Before moving out of my old house, the kitchen was among the last room I packed. I had a sinkful of dirty dishes I was going to wash. But I forgot that someone had already bought the outdoor grill and was coming to pick it up. I didn’t heat jug water on the grill in time, before they came to pick it up.
“So there’s a first for everything,” I thought. “I’ll have to pack dirty dishes.”
Oh, right. First I have to tell you that I was unable to keep up with my water bill over that winter. The water company shut off service sometime in the late fall, I think it was. Even when I had water, I had even earlier not been able to refill the propane tank, so I had no hot water — and no heat all winter. (Yes, it does get cold up here — nights in teens and 20s are frequent.) I moved the computer into my bedroom, which I heated with an electric heater. I took bucket baths in the shower or the bidet. (Don’t get me started; I LOVE bidets. And they are NOT just for women, since women are NOT the only ones who “stink” “down there!”)
I heated water in three large pots on the outdoor grill, then used it to bath or wash dishes.
Move scheduling was tight for and for the people who bought the grill. I thought I’d be moved out by the time the outdoor grill went away, but I was still resident. My agitation increasing, I realized I had no way to cook or to clean dishes. I “placed” the dirty items in a large box. I can’t say “packed.” And I wasn’t to “throwing,” yet.
By the time I got to the clean kitchen items and started packing a second large box, I was “tossing” them into the box. Somewhere between the start of box one and the end of box two I’d decided there was no point in careful packing because I was just going to get rid of all of it.
What was the point. See, at that point, I had a plan. continued in “Serious Reading”
postscript: How many blogs will have links to the Salvation Army and bidets in the same post?