You never really know how much shit you have until you are forced to move it. Then, you are given a religious-like experience where you find out what is actually important to you… important enough to wrap in bubble wrap, pack into a box, struggle with tape and then load into a truck, only to be forced to unload it and eventually unpack it. You ask yourself questions like “Do I REALLY need a Dolly Parton snow-globe? Hmmm, her top DOES come off…”
Yesterday I took the day off work to help LawyerMan finish moving into his new house, and it wasn’t so much an act of goodwill, as the fact that a good percentage of the crap needing to be moved was mine and I did not want it left behind for the squatters. The beginning stages of moving are always calm, well organized, and somewhat lackadaisical. The end is not; you’re just throwing random shit in a box (why wouldn’t a bathroom plunger, batteries, and coasters belong together?) so at the end, you’re left with your trashcans stacked inside each other, like Russian dolls, with the smallest of the three containing beanie babies and oven mitts.
Rather than move the contents of the liquor cabinet (hey, why add the extra stress?), I decided to take it upon myself to finish them off. I started off with alcohol that made sense to mix, like peach shnapps and banana rum. Towards the end, I was rethinking my decision, but made the best of the dregs of a bottle of kahlua and goldshlagger. This did make the moving experience more bearable. However, as the trick-or-treaters started to arrive last night, and I ran out of candy (Easter candy, if you were curious… kids are totally suspicious when you give them chocolate rabbits and marshmallow eggs for Halloween), I decided to start getting rid of some of the shit that Lawyerman and I didn’t need. Those ungrateful bastards… can you believe they weren’t interested in warped Tupperware and excess packaging tape? Hell, it's better than candy corn. They are lucky I didn't vomit in their bags of smarminess.