Sacrifice

I was listening to The Roots' song "Sacrifice" a few times this weekend. During that weekend, I had my niece reduce 90 of my CDs into a slim jacket - discarding the back cover and jewel cases. Now, Elvis Costello's My Aim is True will be an album that I will actually have to SHOW people I own, not have it on display for any potential mates to spot.

I'm donating my king-sized bed to the Salvation Army tomorrow along with a table and chair set. All of this is for the new arrival. I'm not in Oregon becoming a journalist, but things do appear to be falling in place here in Omaha. I just got promoted at my job after less than 90 days on the job - along with a seven percent raise.

Still, the most important thing to me right now is to reduce the shit I have now - that occupies a barren two-bedroom apartment - to fit into a single apartment. Then reduce some more to make room for a weimaraner.

Sheryl Crow once wrote a song about the cathartic ritual of throwing away shit from an ex-boyfriend ("It Don't Hurt"). While I haven't had a boyfriend (or girlfriend) to shed stuff from, it's been a release. Something about reducing everything that's you to a car load or three. But I'm still an obsessive gatherer of books and CDs. 20 boxes. Probably seven goes for books. Eight for CDs. Two for kitchen. Two for glasses. And one big one for 'the rest.'

I keep thinking of the bed. Mainly the dog peeing on the bed out of confusion or spite.