Fallout
I am at that awkward stage of moving where the place just looks a million times more full. I mean, it doesn't look like I am ready to go at all.
There might be a reason for that: every twenty minutes or so I remember one last thing that I meant to do a couple of weeks ago. Unfortunately, most of those things require an initial step that I cannot do at the moment when I am remembering the secondary step, because I am clinically disorganized.
The big things are in place, I think. I have movers, for one thing, and Mary has promised to come get my DVD player on Sunday, which will not make the slightest dent in the amount of stuff that I still have, but is a nice thing to include on my mental checklist when I get stressed.
And HousingWorks is set to pick up everything but my ridiculous bookcase, which the movers have offered to take to Goodwill separately (although they sound really nervous about it). I have boxes, bubblewrap, tape, and a big black marker; the only thing I need now is some determination, and maybe Elena. She's really good with the whole organization thing. She's the one who always figures out how to split the bill, and what the tip should be.
But I have cleared off the bookcase (and cleared a path to the door), and that makes me feel obscurely better. I mean: I have some bona fide piles now, even if I am not entirely sure what I will do with them. Piles are a good start, right?
Meanwhile, my day planner is alarmingly full, especially given the angry head cold I feel coming on. I am so jealous of Nick, whose company just sent people over to pack up his stuff and cart it off to Paris for him. I need a company, or people, or maybe both.
I need to stop feeling sorry for myself, because this is going to be the coolest thing ever.
To that end, I have spent all the time that I have not spent fretting looking through wedding magazines and websites. I don't have a date, size, or location yet, but I sure as hell know what everyone will be wearing.
Come to think of it, my planning of our wedding is starting to sound alarmingly like my planning of my move.
There might be a reason for that: every twenty minutes or so I remember one last thing that I meant to do a couple of weeks ago. Unfortunately, most of those things require an initial step that I cannot do at the moment when I am remembering the secondary step, because I am clinically disorganized.
The big things are in place, I think. I have movers, for one thing, and Mary has promised to come get my DVD player on Sunday, which will not make the slightest dent in the amount of stuff that I still have, but is a nice thing to include on my mental checklist when I get stressed.
And HousingWorks is set to pick up everything but my ridiculous bookcase, which the movers have offered to take to Goodwill separately (although they sound really nervous about it). I have boxes, bubblewrap, tape, and a big black marker; the only thing I need now is some determination, and maybe Elena. She's really good with the whole organization thing. She's the one who always figures out how to split the bill, and what the tip should be.
But I have cleared off the bookcase (and cleared a path to the door), and that makes me feel obscurely better. I mean: I have some bona fide piles now, even if I am not entirely sure what I will do with them. Piles are a good start, right?
Meanwhile, my day planner is alarmingly full, especially given the angry head cold I feel coming on. I am so jealous of Nick, whose company just sent people over to pack up his stuff and cart it off to Paris for him. I need a company, or people, or maybe both.
I need to stop feeling sorry for myself, because this is going to be the coolest thing ever.
To that end, I have spent all the time that I have not spent fretting looking through wedding magazines and websites. I don't have a date, size, or location yet, but I sure as hell know what everyone will be wearing.
Come to think of it, my planning of our wedding is starting to sound alarmingly like my planning of my move.
posted by Caroline | 2/22/2007 10:50:00 PM
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