The only thing worse than moving, I’m finding, is moving after over ten years in the same place. And the only thing worse than THAT is moving after over ten years in the same place and being a total packrat.

The only thing worse than moving, I’m finding, is moving after over ten years in the same place. And the only thing worse than THAT is moving after over ten years in the same place and being a total packrat. It’s my mother’s fault, really. I grew up in a dusty ranch house filled with stacks of old books, magazines, newspapers, and other assorted paraphernalia that everyone was afraid to throw away. Because in with the back issues of Life Magazine, you might find last year’s tax return or your birth certificate or a winning lottery ticket. I wouldn’t say my place is as bad as that, but let’s just say I definitely take after my mom.

I have really nice furniture, but you’d never know it, because every flat surface is covered with stuff, with a thin veneer of dust all over it. You see, I was never brought up to be a housekeeper, either; I literally have a blind spot when it comes to dust. Until it starts invading my lungs. So, clearly, it was time to do something. So when this condo came along coincidentally at the same time as my inheritance, I knew it was fate. Of course, that meant I’d have to...oh, God...MOVE. And that meant I’d have to...oh, God...clean, organize, and purge.

Just going through my clack was an exhausting experience. I have every dinner nametag, ticket stub, door prize, poster, airline itinerary, program, magazine article, photo, etc. I have the bobblehead doll, the AI2 Coke bottle, three Clay mugs, refrigerator magnets, t-shirts, a Clay pencil cup, two copies of LTS (one autographed), etc., etc. CDs and DVDs overflowing. And why not? These things make me happy. But it does make it tough to move. A nice airtight trunk: that’s the ticket. And boy, at times I just want to crawl inside with it.

Because you have to ask yourself the hard questions: do I really need 200 pairs of socks? 200 pairs of underwear? 30 bras? 60 pairs of shoes? 40 purses? 40 sweaters? (For those who think I exaggerate, I can assure you I do not.) An appalled friend urged me to have a sale, or at least a giveaway. I could benefit the local cat shelter, she said. Buried under four years of back issues of Vanity Fair, I readily agreed that this was a great idea.

So, last Sunday, friends, relatives, friends of friends, and total strangers piled into my tiny apartment and the free-for-all (we called it a “Glamourama”) began. Stuff was piled everywhere, people brought bags, and they just TOOK, at my urging. When in doubt about whether something was up for grabs, they asked. It was strange to have someone I’d never met stuffing throw pillows into a trash bag and rifling through my CDs. Kind of like a robbery invitational.

One difficult thing was the books. My dad gave me many, and wrote inscriptions in all of them (he was big on inscriptions). “Read this” or “Check out page 37-40” or “This reminded me of you” or “This will inspire you.” Or even, in the case of “Bridges of Madison County:” “This is hilarious! Even I can write better than this!” Or “Dianetics:” “Total crap!” Well, of course I couldn’t get rid of any book my father gave me, damn him. So I have 8 boxes of books stacked in the bedroom. Hope I can find a place for them. I am taking my chick lit collection to the office and letting my female coworkers have at it.

It was nice that everybody seemed to find something they wanted (and they had some pretty bizarre tastes!), and several people came back twice. One person walked up to me and demanded, “Got any VCRs?” A woman, staring smitten at the 30 year-old Meryl Streep poster on my living room wall, said, “Oh, I’m just OBSESSED with her!” Bye-bye, Meryl Streep poster. I still have lots of things to take to the various hospital resale shops and libraries, but it’s a good feeling. I think from now on, I’m going to toss things with abandon.

Because when I’m done “movin’ up on up...to the East side...” (well, 6 blocks east, 1 block south and 1 floor up, to be exact), I’m going to be different, really. Now if I can only get IKEA to deliver more bookcases...

And hey, I made $75 for the cat shelter, which they were thrilled to get. A litter of kittens had come in, and they needed money for the vet bill. So maybe being a packrat was okay after all.