Friday, November 30, 2007
At some point I stopped caring about all of the crap in my old room at my parents' house. I'm not sure when this happened, but it was probably somewhere between my double life in Sonora and a year and a half into marriage. All I know is I used to have these gems in my old room that I was going to come back for some day, when I finally had room for them. I've had room for about a year now, but it finally took thinly veiled threats from my parents to get me in there again. Before venturing in, my dad warned me a couple of things had fallen off my shelves during the last earthquake and broken (and no, they hadn't cleaned them up. Hence, my housekeeping skills) and I sort of shrugged , "OK." They included pots I made in Ceramics class in high school, a gift from a friend who went to Egypt, and Christmas gifts from years past, lying in broken pieces on the floor. And I didn't fricking care. I piled stuffed animals, board games and trinkets no one will want onto the floor and dedicated them to my parents' upcoming garage sale. The only things that hurt a little were the style books and writing guides. I gave those away, too. They're useless junk from a past life, now.