Gypsy Life

Two months, working everyday, cleaning out closets, drawers, scrubbing tile floors, sealing cement cracks, spackling cracks, spot painting, replanting container gardens, paying a stager to move furniture....that’s a fraction of what the past two months have entailed.

But, it’s on the market.  And, so is the house next door.  Yep!  Went on one day after mine.  How damn lucky can you get?

The truth is, I just don’t care.  It’s on and that’s it.  I’m afraid it will sell and I’m afraid it won’t.  I am so sick of cleaning out the place, I just need a respite from it all.  I lay awake at nights worrying about what I’m going to do with all my furniture.

I’m already living with Buff Honey but it’s full to overflowing with all his man cave stuff.  Plus, my youngest is one week away from her due date with her first child!!!  I absolutely cannot be thinking about moving issues!

Occasionally, I feel like a baby boomer gypsy....living six months in the Florida house, owning the house in Columbia and living in the house in Olney.  Like I said before, I’m a minimalist.  Of course, that’s after spending a lifetime accumulating things I am now more than ready to give away or dump at the landfill.

In Olney, I have three drawers, a quarter of a closet plus a few bookshelves.  I’m actually perfectly happy but I also know that’s temporary....a tsunami is approaching right after the closing date.

Actually, I did live the gypsy life for a long time.  After I graduated from Florida State circa 1970, I left in a VW bug with a husband, a dog, our hippie clothes and beads, and a surfboard (don’t ask).  We were on our way to New England where he’d gone AWOL, landing in New Haven.  He evidently had fond memories as we were on the return trip.

When we cruised the streets of Northampton, Massachusetts, it was fairly obvious that cops were not interested in busting marijuana users as they were apparent everywhere in broad daylight.  We got a room in a boarding house and cooked on two burners checking out concerts, poetry readings and consciousness raising groups in our spare time.

No jobs.  I think we had about $100 and the room was $25 a week so my husband, thank God, found one working in a minimum security prison as a drug counselor not too long after we arrived.  I know....the irony.  Hey, it was the 70s.

And then, the moves started.  We left Northampton, moved to a lake cottage in Southwick, then on to South Windsor, Connecticut....all this within 8 months.  I remember this because my oldest was born a week after we moved the last time.

Over the next ten years, I had ten different addresses...stability was not my forte back then.  I got swept up in communal living, the women’s movement, civil rights and politics.

I lost my husband....a very good guy...to my need to experience a life I could’ve never lived in Pine Castle, Florida or in an earlier era.

But, I digress.

I’m making baby steps progress on the man cave I now call home.  Last weekend, we totally cleaned out his daughter’s room (she hasn’t lived there in over five years).  She happily took her treasures to her apartment.

Today, we tackled the coat closet.  While he was running, I took everything out.  18 jackets, 11 umbrellas, 3 remotes, cords and cables to god knows what....12 rolls of wrapping paper, vacuum cleaner, dust buster, gloves, hats, plates (?).  There’s more.
But, now it’s less.  Down to three jackets, four umbrellas, vacuum and dust buster.
Ahhhh...progress!  I love that thrift store down the street!

I have to keep a perspective here.  It’s not easy for him to part with his stuff but, at least, he makes the effort and knows it needs to go.

Not so for my last boyfriend.  He could sign up for the Hoarder Show.  Seriously.  One day, he asked me to help him reduce the number of pants he had.  Okay, I’ll bite.  How hard could that be?  Just pants?

We started putting them in piles....jeans, khakis, dress pants, shorts.....the piles took up every space available in three rooms.  When the last pair finally emerged, I had counted over 300 pairs of pants.  No exaggeration.  Hoarder.  He didn’t throw away one pair.

LIke I said....PERSPECTIVE!  Hmmmm....18 jackets vs 300 pants?!  I think I can deal with Buff Honey's man cave!