There are no mice skittering across the floors.
No snakes dropping from the ceilings.
No drafts coming in the windows at night.
No chipmunks escaping the bathroom cabinets.
No mold growing in the bathroom.
No sticky glue traps ending up in beds (with mice still in them).
Sadly, all of these things have happened in the old house.
Not just once, but repeatedly.
I feel safe, comfortable, and warm in the new house. I feel like it's actually home, instead of just some shitty place that is being temporarily rented. I finally feel like I've... landed.
I even have a dresser. I haven't had one of those since I left Florida. Seriously. I sold my dresser to my produce manager when I still worked for Publix. I couldn't afford to move it.
Moving was a process. It's hard, not having reliable men in my life. Or Mom's life. We had two awesome co-workers do the heavy lifting. They busted their asses, and we are forever indebted to them.
Did my uncle show up?
No.
Did my "boyfriend" show up?
No.
When my aunt and uncle finally DID show up, it was the day after, to bring dinner, and bitch about how many stuffed animals they've seen me move over the past few years.
My co-workers had something to say about that, too.
Since this is kind of a sore subject for me (not the stuffed animals, but the thought process that goes along with them), I feel the need to explain a little bit.
Firstly, I am incredibly sentimental. Mom and I both are. She has socks that were my grandmother's. Her mixer. Her favorite mixing bowl. Dishtowels. I have the only things ever given to me by my grandparents: stuffed animals. I was a very small child when they passed away, and thus, I received a lot of toys and stuffed animals. The toys have long since been given away, or have broken, but I s
till know which grandparent gave me which stuffed animal, and for which occasion. I will probably never part with them. I didn't know my grandparents for very long, but I do know that they adored me. I've heard stories about them. I feel like I know them. And I want to continue to feel that way about them. The stuffed animals keep me connected.
Secondly, and this is the thought process part, I was an engaged woman once. I made a home with a man. A home that was ready to start a life, and a family, and all of the things that go with it. That home had to be quickly packed away and loaded onto a truck to move to Missouri. It was then unloaded into a bedroom. Yes, one single bedroom. Thus, the majority went to storage, whether in a basement, or a storage unit, or my aunt's house. There was never an opportunity to sort through things, get rid of things I didn't need or want or use. From that little basement storage locker, it went to the basement at the shitty house we just moved from. It got to a point where I was too terrified to go into the garage to sort through things. Now, I did finally sort it. Mom and I went through it together. I donated more stuff than you would believe. And yes, I do still have a lot of stuff. But I'm also holding onto the things that will one day make a home again. I'm holding onto my nice dishes, and pots and pans, and wine glasses, and wall art, and books. Books that I had in college, or in high school, or as a kid, but books that I loved, that have been read hundreds of times, and that mean something to me.
So, yes, I have a lot of stuff.
I also have a lot of stuffed animals.
And dammit, they are mine, and Mom doesn't mind storing them in her basement.
Plus, they aren't hard to move.
I don't know why it works me up that everyone bitches about them. Maybe I feel the need to defend myself, at the age of 24, for having a collection of stuffed bears.
I'm not really sure.
In any case, I will move my own damned stuff next time if it's an issue.
...anyway.
I now have real-person internet instead of stuck-in-the-styx internet, so feel free to send me things to download. I will be happy to download just about anything.
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