I am sure that posting will be light for the next few weeks because of the move. The imminent move. The frighteningly imminent move.
We need to be out of here by March 1, which means that we need to, uh, pack. Pack, and more importantly, discard whatever we're not taking with us, which is a lot. We've spent the last three years filling up this four-bedroom, two-floor-plus basement house, and we're somehow going to have to pare down our belongings to fit a 900-square-foot apartment. I don't really know how this feat is going to be accomplished, but I suspect several charities are going to get some very large bags full of our belongings, and several more of our neighbors will be bequeathed whatever's too big to stuff into bags.
Why is the idea of tossing away everything so exhilarating? Or is it just me? I like to buy crap just as much as the next consumer, and yet the idea of setting everything out on the curb fills me with glee. We have very few items that I'd feel sad about losing. I'm afraid that once I start shedding belongings I won't be able to stop. I'm going to be in the new place and realize that I gave away all my pants.
The new place! We have a new place! So, uh, I hope this house closing goes smoothly, because otherwise, whoops. We're renting in the heart of Park Slope, and I will officially be that most loathed of creatures—the Park Slope Mom. I intend to start pushing around a double-wide stroller, just for the hell of it. While walking slowly. And drinking a latte. And shouting at my imaginary daughter Finona not to run into traffic.