I am tired of changing poopy diapers.  I am tired of cutting other people’s food.  I am tired of pouring juice.  I am tired of hiding the knives.  I am tired of taping the freezer door shut.  I am ready to move on to the next stage of life.  Check, please.

So we are back in our house, and it’s great and wonderful, blah blah, but I am disheartened because I unpacked about 100 boxes last week (and when I say “100,” I don’t mean “I unpacked a lot of boxes and 100 is a big number so I’ll just say 100”–I mean “100”) and I was finally starting to feel like the house was going to be livable and normal soon…and then my husband brought over the last of the crap from our rental house.  I just want to cry.  I don’t want this stuff.  I don’t want any of this stuff.  I don’t want to find a home for it.  I just want it to go away.

One of the silver linings I tried to see in this cloud of fire-and-displacement was that it would be my opportunity to experiment with minimalism.  We’d be living in a rented house with rented furniture and rented housewares, and I would only buy or bring with me those things I absolutely needed.  Stop laughing.  I swear to God I will cut you if you laugh at me again.  I am not in the mood.  Anyway, yeah, I did okay for the first several weeks.  I tried to have a camping mentality.  I stopped doing real camping when I got old enough that my parents couldn’t force me to go with them, so a 2,500 square foot house in the suburbs was about as close as I’d come to roughing it for about twenty years, what can I say?  Where was I?  Yes, I was doing okay.  I was using rented housewares–cheap pots and pans, none of the usual kitchen amenities I was used to.  No garlic press, no food processor, no rotary cheese grater.  Whenever I started to feel discontented, I would tell myself, “I am camping.  I am discovering what I can truly live without.”  And I would feel very proud of myself every time I chopped an onion by hand.  I got pretty good at it, if I do say so myself. 

Then Sugar Daddy brought over the non-stick cookware and the cast iron skillet.  I brought over a decent cheese knife.  And the garlic press.  And the rotary cheese grater.  And the food processor.  And I don’t remember what happened after that.  It was just a deluge of consumption.  It carried me away.

What I discovered about myself:  I am not a minimalist.  I buy, I hoard, I cram, I pile.  I am burdened by possessions.  I am the raccoon with its hand caught in a trap but I refuse to let go of the shiny object that caught my fancy in the first place, though it enslaves me.  I am, in sum, an overfed white woman living in a landfill of my own creation, and that landfill will be my grave. 

Other than that, I feel great.  How were y’all’s holidays?

Speaking of consumption, I should probably clarify something in my last post.  I don’t hate Barbie dolls.  I think Barbies are fine.  We have a colony of them, both clothed and unclothed.  I don’t even care that she has a body type that exists nowhere in nature.  She’s a freaking doll, she’s made of plastic.  What I regret the purchase of is Princess Zurg’s Barbie Girl®, which is an MP3 player that is also the key to unlocking all of the cool features on the Barbie Girls web site.  It was launched last spring with a price tag along the lines of $65, which wouldn’t have been too steep a price to pay for something that was also an MP3 player, but PZ already had an MP3 player, and I just couldn’t bring myself to pay $65 for a Barbie Girl so she could do cool stuff on a web site she already spent too much time on. 

Then my babysitter found one in a store for $20 right before Christmas.  What can I say, it seemed like a good idea at the time.  The problem is that my laptop, which is the only functioning computer in the house right now, won’t read the installation disc.  It’s not Barbie Girl’s fault.  My laptop won’t read Mister Bubby’s new computer game, either.  I don’t know what its deal is.  I’m not even mad at the computer.  I’m mad at my own consumerism because freakazoid, this is such a frivolous, fat-American item and the fact that I can’t get it to work should not be causing me this much grief. 

I liked when Barbie was just a veterinarian and a Malibu sunbather, without delusions of iPodness.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to “enjoy” another weekend in which I tunnel through the gargantuan trash heap of materialism that is my life.  Brothers and sisters, adieu.

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