Emerging From a Pit of Junk in Our House. Saw My Shadow. Eight More Weeks of Drinking.

So it has been a big fat greek while, hasn’t it? I’ve had a weird time figuring out how to follow up my last post. Serious is not my medium of choice, but I also didn’t feel like it was appropriate to follow a pretty personal post with something about August peeing in his own face or something. But now, it has been so long, that it really shouldn’t matter what the hell I say. And since we are here, my son pees in his own face. A. Lot.


For a mini check-in of sorts, I’m doing really well. I found a doctor, she gave me some fantastic drugs, and I am pretty much out of a really weird six-week adjustment period that comes with them. I have felt very much like my old self for a while now, and that is somewhere that I am really grateful to be. And speaking of wonderful drugs, some of those drugs are my meds for my ADD. GotDAMN. I missed those little SOBs. I feel like a mostly-functioning, quasi-adult. It’s beautiful. I haven’t been on them since shortly before Adam made me his baby oven, and I spent about 18 months relying on the occasional burst of nesting hormones to muster up the motivation to do any kind of housecleaning.




Mostly, I just relied on plug-in air fresheners, not turning on any lights and not wearing my glasses so I couldn’t see or smell the state of my home. HEALTHY ADULT FOREVER. But no more. Make no mistake, my house is still in shambles. But it is purposeful shambles.


Adam and I are engaging in our very own Anti-Hoarding Initiative. Also known as, getting rid of a shitload of our shit by having a yard sale. We live in a tw0-bedroom townhouse. We love it, but we also want to leave it eventually. Probably sooner than “eventually” makes one think of. My goal is to move when I am pregnant with our next kid. I have no desire to attempt to nurse a newborn, chase after a toddler, and keep the house clean enough so that other people actually want to live in it and pay us money to do that. I want to be in the next house before the next baby. And I also don’t want to have to paint or lift heavy things. Or really do anything involving moving.


My ultimate goal is to convince Adam that I need to be sent to a spa for a week while he gets the new house ready and I get the knots worked out of my preg-back by two Swedish babe-men, far away. However, in the event that my plan does not come to fruition, I want to have a lot less crap to pack and move and unpack. And I also would like an excuse to buy more, better crap. In conclusion, yard sale.




My desire to buy more crap and better crap is only getting stronger, as I am currently not allowed to buy any crap. In our cleaning/organizing/decluttering, Adam and I have found that I have a secret talent for buying things, losing them somewhere in the house while they are still in the bag, and then forgetting that I bought them. And sometimes buying them again. I am a glass half-full person (today) and have been very grateful to Past Sara for bestowing so many unopened beauty and hair products upon Present Sara. Adam only sees a bunch of times that I spent money on christmas decorations that we are now finding in almost June and has politely asked me not to buy anything else until we have the yard sale.


I guess sometimes it doesn't matter?
I guess sometimes it doesn’t matter?


Now, there is the shiny, wonderful side of having a yard sale. The part where you find three unopened bottles of Moroccan Oil in different rooms of your house, after you have made the decision to buy a cheaper version. I get to have rich people hair again!! And the part where you get to sell a little bit of your shit for real money, maybe enough to go HAM on some Waffle House, and then drive most of your shit to Goodwill so that it is at least gone forever.





And there is the dark, ugly side of having a yard sale. The part where you actually have the yard sale and annoying, aggressive bargain hunters keep trying to haggle with you over literal nickels and dimes. And the part where really creepy dirtbags are digging through your things and you don’t want to send any of your (suddenly beloved) crap to what you are sure will be a cold and unloving home.


And then there is the weird and uncomfortable and kind of shameful side of having a yard sale. The part where you have to have a come-to-cheesus meeting with yourself about those four Twilight books on the shelf. You own them all. And two of them are New Moon. They may be leaving your house soon, but that will not erase the feeling of knowing that information about yourself, that your brain has clearly tried to hide from you by not only making you forget, but by turning you into a crazy hoarder who would have never noticed those books, otherwise.


So. Much.
So. Much.


There is currently about five square feet of space in our living room, filled with Creed CDs and three-barrel waving irons and a frillion of Adam’s tshirts (whoops how did those get in there.) and regifts and a buttload of other things I can’t remember because we need NONE OF IT. And we aren’t even done purging. If Adam would let me light a match to all that nonsense, I would be gorging myself on s’mores over a dangerously large fire. I cannot wait to have all of this out of my house for forever and the rest of my life. Here’s to living with less. And then buying cuter stuff and being able to find it after you bring it home.


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