News from the Mouse House

SIX MONTHS AGO, I returned from a whirlwind life on the west coast. I successfully lived out of a suitcase for nearly three months, packed my bags from the cozy loft life I'd been living in San Francisco and moved back to the Midwest with a little more than I'd left with.

What I returned to was less than heartening: I had a big house to clean and move out. Over the course of living in this 1912 mother of a Franken-house (named for the number of patchwork remodels it'd endured), I'd never realized how the nooks and crannies had mysteriously filled themselves with all my little trinkets, art projects, and impulse buys. I had stuff scattered to kingdom come: The basement, the garage, even the refrigerator had become a catch-all for my sprawling life.

My roommate and I had signed a lease at a new place. It was an apartment that she'd found while I was away in California, and with blind faith, I trusted her judgment. The first day she took me to see our new home, I walked into what might have been mistaken as a elves' dwelling. We stepped straight into a kitchen, which was curiously the same room as the living room, which might have been able to accommodate a small love seat. Maybe. The two bedrooms were bigger than closets but smaller than a Cadillac Escalade. Luckily there was a bathroom, and it had a bathtub—one thing our house didn't have! My first question was, "So…where are we going to fit the kitchen table?" She replied something like, "I don't think we can." I bit my tongue.

I was upset. Here I'd had all this monster house with a bajillion inches of space to spread about my belongings and meander among them, and now I was moving into a mouse hole. A MOUSE HOLE! I practically broke down to my best friend; the only thing keeping me cool was her reassurance that "I'd get used to it."

If anyone can tell me this, it's her. We shared about 15 square feet of a sixth floor dorm room our freshman year of college, and we loved every inch and minute of it (mostly). I've always been homemaker, so it was no surprise when I decked out the place with curtains, installed artworks on the cinder block walls, and strung a polka dot border along the walls. Our room was the friggin' SHOW ROOM of Nelson Hall. As in, campus tours with prospective students came to OUR ROOM to see what dorm life was like. (This is probably the greatest brush with fame I've ever had.) The last week we lived in the "Pizza Pie in the Sky," as it was affectionately named, we pushed together our two twin beds and made the most incredible, finals-week hindering California King-sized bed, ever. It was the tiniest space I've ever had to share with someone, terrifying at first, but eventually became the best living arrangement I'd ever had. In fact, I've had this experience on "repeat" in my head for the past four years.

Now, in a similar fashion, I've grown to appreciate my mouse home. Without the space to store unneeded items, I've downsized tremendously. Most everything I own is in my bedroom, save a few household items in the kitchen and bathroom. There's nowhere to hide anything — there are no closet spaces or pantries, and few cupboards.

There is liberation within the consolidation. I don't have to wonder where things are, because it's all right here. When it comes time to move on in August, I won't have to revisit the stress of last August's move, where three carloads of moving turned into eight. I know exactly what I'm going to take with me, what I'm going to sell, and what I'm going to give away. It's comforting, and I'm excited to again, purge my belongings in a move. Strange, but such a thrilling thought!

There's no better time to downsize. And when you live in a mouse home, you're set up for success.

xx

j

I'm living out of a suitcase right now. What more could I ask for?

Or rather, what less could I ask for?

Nice to Know When You Let Go

My aunt sent me an e-mail yesterday about my summer living situation. I'll be spending the upcoming months in transition, mobile, teetering between San Francisco and Berkeley. Her best advice? "Come with as little as possible."

I'm mentally—and physcially—preparing myself for this challenge. I want to pack one duffel bag—a versatile wardrobe, two comfortable pairs of shoes, enough underwear to keep me safe, and a light jacket. No bells or whistles—I'm leaving my jewelry, "once a month" shirts, and stacks of sandals at home. Two pairs of jeans should get me through.

I'm tempted to really rid myself of things at this point. When I look at my closet with California eyes, I think of what I positively am and am not going to pack. Then I think of what I'm unquestionably leaving behind, and question: If I'm living without it for three months, can't I live without it forever? I can. There are certain things at this point that I haven't been able to detach myself from emotionally: Clothing and accessories I bought in Europe, that I loved enough to haul around the continent for several months (before eventually paying a heavy baggage fee to get home). Clothes that I know I'll look good in someday (right now I've got on some winter weight…). Purses that are sizably all wrong for me. Recently I've found comfort in giving things to my sister, where they're no longer mine, but rather comfortably transitioning from my hands to another owner. It's nice to know where things go when you let go of them. Now I've realized, that's the hardest part about letting things go.

So I will wear my California eyes, and they will be critical. One duffel bag. One.

It's been a while, but big strides are being taken in Approximatelyless Land! I'm at home right now—my parents' home, technically—attempting to clean out my room for good. I'm not living in my room here anymore, nor do I really plan to (at least not extensively). My younger brother has made it his place over the past few years, and every time I come to visit he is forced to relocate. The space no longer is mine, and I've realized that. It's time.

I did a large chunk of cleaning out and giving away when I was living here (Minot) last summer, but I've definitely become less attached to things since. I've already compiled several bags to take to ReStore, one of Minot's secondhand hubs. I plan to box everything up that I don't take with me to Fargo and keep things in storage until I find a more permanent residence. I'm aiming to consolidate all of my things into one place—not a little here, a little there, but everything I own under one roof. That's my aim.

I know I'm just 22, hardly grown up, but I need to take this step—It's another stride toward independence.

• Leg warmers, that I recall purchasing on eBay my senior year of high school. In hindsight, it was a sketchy transaction and I always pictured these being darned by a 55-year old black woman (don't ask). She sent them to me in a giant Ziploc bag.

In short, I can't believe I've held on to them for this long.

That's the Stuff!

It was a get-rid-of-STUFF day—sometimes I forget that simplifying can extend the realms of clothing.

• Junk from my closet: A bag full of plastic bags, old receipts, vases, exposed photographic film, empty cardboard boxes, a book I'll never read, dietary pills purchased by an online identity thief, and other knick knacks.

I TOOK TWO MORE BAGS to the DBR today, and before I could finish pulling them from the back seat of my car, a worker was standing beside me ready to grab them.

It was a quick, easy parting!