A year ago tomorrow, we moved out of Charleston. That was also the second of two rounds of spinal steroid shots (yes; got shots in spine, drove twelve hours). So it was sort of the extreme point of my life for the last, oh, six or seven years. I'm not sure whether to call it a high or a low.
Well. Remember drugged packing?
So here I am, a year later, UNpacking. In a semi-coherent state. There's all this stuff... missing. You know, like the dish rack I kept in the one side of the sink. And my waffle iron. My bread-making bowl. Assorted kitchen gadgets. A loaf pan. Lots of silicone bakeware I never really liked. I've got vague, foggy memories of throwing them out. Very foggy. The husbeast and his dad (who came down to help us wrangle the Goob) confirm we had piles and piles of things left out for the trash.
What's really worrying me is, I also have vague memories of throwing out BOOKS. Around here, that's a much bigger deal than a waffle iron.
At any rate, the majority of unpacking and putting away in the kitchen is done. I've got one box left, containing my grandmother's china. I'm waiting until everything else is unpacked in the house before I tackle that, to minimize breakage.
Next up, unpacking the work space. Last I checked, it looked like this.
If no one hears from me in a month or two, send in the National Guard. With martinis and pretzels.