Those Cups

I have these cups, they’re 1960’s design in colours that I would never have wanted to put together. They aren’t microwaveable (which limits them and their bowls usefulness) and you definitely cannot put them in a dishwasher.

I have never liked them.

They were my mum’s and that there lies the rub. Although rarely did she ever use them, she kept them from her 1969 wedding. (And if I ever have a registry it’s white or white and blue and never. shades of brown and taupe).

I hated them from childhood.

They now, subsequent to my parents passing on, reside in a top shelf of a cupboard that is highly difficult to get to.

I hate them that much.

The cups are obviously coffee cups with their saucers and their sandwich plates and dessert bowls and what was once height of fashion has not aged well. Added to this that my parents smoked and that a small sheen, if you will, of nicotine now coats them, they definitely do not belong in my mismatched crockery (some call this shabby chic) cupboards.

I hate them, in ways too numerous to count but I can neither smash them, nor until now give them away.

As I sit on my bed before sleep, half sick with another round of , I’m guessing strep throat, I am planning the next days to do list of the minutiae of decluttering and sorting (and dear God I hope) purging that will happen the following day and my list starts with “ugly cups from cupboard” written in a somewhat garish hot pink cursive.

Their time has come.

Tomorrow I will pick up a box ( the amazon one my beloved slow cooker came in) and place these monstrosities into the box. They are leaving. Perhaps one person will fall in love. Plenty of people look for retro chic. I am just not that person. I like clean lines and simple colours.

I feel like I need to apologise to my mother.

There is a sense of guilt that comes from even acknowledging that these thing need to go, but I can either hold on to the past or I can embrace my future. I could go all Mari Kondo, but I can’t remember in 23 years my mother routinely using the coffee cups and by the time I was a teen even she had migrated to other bowls. (Still non microwaveable bowls – but they were artisan and handmade, perhaps I can forgive her that).

I can’t thank them for a usefulness that I never “enjoyed”, but maybe they will be a blessing for someone else, perhaps they can enjoy them.

Introducing the Plucky Heorine

Well, this wasn’t how I envisioned moving into my first home would be like. Actually I thought it would be very different. I never thought my parents would be dead by the time I finished my first 25 years on the planet, I never envisioned that most of the next year I would be fighting to save myself from street homelessness, holding down a relationship and trying to be employed and get back to university. Supergirl? Eat your heart out, you ain’t got nothing on me.

So here I was 26, moving and there it was, the house I had grown up in, a 2 bedroom home and I had to both move and clear it – ok I failed on the clearing it. The moving I did. I took a lot of stuff, too muh stuff. I have spent the last 8 years trying to get rid of STUFF. my cousins bagged things in black bags and just threw it haphazardly into my living room and dining room, and by the time they were done, I didn’t really know where to start.

So, for the longest of times I sat there, helplessly drowning, overwhelmed and without a car to take most of it to either donation centres or to the local recycling centre (hey, I am environmentally conscious) I sat there, not accumulating all that much, but, dreading Christmas and birthdays, and their small influxes.

And then one Christmas, like God on high decided to gift me himself, I developed a friendship with a man who said he would help me. It hasnt been easy. I have been very reluctant at times, overwhelmed and overly attached to crap that I shouldn’t be. Sometimes it feels like I am a hoarder. It’s something I never want to become, due in part to the fact that my father was, he kept newspapers and magazines and those magazines went all the way back to his childhood. It was hard 55 years later, my father having died, and having to get rid of them.

So, this is my journey, fighting a part of myself that I don’t want to become, trying to embrace the preson I am and the future I want, I now have what feels like a hurculean task. I have books and clthes and STUFF to get rid of, and that friend who began helping me 3 years ago, he hasn’t stopped helping, but I can’t rely on him being around forever. I signed a “contract” that said I t would be done by April 2nd. I never thought it would be ambitious, in January, but … it kinda became that way.

So, where do I start. Well tonight it starts with a suitcase. Part of me is terrified to open it, what if there are dead bugs, what if I find something out about my father that I never wanted to know, what if I find bonds or secret jewls worth a mint. Or what if it is just worthless junk and its one more thing I can get rid of? The possibilities are numerous. Perhaps I can share with you that tomorrow. Until then, this is my introduction.

Oh and my name? I could do the whole Gossip Girl thing and say “that’s a secret I’ll never tell”, but, I’m not like that. I’m Angela, please to meet you.