You can't take it with you.

I'm in the process of either selling, giving away, or throwing out all of my posessions that are too expensive or cumbersome to transport to New York when I move in a couple of weeks. My progress feels a little counterproductive at times; my Stuff Ratio of Purged to Gained is about 2:1.

Case in point: I need enormous suitcases to house my massive apparel collection, since I might as well make my two bags that I am allowed to check on the flight as large as possible. After weeding out my closet for a painful second and third time, I managed to produce another garbage bag or two for the Salvation Army. This past Tuesday, Liz Vanderhoof came into town with a suitcase full of beautiful clothes to sell at the now-nonexistent The 'Ville, which she didn't know had closed down. I offered to buy some if she threw in the suitcase, which she agreed to. So now I have a suitcase, which won't hold as much as it could because now I have more clothes. Not as many as I threw out, but more nonetheless. I was able to throw out all my plastic CD jewel cases, but doing so required me to buy a CD binder. There are socks and books and trinkets that I need to return to friends, and other items I'll be shipping, but to do so I have to stock up on boxes.

I had to sell all of my Anne of Green Gables books. I haven't been able to let go of any stuffed animals yet. Sarah, Carley, and Jessica are getting my microwave, Nick might be buying my car, and I'm selling the furniture back to Hidden Treasures. This all feels a little morbid. "I want you to have my colored pencils. And to you, I leave my plastic storage bins and empty tubs." Like I know that I'm dying and I'm writing my will about who's getting what when I'm not around anymore.

Doggaroo

Chekhov is probably approaching Columbia right now, in the backseat of Rachel's car on the way to her parents' house. I had to give him away because not only would it be more difficult to find a place in New York or elsewhere if I had a dog, it would make the moving process more difficult as well. Her parents have a bigger house, a yard, another dog to play with, and empty nest syndrome, making them the perfect adoptive parents, especially since I've been friends with her for years and I'd be able to visit him whenever I'm in St. Louis.

I've had him for over two years. I got him from a frat that was having a puppy-a-thon when one of their dogs had her litter, and bought him for twenty dollars on the most uncharacteristic impulse of my life. Not only was I not a dog person, but I had to ask one of my friends to hold him in my car on the way to Wal-Mart that afternoon when I went in to puzzle out exactly what the hell a puppy needed. I had to go back to the store twice.

I'm glad I got him when he was that young. I like starting things from the beginning.

During his rearing, I lost over seven pairs of shoes, tens of CDs (some of which belonged to other people), at least five books (two of which were library books, and one of which was entitled "How to Train Your Dog"), countless waterbottles, my couch, three or four stuffed animals, a stick of deodorant, and piles of paper--among other forgotten items--to his developing jaws. I learned to let go of things. I also learned to put them in places he couldn't reach. Sometimes that didn't work.

Chekhov took after me in odd, uncanny ways, perhaps because I found myself resembling my mother in other, humbling ways. He enjoys eating apples, vegetables, bread, and grass. One time I came home and found he had eaten half a can of icing, his snout still in the container and his paws and fur all sticky. He hid under the bed for several hours after that. He doesn't slobber or lick excessively, but I trained him to give kisses: two small licks on the hand, more if I have something he wants. He only does it to me. He howls when fire engine sirens are sounding and when I'm playing opera music. He has more nicknames than I can count, consisting mostly of combinations of Chekhov, Bear, Stinky, Chunky, Muppet, and Roo. He is the most extreme balance of happy, goofy, protective, loving, and tolerant that ever kicked its leg when you scratched its stomach. I don't think I'd be the person today if I hadn't gotten him, and I don't know what life will be like without. Less happy, I imagine.

It's too fucking quiet in here.

Kirksville Nursing Homes: Helping the Elderly Die Quicker for Thirty-Five Years

My first real class in months and I'm almost late.

My boss at JavaCo offered to pay for a class in food safety at the Vocational Tech school for all that were interested in being certified. It was the five of us, some kids that worked at a concession stand, some ladies that worked at a nursing home, one of the owners of the Wooden Nickel, and a few other women that I wasn't sure where they worked but they said they made Sloppy Joes.

We watched an informational video that claimed to have "Real People! Real Situations!" but in fact featured worse acting than I've seen in the entire library of the Taco Bell instructional tapes and enough flashing font and synthesized techno beats to make the 80's blush. Most of the facts they presented were common sense bits I'd already known. Our instructor gave us a packet and a lecture, which covered word-for-word everything that was in the packet, and then a test, for which we got to use the packet. She tried to scare us with personal eyewitness accounts of times she's been out eating and witnessed unsanitary food preparation, but confessed that she was always reluctant to say something because she was afraid they would spit in her food. The other middle-aged women nodded and shared some tales of their own, and the two ladies who worked at the nursing home candidly spilled the beans about how there are some things they should be doing "in theory," but they don't get done.

I aced the test, which was ridiculously easy.

I realize food safety is important, and that e.coli, botulism, and salmonella are significant and possible threats, but I think that if I spent as much time paranoid about it as some are, I would lose my mind, never get any orders made on time, and develop the weakest immune system known to man. That, and I think the amount of instances that they recommended I wash my hands would cause me to either develop OCD or at the very least remove several layers of dermis.

At least I don't live in a nursing home. A reassurance on many levels not even having to do with food safety.

Mrs. Dalloway said she would buy the flowers herself.

I threw a dinner party last Wednesday, partially to find homes for some zucchini and eggs, but mostly in honor of Amber leaving Kirksville to make something of her life back home near Chicago. We all drank three bottles of wine, used three dishcloths for sweat-rags when my lack of an air-conditioner grew too much to handle, and burned a million leftover sparklers before it began raining. She visited JavaCo a few hours before she left on Friday, to say hello and get a bagel before resuming packing. When she was gone I was left with a strange desperate emptiness, like when you're a little kid and you accidentally drop a toy into the ocean or let your helium balloon slip from your hand, and all you can do is helplessly watch it float away, and the only thing you can think of is all the fun you won't be having with it now that it's gone.

I've made plans for new living arrangements in Kirksville if I need them--ones I'm actually a little excited about. My dog is leaving for Rachel's parents in St. Louis next week--which I'm not looking forward to at all. I auditioned for No Sex Please, We're British and received a sassy bit part that I can duck out of easily if I need to skip town. My two employers have assured me I can work there as long as I want. Meanwhile, all the college kids are coming back in droves, and each one has probably heard a slightly different version of what I'm doing. I don't know how to budget my time because I don't know how much there is to spend. It could be two weeks. It could be two months. It's difficult to feel a proper good-bye if I have no clue when I'm going, and I don't know if it makes it any easier if the ones around me are leaving or staying as well.

Vegetus, Patron Saint of Homeless Edible Greenery (and other items of interest)

I gave away my shift at JavaCo on Thursday because I was sick of working. I would rather have dropped my pool shift, but it's more difficult to weasel out of those because there are only two other girls who work the early mornings, and one of then was already scheduled. I know I have to work for the rest of my life, and for the most part I enjoy my jobs, but enough was enough. Work sucks. I planned on being productive but spent the time sleeping instead.

My car needed to be inspected at least two weeks ago, and still does. Also, my mom found out I walked at gradutation after all and that I didn't tell her. She wasn't happy.

I'm doing makeup for LuAnn Hampton Laverty Oberlander. I get to make one guy look sixty, fashion a mustache on another, and put Heather's wig on. It's pretty fun.

I got an ominous voicemail from my friend with whom I'm moving to New York, saying that he's having trouble finding a place. Which might mean that I may not be moving to New York. I don't really want to think about that or its alternatives right now.

I dropped the Theatre Practice course I was enrolled in because I was graduated, poor, and Ron said it was OK to work onthe show and not be enrolled. I found out later that I still had to pay seventy-five percent of the fees. I appealed and learned today that it was granted, so that's two hundred dollars that I don't have to pay for gluing hair to Jeremy's upper lip and putting Heather's wig on.

In a week's time, I've accumulated two more zucchini, two tomatoes, and two ears of corn. Now I'm debating founding a shelter in my house for wayward herbage. Either that, or having a dinner party.

Give me your turnips, your corn, your bundled asparagus yearning to be eaten; send these, the homeless salad-tossed, to me; I lift my fork beside the golden refrigerator door.