Little Boxes

Today I'm fatigued.

Which is crazy, because I could have sworn I got enough sleep last night. Maybe today's fatigue is a reaction to air-borne dust, hay, nasty bathroom cleaners, and too much Pepsi.

This Saturday's big adventure was detoxing various parts of the house. Sunday's big adventure was... cleaning the garage. Sort of. I suppose "beginning to make a dent in the stuff" would be the most accurate description. Even after about six hours.

When we moved four years ago, especially at the end, I went a little crazy putting things into boxes and then the boxes ended up in our attic. Some of the boxes had really cool things in them, which turned cleaning out the garage into a kind of treasure hunt (I found more little tins, masks, and ocarinas than one would expect). But some of the boxes are -- to my chagrin -- crammed full of the sorts of records and letters that my Uber-Organized Mother puts into folders by month, and then transfers into new folders by year. So, I have a lot of (bluntly) trash with a few important documents mixed in to keep things exciting. Which I need to sort.

It's so bad that Mark has suggested burning things; this is the same person who is usually insisting that I be twenty-five feet away from the house with anything that even mildly approaches a spark or flame (let alone anything that makes an artsy flame, like, say, isopropyl alcohol).

Needless to say, I'm going to have my hands busy for the next few weeks.