|Thursday, Nov. 06, 2003 || Pack rats with screaming appendages|
Rob and I have a difference of opinion concerning the condition of the house once the showings begin.
Rob is taking the de-clutter literature quite, um, how shall I say it… literally. He is in major sort and purge mode.
I say, “Hey, we live here! So what if they see a can of Lysol by the toilet. At least they will know we care about germ fighting!”
It does not help that the two of us are major packrats. You won’t believe the stuff we’ve been hanging onto. And have I mentioned that we have moved a mere nine times (this will make ten) in our 15 years of wedded bliss? So, one would think that the junk would be at a minimum.
Heh. I wish.
We’ve gone through this how-many-trash-bags-can-we-fill-in-this-mad-dash-to-move mode nine stinkin’ times now. It sure seems we have thrown away land fills worth of paper work and various bric-a-brac.
Man, I dread to think what 5, 10, even 20 years in one home would look like.
Which, with my insanely competitive nature makes me want to run down to my treadmill and knock out the final miles right now. And that might just work if I didn’t have an insane amount of acquired junk to finish going through, homework out the wazoo, and a sore knee. I think the sore knee is from the leg curl machine today. I moved up to the 105 lb weight and now my right knee, which used to give me grief in high school when I danced is saying, “Ah….owee! Hello!? What did you do, silly girl?” Oh, and did I mention that my pectoralis major, trapezius, and deltoids are also screaming, “Whoa, girl, give us a break!?”
Yup, a pack rat whose body parts speak to her. Aren’t you glad you visited the asylum today?
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