In June, we rented my Grandpa’s house. The house that kind of technically wasn’t totally finished yet. The house that still had, oh, a lot of stuff in the closets as well as the stuff we needed during the year it took to get it ready (tools, cleaning supplies, industrial size bottles of Maker’s Mark, etc.). When we rented it to the family that lives there (or God’s Gift to Landlords, as we refer to them, or, depending on how much I’ve had to drink, I Want Them To Be My New Mommy and Daddy I Love You But You Don’t Pay My Tuition) all that stuff had to go somewhere.

Shockingly, our house wasn’t quite big enough to absorb everything from there (I know right? Because if my grandparents were known for anything it was their sense of minimalist decor.), and finally it just become a “oh, screw it, stick it in the basement and we’ll deal with it later” sort of situation.

(We had a lot of those during this whole experience. Shocking, right? Because it’s so completely unlike us to ignore bad things. It’s all Grandma’s fault- the genetic root lies with her.)

The place it ended up getting dumped in was my room in the basement. Not a big deal because I really only use it as a study during the school year, and my GRE study guide could be safely ignored from my bedroom upstairs. I generously offered them the use of the floorspace that doesn’t technically belong to me at all in any way, as long as it would all be cleaned up by the time school started again.

School starts next Tuesday Wednesday. (I totally thought it was Tuesday until yesterday.) As of last night, there were still eleventy jillion boxes and bags and some dead animal that my grandma called a fur. I may have expressed some thought that it would not be cleaned up by the time I needed it in a few weeks.

(By expressed I might mean screaming and yelling. Again, so unlike me.)

But lo! I needn’t have worried. My mom was completely true to her word and everything is gone except for a teensy weensy bile of boxes in the corner that I hardly notice because, hey, it’s not like I’m that clean, either. My clutter just originates post-Reagan era, that’s all.

So my apologies, Mommy. You totally kept up your end of the deal.

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