Monday, May 17, 2010

I have a confession to make....I am obsessed with 'storage'. I think it started with baby clothes, or rather a lack of place to put them. When we bought our last house, I thought it was going to be plenty of space forever. Ha. Then my first baby started going through 3 sizes of clothes per season. Then we had a second baby. And then she acquired all this equipment, and closets that had previously held wrapping paper and ceramic bunnies were full of syringes and breathing treatments and extra oxygen. Oh, and also, my husband got a job that required him to keep 652,000 boxes of 'things' that are, like, 8 ft long.
So, we got a storage unit. I am not kidding, I could go on for days about how much I love the storage unit. I was like an addict looking for a fix...rummaging the house, searching for 'storage-able' things, and filling my van like a gypsy. I made bi-weekly trips, each time feeling a high as I unloaded boxes of Christmas decor and old strollers. I was calling people I barely knew to recommend "off-site storage". Each time I returned home, it felt more like Pottery Barn and less like Living in a Barn. Until it looked like this:

It might be hard to tell, given the quality of the iPhonoto (I made that up, cleaver, eh?? Get it? iPhone-photo?? :). But, that is 12x6 feet, packed to the ceiling of 'extras' from the Burch household. I can't imagine why Americans have a bad rep for wasteful consumerism, can you??
Anyway, it was all fun and games until Paul raced in from work one day to pack for a flight that left town in approximately 1.5 hours. And couldn't find his suitcase. Because his crazy wife had carted it off to storage.
I have to say, the euphoria faded a bit as I body surfed through the treasures to find the suitcase in the back. At least I hadn't put his suits in there. Or one of the children.

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