No room at the inn

Probably shouldn't off with a Jesus reference, but oh well. There is NO ROOM at the inn for all the junk I've been buying up the past couple of weeks (er, months?) because I've gotten heavily into thrifting. I live in Astoria, Queens, about 35 mins away from the city, where I work. Compared to Manhattan apartments, my rent is nothing and the space I get is definitely manageable. When I started living here, I was in a Zen existence - my bed, my clothes, some books, and this weird bottle of booze I'd been carting from place to place since I graduated college. I think it was a cheaper version of Peach Schnapps, but I finally got around to throwing it out this year. 2008. I graduated 2005, and acquired that bottle the summer before my senior year.

Ahem. Zen existence, plus some old liquor. Anyway, fast forward a year or so to my 2nd apartment in Queens, and I am jam-packed with stuff. Pyrex, old children's books, Christmas ornaments, vintage office supplies, ephemera (learned that junkin word this year thanks to thrifting blogs)...it's scary. This morning I woke up intending to go to 184th St in Inwood/Washington Heights (if you google maps Astoria to Washington Heights, you'll know how bad the thrift bug has gotten me) to get a big white Pyrex bowl I spotted in their Craigslist ad, but it's pretty gross out there with the snow we just got. (City snow is not as cute as country snow, fyi.)

So I'm in my room, sorting through the crap, trying to figure out what goes in the store, what will be turned into a future art-craft project, and where I can put it all without forgetting where it went, or turning my bedroom into a glorified Goodwill. Why did I throw out that bottle?