Sifting throught the debris of my past...

So, I'm moving. You have all heard me bitching about it, and now the time has come. I'm taking these last two weeks and sorting through everything that I own, and then moving what I care about and selling/ giving away/ throwing away/ paying someone to take out of my sight (thank you, Craig's List!) the rest of it. It's a painstaking process based on big questions like "Do I care about this priceless heirloom enough to wrap it carefully, worry about it travelling a billion miles to Rhode Island, then unpacking and finding a place for it? No. Well, someone will love you, beautiful crystal vase that my dead, immigrant grandmother carried on her back all the way from the Middle East."

I'm kidding, I didn't do that. Much.

So, let me share with you my reflections on the process of moving, thus far:

1. It is slow going. First you have to sort through everything, and I mean everything. There are seven piles in my living room right now, one for things I'm keeping and will be taking with me to Wichita to then be taken to Rhode Island; one for things I'm taking to Wichita and leaving in my parents basement; one for things that are being packed and sent directly to Rhode Island; one for things that are being taken to Goodwill; one for things that I'm going to try and hock to my friends; one for things I'm throwing in the garbage; and finally one for things I feel guilty about getting rid of but I know will haunt me like a murdered child in a bad horror movie if I don't take this purging opportunity and part with them now. But they are staring at me. I think they move around when I sleep.

Anyway.

2. While sorting, you have to encounter your past. Now. I have many memories, many I like to recall and many, many that I like to pretend absolutely never, ever happened. The problem being here that many of those disastrous events were documented for posterity via both photographic and written media. So, for every lovely and joyful picture or momento that I came across, there was one of me with 18 chins posing awkwardly next to someone I either can't remember or wish I couldn't.

3. Furthermore, this past-encountering makes you do crazy things. It makes you, for instance, email your drama teacher from highschool and ask him if he wants to have lunch while you are in town for the month of July. This, gentle readers, is not a good idea. But unfortunely, while the internet will happily destroy important, life changing emails I try to send to people I love, or financial aid offices, or even bank transfers, this poorly intentioned email gets through just fine and so I am apparently meeting him for lunch sometime in the next month. My only advice to you is only re-read your diaries from the year you were sixteen while under close, adult supervision and without phone or internets access.

4. Sometimes while you go through these piles of the past you find cards from your deceased grandmother asking why you don't call more often and cry like a baby for a solid 30 minutes.

5. Beer and red wine (not together) seems to make the whole process a lot more bareable. I'm investigating this possibility thoroughly, and will report back.

6. Packing in 90 degree heat in a third floor apartment without AC is a recipe for two things: 1) Heat stroke and 2) Losing weight. I feel like I'm a wrestler trying to stay in a lower class.

7. Much like having to write a term paper, moving inspires you to do absolutely everything else you have to do before actually cracking down and doing the packing. Hence, I find myself writing a blog entry.

And speaking of blog entries, there will be more forthcoming. I'm commiting to a post a day going forward. They may not all be Pulitzer quality (like you all are used to from me), but I have learned from gofugyourself.com, jezebel.com, and wonkette.com that sometimes it's quantity not quality. Plus, the blog saves me from having to talk to you people direcly while I'm in "Lil' Rhody" (seriously, they call it that. I mean, if you want people to take you seriously, smallest-state- in-the-US, why do you pick a perfectly ridiculous and diminuitive nickname like that? You should have people call you "We're-not-compensating-for-anything Rhody", or Rhode-I'll-fuck-you-up-Island", or "Rhode Island: We'll kick you in the balls if you call us that again"... you know, something more butch. Just a thought.)