Kitchen Town and the Cowboy Synagogue

The last two weeks have been a blur of filling boxes, thoughts of becoming a nomad, moving said boxes into new apartment, tearing up carpet, painting, sleeping in the living room, driving to basically Nevada on my own to teach one class (in a non-town-farming-community with a synagogue) then driving back, loving the rain, eating our food storage because the kitchen was torn up, that beautiful new carpet + paint smell, ignoring those boxes in our new second bedroom, a knee injury, a baby blessing, helping friends move, turning down a job + hoping for the right one to come along, three major public events at the museum in six days, cute nieces living right next door, my wonderful rediscovery of swimming laps, beautiful spring weather, and terrifyingly awesome Iron Man D-Box style. 

Right before we moved I was so strict on being organized when I packed the boxes that it took me four days to pack and label everything. Matt just threw things in boxes on the last day and called it good. But when I need to find the alarm clock or that pot he wants to cook his favorite meal, he asks me, and I know exactly where it is. What a gloriously nerdy feeling.

The downside of being an organized freak is that I'm exhausted. Too exhausted to possibly reverse the process and find a special new spot for everything we own. So there it all sits, in our second empty room with so many possibilities. We've created walkways and little towns of boxes (kitchen town, bedroom town, bathroom town) and now I basically know where to find anything I need. Maybe I'll just leave it like that for a month, and whatever we don't take out of the boxes automatically becomes superfluous?

Sounds like a good plan to me.