It was 90 degrees, but stuff got moved.

Bigfoot kept telling me I was working too hard. I finally told him I was working about as hard as I do at my day job. “Oh, maybe that’s why you have to nap.”

There are open bags of chips and crackers, banana peels and a watermelon on my kitchen table. There are important papers and snapshots and trinkets everywhere. There are four bags of crumpled and folded newspapers from 1995. (Bill Clinton and Newt Gingrich standing off. The Contract On America. A great Outland cartoon was discovered, and archived.) There are boxes that smell musty, like an attic or stuff that’s been in storage for five years and more.

I have my dad’s salt and pepper shakers. I have my mom’s salt and pepper shakers. I have my grandma’s teakettle. I have my Great Aunt Mary’s china. I have somebody else’s china. I have my own personal odds and ends from years of junk shopping. I have doodads.

I have a bridal shower explosion in my living room.

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But I don’t have a U-haul, and I don’t have a storage space. Now to make it all fit or go away.

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