Mooched

Before I begin, I want to share with you my twitter info. Now that I have spent a couple weeks commuting to my new job, I am confident when I say, I probably will not be blogging during the week. There might be a random shared link, or a YouTube video, but I don't plan on creating any content unless I have the day off. The time that I have at home during the week is limited, and as much as I've been enjoying blogging more often, it is more important to me that I sit down for a healthy dinner and spend some time with my husband. That said, I am still really interested in staying virtually in touch throughout the week, so I've decided to give twitter a try. It allows me to quickly share ideas and experiences. I've been using it for over a week, and the content is without a doubt more mundane, but it is also more diverse than this blog has been. I've updated about work, knitting, commuting, and food. I've imported the RSS feed into my side bar, so you can see what I've been tweeting from this page. Otherwise, you can follow the RSS feed on any reader you use. The easiest option (especially for those of you who are already using Twitter) is just to follow me through that site. So, here I am: http://twitter.com/ADAllen.

A year ago is probably about the time that the idea of us moving to New York really started sinking in. The decision had been made, our families had been informed, and the geographically specific hunt for jobs and an apartment began. Prior to this decision, Hubby and I had an unspoken understanding that we would live in a house. We never talked about it as a plan, but rather when we'd talk about money or something similar, it would always contain the undercurrent that our expectations were to buy a house in the future. Moving here has thrown all of those expectations out the window. We may still own, but the time frame in which it happens has been pushed way back. The concepts that I have associated with my future home since I was a kid, like a yard and an attic, are dwindling. Replacing them are ideas of doormen and elevators.

The worst of these changing expectations is space. As I think about how much I would like to move across the river, I'm starting to feel like I am never going to have any of it ever again. It doesn't bother me too much, because honestly, how much space do I need. And, as long as what I have is allotted properly (ie enough space to cook in the kitchen instead of some huge random hallway) then I should be fine. When this really becomes a problem, is when we consider STUFF. Since we've both lived our whole lives expecting a certain amount of space, we have collected plenty of stuff to fill it. We have boxes full of souvenirs from our travels, memorabilia from our childhood, and nicknack's that we have no idea where they came from.

I have firmly entered the mindset of getting rid of stuff, but there are still two barriers that I find myself running into. The first is, "We should save that for our kids." Both Hubby and I have a problem with this phrase. I have stuffed animals, games, and photo albums. He has his stuff from the military, games, and whatever is still stored in his parents garage. Holding on to things that are deteriorating from improper storage in the hopes that someday people who currently don't exist will want to see them is a whole different blog post (or series of counseling sessions since I'm not a historian or archivist). So, I'll skip ahead to barrier number two: Books.

We both love books. All three of our past apartments have been lined with overflowing bookshelves. With the new digital readers coming out, I've heard a lot of arguments about why people want books, and ironically most of them don't apply to me. I don't like being surrounded in bookshelves. I don't care about what they say about me. In fact, most of the arguments that I hear for books leave me wanting to hang more photos. There are three reasons that I like having the books that I've read: I reread, I reference, and I share. If it were not for those, I'd happily get rid of every book I finish.

While I am certainly not ready to get rid of all of my books, I've done some serious mental preparation, and I'm ready to get rid of some of my books. The original plan was to take them to a used bookstore. The area where Hubby's parents live is covered with the type of bookstore I had in mind. I started looking for one near our apartment or my office to unload on and hopefully pick up a couple cheap paperbacks to read during my commute. To my surprise, I couldn't find one. I found plenty of used bookstores, but none of them had that mass market mentality that I was looking for. The ones I found all boasted rare and unusual books. The plan to take them to a store instead of just donating them to a library was because I'm excited catching up on some fiction reading now that I'm not in school. I was hoping for credit to the store to pick up some light reading for on the bus. First editions of classics are not what I'm looking for.

After some frustration about not finding the store I wanted, and a few jokes that we had enough books on our own if Hubby wanted to call the franchise up and start one nearby so it would be convent to me, I remembered Donna talking about some website that used the post office to accomplish what I'm looking for. Sure enough in my bookmarks was the link to BookMooch.

I signed up last weekend and put up a half a dozen books just to check it out. I ended up losing my entire Saturday because my books were mooched faster than I could post them. I wrapped up the books that were requested and pulled out another box to post some more. By Monday morning, I had 13 books packaged up and ready to be sent off. I wasn't expecting this kind of response, so I was not prepared with padded envelopes. I took a tip from EcoEtsy and wrapped them up in pages from magazines that were headed to the trash. They were fun packages to make, and I was having a great time. The best part of it all is that we now have one less box of books to move. I just have to resist the temptation to mooch faster than I can read.