It’s a slow bleed

Dietrich and I have been going for wogs in the afternoons. Neither one of us is a runner and both of us are barely joggers, so we wog. He stalls often to “poop” which he suddenly realizes he doesn’t have to do once he catches his breath. He trails behind me the entire time but steps up the pace ever so slightly when I look back at him and tell him he’s doing a great job, his boat sail ears catching a little more wind as he leans into it with new resolve. Yesterday we planned to wog down to one of the blue mailboxes and drop our next pile of Christmas cards but I must have read the map wrong because there was definitely no box at 16th and Joyce, so we made the best of it, envelopes in hand, and ended up at the box I knew for sure was at 23rd and Hayes.

Lesson: Exercise with a low-energy animal and you’ll feel better about your fitness level. Also, the post office website lies like a rug.

He likes to pretend he just finished a marathon and needs one of those body heat capes.

Yesterday I scrubbed the shoebox from floor to lid and invited the husband to comment on how clean everything was and how festive the Christmas gifts for our families look, wrapped and artfully displayed on the bookshelf near our stockings, which are hanging from a pipe. Upon his return from work, he did so, and we were both happy.

Lesson: Sometimes communicating effectively means telling your spouse exactly what you expect or want to hear, so neither one of you is frustrated or disappointed.

Festive Christmas cheer, filling the whole place. I stood in the bathroom to take this.

We continue to hemorrhage things. In my focused scour of the shoebox yesterday, I reassigned three boxes that had yet to be unpacked. One of them is holding an array of things we will use again when we have more than six square feet of living space. It is now underneath one of our clothes baskets in the corner of the bedroom, on the husband’s side of the bed (muahahaha). Another is flat and in the recycling bin outside. The third is collecting Christmas gifts to mail to the home state. And a bag I found in one of the boxes is now hiding under one of the dining room chairs–which is in the bedroom–and storing things for Goodwill.

Lesson: Becoming a minimalist is a slow bleed.

The staircase that leads into the main house has found a secondary purpose as storage. Winter boots, our tool box, the handheld vacuum, all are poised to come or go. The ironing board is hanging from the towel rack on the back of the bathroom door.

Lesson: Necessity truly is the mother of invention. Also, I dislike having things on display for no purpose, but I’m coming to grips with the abbreviated flow of chi in our shoebox.

The boss emailed today asking if I’m willing and available to stay on through the first week of January. I am both.

Lesson: This job has been a blessing from day one. Also, this is why one shouldn’t burn bridges when leaving a job, despite how lame one finds one’s coworker’s donning of Vibram footwear in the office.

Thanks to some gift cards I had and a free Saturday, the husband and I went to Georgetown over the weekend and I finally have the ideal set up for desk items. I saw this idea a long time ago in some magazine or other, and when I found these ceramic produce crates at Anthropologie and the bright lacquer trays at West Elm, I knew it was time.

Lesson: Drawers? I don’t need no stinkin’ drawers.


3 thoughts on “It’s a slow bleed

  1. I like the 19th century laptop. 🙂

    Every time I leave town for over a week I head back thinking, “I just survived more than a week with the contents of a suitcase and a backpack, and I didn’t even use everything in those. Why do I have so much stuff?” But I still have so much stuff. I am getting better at the slow bleed, though. My goal is to have less stuff in more space at the new house…we’ll see how that works.

Shout at me.

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