Walking outside the Boxes

Relocating when you're a writer is almost as much fun as trying to get a good night's sleep in a bed full of live eels.  So, here i am, doing it again, because i just can't get enough of it, and no matter where i go, writing is such a lucrative profession.  Right.

On the upside, some wonderful friends of mine insisted that i come live with them while i do the job hunt, apartment hunt, phone hunt, vehicle hunt dance.  They're wonderful people and i adore them.  I can't possibly be the easiest person to live with, but i try to do my share around the house so my wonkiness is a little more easily overlooked.  I've also taken over a section of the patio table with my laptop, accessories, and continuously pollute the lanai air with smoke.  They seem to forgive me, but it can't be a picnic.

So this is how i find myself living with two of the most impressive pack rats on the planet.  It's an easy rut to fall into.  I'm an ex-pack rat myself.  First off, they're property owners.  This creates an enormous amount of paperwork that will inevitably escape the file cabinets and wind up in boxes.  The boxes have trouble reaching the garage because it's full to the rafters with home repair equipment and implements of mass construction.  The vehicles don't stand a chance of ever avoiding the light of day.

Adding to that, they've raised two chilluns.  Chilluns require a ton of paperwork, and when they grow up and leave, they rarely manage to take all their stuff with them.  On the other hand, they don't want it thrown out, either.  Most people just leaving the nest move into small nests where they need new stuff but don't necessarily have room for all the old stuff yet.  They are determined, however, that one day they'll have a place for their old stuff and will return to collect it.  This happens with the same frequency as finding honest politicians and discovering uranium under your sofa.  The few things that the children ARE willing to cast aside forever are cherished by the parents who, in turn, have an awful time throwing these items out.  You just can't casually cast aside that third grade diorama of prairie dogs (that look suspiciously like tiny troll dolls) popping their heads out of half a foot of glue and sand to gaze on a salt shaker rooster.  Especially since the two of you stayed up all night to work on it because someone forgot it was due the next day.

Now, while this is fuel for cluttering up a vast array of what was intended for living space, add to that the problem of working at Renaissance Faires.  There are costumes and props that need homes.  There's fabric for costumes that are going to be built, were built but may need to be repaired or let out later, might one day become part of a quilt, or is possibly just too cool to hit the trash bin.  There are clasps and frills that are waiting for the right fabric to adorn.  There are baskets that were on sale that will be needed when the current baskets wear out.  There are things that can be converted into other things as soon as you figure out what those other things might be.  That's at least two rooms worth of former living space eaten up faster than a drum stick on King Henry's plate.

Did i mention that they're readers?  Blessedly, there are shelves of books everywhere, and as with most readers, they ran out of shelf space years ago so you never know where a book might turn up.

Add to that the bit where one of the pair happens to be a musician and actually has a folk band.  More costumes of the Pirate, Gold Rush, and Renaissance sort.  And instruments.  Lots and lots of instruments.  Guitars, mandolins, rebecs, various and sundry stringed things of no discernible make or model, pipes and flutey objects, sheet music galore, and a piano in slight need of tuning.  That pretty much leaves the remaining crevices of the entire house gone with the wind instrument.

These people are doomed.

And now they have me.  While i try to keep my stuff limit down to nothing more than i can fit into the back of a truck, i no longer have a truck.  This means i have to put my stuff into a room.  It's a sweet room, but it's fairly small and i'm currently sharing it with the accessories that didn't leave with a teenage boy.  It wouldn't be all that bad, except for the fact that i left some stuff in New Hampster and it's determined to follow me via parcel post.  Until it gets here, i've had to compensate by buying a few temporary accessories that will be duplicated when the boxes of old accessories arrive.  Now i'm taking up space.  But wait, it gets better!  My mother is finally moving out of her home of 35 years, and she's decided that rather than take my old stuff to her new place, she'd send it looking for me.  One day the postman will arrive with even more space gobbling stuff.

These poor people are now beyond doomed.  Good thing one of them is a real estate agent.  Maybe she can get a good deal on a house to put their stuff in so they can have a house again someday.  At the very least, when i get my new place, they can help pack up their newest pack rat.
 
Lily Robertson, who adores her current digs, boxes and all, and thinks her new roomies are saints for sharing, can be reached at canopicjargon@gmail.com or on facebook.