Bogged Down

I had no idea when I signed that little piece of paper stating that I would move to Berlin that I would be SO busy preparing for the move. All I feel like I do is pack, unpack, call, clarify, answer dad's questions, and run around trying to see people. And, of course, attempt to create witty blogs for you, readers (grandma:))

I shouldn't complain too much, though because the last week and a half were so lovely and relaxing. I went to a comedy club and then to karaoke with school friends (teachers...) While there were sang two of the greatest hits ever to be performed by the people who educate the youth of America, "Waterfalls" by TLC, and "My Humps" by the Black Eyed Peas. I almost sang "Don't Stop Believin'" with a man I met while waiting for the bathroom, but we had communication problems. I suppose he didn't speak Pig Latin as well as he claimed. He told me he was fluent, while I announced that I was getting my Ph. D. in Pig Latin. I-hay uppose-say e-hay as-way ying-lay. Anyway, Larry let me down in the song category of the night, but loved to dance so we had a blast. I think Amanda had a good time too, watching Dimitri and Wingman strike out with Ami. What can we say...

We hung out with the Johnston boys and then went to Joanna and T.J.'s wedding. I LOVE going to the weddings of people I think should get married! You know, sometimes, you think about what to get the couple and think... how returnable is this item... or... who would get this in the settlement? With TJ and Jo, it never crossed my mind. Those are two people who are meant to be together. God, good job on bringing them together! While at their wedding I righted a wrong I had done to a friend. It went something like this...

Tap, tap, tap. (I patted the back of his suitcoat.)
Me: Hey.
Him: Hey.
Me: Look, I'm really sorry for the way I treated you. I was wrong. And a (insert inappropriate for a blog, but appropriate for the moment name.)
Him: It's no big deal. You don't need to apologize.
Me: Yes, I do. I was totally wrong, and I'm sorry. Seriously.
Him: Well, don't worry about it anymore.
Me: Okay, but really, I'm sorry.
(His date comes over and suction cups herself onto him. I wander off to lead "Devil Went Down to Georgia" and tell my friends that I apologized and feel better.)

Additional joys of the wedding- Seeing Ballzy and my precious diamond. Dancing with my Pi gals. Hanging at the Cincinnati Hofbrauhaus and watching my KY friends during "Hang On Sloopy."

I'll update about Lakeside lata.

Good-bye Bruno

Well, the garage sale was a success. I got rid of the stuff I no longer want and people gave me money to haul it away. Who knew? Of course, it was a ton of work to put the whole thing together and I have made the decision to only hold a garage sale each decade. That sounds reasonable, right? In the end, I wasn't able to part with my wax hand creation. I suppose it holds too many memories for me. (Mom will probably pitch it while I'm in Berlin. And when I get back I will thank her for it.)

Speaking of Berlin... I can now afford to rent an apartment without the fear of subsisting on the German equivalent of Ramen Noodles for several months because (imaginary drum roll) I sold my car. That's right, Bruno, my favorite companion and confidant for six years has been sold into the hands of people who used to go to my church. When I was seven. (They thought I should have multiple memories of them...) They came to the garage sale and asked about the sign on my car (which conveniently went on my car immediately before the garage sale.) I let them take it for a test drive. They said they would be back. I went to the YMCA. They showed up at the Y and asked to take it for another spin. (At this point I was a little wary that I would be trapped on the EFX machine if they didn't bring back my key.) They came back to the Y during my stretch and made an offer which I accepted. Today, they gave me a check and I gave them the title and car. Bruno is gone. I am forlorn.

I first got this car as a graduation present from my parents right before I graduated from high school. It has seen me through a lot of moves, tears, and exciting times. When I first got it I remember trying to name the little red Mitsubishi Eclipse, but no name really seemed to encompass the aura of my car. I remember Jason tryng to convince me that it was a girl and now, I think that was the whole problem of the name dilemma. Surely, my car was a boy, a Bruno. You know, Bruno like Logan's last name. (The Baby-Sitter's Club series by Ann M. Martin.) Logan was the cutest thing alive. Remember girls, he was from Luh-a-vul and had dark brown eyes. My first real crush must have been on Logan and now it seems apt that my favorite car be his namesake. Sigh.

In other news, I have now completed 2,400 postcard stamps for a shoe store mailing and I ask you, dear readers (grandma), when you get this card, do not dismiss it was junk mail, read the back and come on in to the store and use that postcard/coupon. And visit with me so I don't have to keep licking stamps.

Stage 9 of the hierarchy

Denial- I don't actually have to go unpack/sort/repack all of my school supplies. Naturally, my fairy godmother will decide what I need/want and magically ship it to BBIS where I will arrive to see it unpacked and organized for the beginning of the next school year.

Why do I own so much stuff?

How, I ask you, can I have accumulated so many items in my six short years after high school? There is nothing like moving to another state and then to another country which makes you want to give every item you own, including the hand wax creation you made at SAC's Spring Fling, to the Salvation Army simply so you don't have to move it.

In six years, I have accumulated enough junque to fill an Honda Element, a Mitsubishi Eclipse, and a 17ft. U-Haul. And that is after I got rid of the washer, dryer, huge chair, ottoman, and couch. (Thanks Amanda, may you and Adam enjoy them in your future marital bliss.) I knew I really had too many items when I began thinking of the ways I could slow down my drive from Kentucky to Ohio. 'I wonder if that really is the largest Salvation Army in Ohio. Perhaps I should check it out. Hmm, I've driven past that gigantic Jesus torso at regular intervals for 6 years. I should get a picture with it today. Awww. This could be the last time I drive past Trader's World to see the mullet-people barter to get a hai-cut and som unnawear. Maybe I need a hair cut too?' Just about the time I would maneuver my car from the speedy lane to the slow one, I would get an image of my parents lugging my stuff from the U-haul into the garage/basement/shoestore, and then pity would wash over me and I would head north again.

Now, I'm in stage eight of the moving hierarchy. (PS- Hierarchies start from the bottom up, so read it that way.)

Stage 8: Unpack- Where can I fit these items in my parents house without cluttering up my room any more than the two chairs, bed, armoir, two bedside tables, linen chest, and book shelf already are?

Stage 7: Unload- Harumph, 1-2-3 lift, thud, thud, thud, thud. Drop. Crash. Oh, I guess that was the box with vases and picture frames.

Stage 6: Questioning the universe- Am I behind the second funeral procession in ten miles for a reason? Are you sending me signals, God?

Stage 5: Belligerance- What do you mean, Time Warner Cable door sign, that you are closed from 12-1 for lunch? I need to move.

Stage 4: Make it end- I don't care where anything is, just get it in a box and let's get out of here.

Stage 3: This Little Piggy- This box will go home. This one will go to storage. This one will be garage sale items. This one will go to Berlin.

Stage 2: Uber-organization- This box will hold mementos from Fall 2005-Fall 2006. This one will be all useful, opened office supplies.

Stage 1: Preparation-I'll be moving soon, so I better get some boxes, Sharpies, and mailing tape.

So, this is my blogging intro to the life of a school-teachin' 24-year-old Ohio native, Kentucky transplant who will leave in July to move to Berlin, Germany. I own too much stuff. Luckily, my garage sale is on Friday. See you there if you want your very own wax-hand replica.