I've been helping my mother pack up her stuff to move this weekend. Loading will require going down a spiral staircase that turns 180 degrees, through 2 doors, up 3 stairs, through a courtyard and a big iron gate to the truck parked on the street. Mom has wisely hired movers.Amazingly, we got a loading permit for 8-5:30 through the city of Chicago with a single phone call.
One of the oddest things about this experience is boxing up Mom's stuff and realizing that in some ways, I *am* becoming my mother. It's a bizarre realization. I mean, we all know we are gonna lean that way anyway, but it a whole other thing entirely to suddenly envy mom's giant popcorn tin filled with Target bags.
Or her nifty crap containers. You know, like little rubbermaid or tupperware or cool boxes in which to store all your can't-live-without-crap.
Or her amazing collection of office supplies. Ingenious tape dispensers and pens.
I mean, at some point, we all have to just look at ourselves and say, yip, that right there, that sunk in. Bag hoarding. Or cracking your knuckles. Or the way you mow the yard. Or drive your car.
For me, it's the bags....
