoo, one of the things STFU Parents (and the young New Parents I know) is that babies explode poop. I did not know this. It seems to happen on some kind of regular basis. I never would have imagined that small little critter people (babies) expel more than their weight in excrement at various intervals. I will never hold someone's baby again. Imagine, all this time when I accepted offers to hold someone's infant, I was actually craddling a ticking poop bomb. And wasn't warned! WTF?

Another one of the things I've learned is that parents are fascinated by said poop: it's smell, texture, frequency, inconvenient places it happens... That and vomit. Many of the updates I've read in my own newsfeed are about disgusting bodily fluids, only presented as though these things are funny, and not making people like me question yet again whether having children is a good idea.

Frankly, right now the jury's still out. My uterus is really weighing its options right now, as the more gross parenthood sounds, the less I want to do it. And my womb can be pretty prissy, boy howdy.

In any case, I've signed a two-year lease for a one-bedroom apartment. Ain't no chance I'll be creating any new life for a wee while. I don't want one of those dresser drawer babies. My dresser's full.

I kid... I kid... But no really, I'd need a bigger dresser.

The junk spiral

I have reached a point in my life where I now have to sell off possessions. I'm moving in a month's time and literally have an attic's worth of useless crap I must sadly part with. Yes, I said useless and sadly.

I've been living like a student these past few years. I really have. I just keep moving and seeing each new rental with temporary intentions of staying forever. I see a place, envision how I can live there for keeps (meaning several years) and then invariably move out in two or less. Usually less. I've been here just over a year and so clearly it's time to move on.

But this time I really do plan on staying longer. I really do. I hate moving. Why I keep doing something I hate is kind of confusing, but I really don't enjoy that surreal disjointed feeling of sitting in a new apartment and totally not feeling at home even though it is home.

In prep for this move I'm selling off an IKEA rug that we (the Dude and I) bought to cover a urine stain on the floor. We did not notice this when we looked at the place initially, but yes, right in the living room is a patch that has been destroyed by cat urine. So we did what any reasonable people do. First we had multiple seances with vinegar and baking soda and various chemicals to remove the smell at least, and then in failure we bought a charming IKEA rug to hide it. With presumably no urine stains in our future, we're getting rid of the rug.

We're also selling an IKEA desk that an ex of mine gave me. Why? Don't need it, don't have room. In four years that desk has seen four apartments (I told you I moved often). Time to let go, man.

Also getting rid of a wooden futon frame that used to be my bed when I was a student, before I made my first most adulty purchase ever: a pillowtop bed. I love that bed. We call it the cloud.

And then there's the curb treasure the Dude brought home one day. Dude likes to pick up stuff from the side of the road and bring it into the house. Whenever we pass by junk tossed out or waiting to be picked up, he nudges me and says, "free chair," "free lamp", "free shoe." Yard sales now makes me tense because he's worse than your average 69.3-year-old grandma. He lives for yard sales, and used book stores selling old publications that are out of print for a buck. He's brought home a bike, tea set, small stand, two lamps, a ridiculous heavy chair, pictures frames, and I can't remember what else.

So selling this one chair is a small victory for me. He insists if it wasn't falling apart, it would be a vintage collector's piece. I'm selling it for $15, or free.

There is something liberating about removing the excess in your life. There's also something kind of sad about selling off things that you have acquired. I remember a time when I was anxious to take anyone's junk off their hands so I could have a place to sit, dishes, a TV... This is the cycle of junk coming full circle, much like the circle of life, only not quite so majestic.