This morning two very chipper guys in shirts and shorts waded into our worldly goods and wrapped each vase, each piece of pottery, each mother$%&*%g piece of mother($&%ng tiny, infinitesimal playmobile f%$#@kng pirate ship in premium quality shipping paper. Husband and I (kids at daycare) watched them intently, hoping to exude energy and a sense of being involved, even while we didn't lift a finger (because we weren't supposed to) and fervently whispered in the back kitchen over the guilt we both felt over the fact that we didn't lift a finger.
So now we sit watching the the crappy tv (the Big Fuck Off TV of 10 year wedding anniversary having been sold and happily carted off several weeks back now) rugless, coffee-table-less, dining-set-less. The garage sale last weekend proved very fruitful (and my husband nary shed a tear over whoring his various power tools, miter saws, and googynad watsit machines) but lord we still have so much more shit to unload.
But now, at least, there is no choice that it is nothing but shit to unload. Suddenly, when you are faced with the option of unloading or carting as precious cargo to England in your minimal luggage allowance, you become all the more mercenary (Let's just say I chucked out a lot of lumpy bras today) (I know I should handwash) (Deep sigh...)
Oh, and uh, I have a confession to make.
we ended up not shipping the bed...
Don't leave! Let me explain! Let me present the evidence.
1. Miniature Worlde English "Master" (Master! Hahaha) Bedrooms. Stress of finding a place for it to fit and/or pay storage fee
2. Many more thousands of dollars to include it in the shipping costs.
3. My husband declaring that a) he didn't want to be lumbered with a black bed for years to come, because we shipped it, after all.. and b) I want to make another one. Better.
Whatever you say, dear.
The pitcher? Well, the good pitcher is wending its way to some dock, USA. The battered pitcher? Its fate is yet to be determined.