This is my kitchen junk drawer. Take this, times two walk in closets, an attic, a basement and a single car garage that has never had room for a single car in it. Then multiply that times eleventy million nooks, crannies, cubbies and stash spots. And that? Is my house.
I opened the junk drawer because I am going to visit the new condo today with the realtor, and I wanted to take the tape measure, which should be in the junk drawer. And the overwhelming junky reality of the junk drawer sent me into a tailspin of despair and hopelessness with regards to the looming task of *sorting* and *packing* and *organizing* for a move. Wherein *sorting* and *packing* and *organizing* = really, how sad would I be if I just got rid of everything and moved with my clothes and a toothbrush.
To break it down mathematically: 3000 square foot house with 12 years of accumulated stuff minus 1,100 square foot condo WHICH IS FREAKING FURNISHED = 6.4 cubic tons of leftover stuff that I need to sort, sell, goodwill, pack and store.
Also? The tape measurer? Not in the junk drawer anyway, so this was all for nothing. The last time I saw my VERY OWN PERSONAL PINK TAPE MEASURER? It was in Tim's hands. And I was accused of *drama* and *hysteria* and *selfishness* when I said PUT MY TAPE MEASURER DOWN AND GO GET YOUR OWN MANLY YELLOW TYPE TAPE MEASURER OUT OF THE GARAGE. IF YOU USE MINE I WILL NEVER SEE IT AGAIN.
That was at least three months ago. And now? My very own personal pink tape measurer? Totally fucking gone, leaving me to go to dig through the garage for the manly yellow tape measurer. Is it really *drama* and *hysteria* and *selfishness* when it is ALWAYS TRUE?