Saturday's move went about as expected--it was complete chaos. I had given my parents the benefit of the doubt in saying they were half packed, but on Saturday morning they were nowhere near half anything and from 6:00 a.m. to 6:00 p.m. it was a 9 person packing, dusting, loading, and unloading melee. I just tried to keep in mind that a smooth move, especially one forcing downsize, doesn't exist whether you're ready for it or not. I continually reminded myself that not everyone is as anal and controlling about these things as I am. I find it comical that the reason behind my being so anal and controlling is because of my parents. My disorderly, haphazard upbringing has scarred me for life. I won't let leftovers sit in the fridge for longer than 24 hours because if I see one more bowl of moldy spaghetti, even accidentally, I might just go insane. My mom cleaned out the refrigerator maybe once every 6 months. I cringe when I see mail on my dining table because we didn't have a dining table while I was growing up--we had a postage table with seating for eight. My furniture is moved every weekend in order to sweep and mop the floor underneath because when I was younger the dust bunnies multiplied at a rapid rate, forming armies so great in numbers that I'm surprised there were no casualties. While I don't consider myself a clean freak, I do get an irritating twitch in my right eye whenever I feel I'm mimicking my mother's housekeeping skills. You get the point.
Let me get back on track here. Ah, yes, the move. We made two trips with a 24-foot truck and two SUVs. The apartment was nearly filled to capacity after the first trip, but my parents were still hanging on to old, beaten pieces of furniture that were not only outdated and ugly, but obviously weren't going to fit comfortably in their new apartment. We all accepted that downsizing must be hard, and harder still for two pack-rats hanging on to 33 years worth of belongings. We even understood holding on to certain pieces of furniture just to play with the placement of things, to figure out what works and what doesn't, then pitching out the pieces that won't fit with the decor afterward. What we didn't understand was the 30-year-old formica end table that if nudged just lightly could quite possibly fall to the floor in a hundred little pieces of particle board, or the wooden rocking chair with splintered arms and legs that served as a teething toy for the dog. It may have been mean, it was probably down right despicable, but my brothers and I conspired together, and purposely dropped the rocking chair from the moving truck, then apologized profusely to my parents for "accidentally" destroying the chair. Let me just reassure you that the chair held no sentimental value, and I'm pretty sure my mom didn't buy our "accident," anyway. We let my dad have his end table, because we figured the second he placed a lamp on it, it would give out.
There were positive moments among all of the negative. Amidst the purging of items, Jon and I walked away with a few goodies. We are now the owners of one very large, solid oak desk that, before I was born, was used at the Akron Board of Education. My intentions are to refinish it and add new hardware to all of the drawers. I'm convinced it will be beautiful when I'm done with it and I can use it to replace the collegiate pieces-parts desk I'm sitting at currently. We also snagged two 5' black metal shelving units which, once cleaned up, will provide stylish, open storage for our office. A few smaller pieces include a Better Homes and Gardens hose caddy and a Pampered Chef cookie press. Now I'm able to water the flowers and bake tree-shaped cookies, all while running a business of one form or another from our snazzy new home office. Does it get any better than that?