Mama if that's movin' up than I'm movin' out....

So this weekend was moving weekend. My parents are upgrading their familial residence to an empty-nester estate. Unfortunately for all involved, they are not quite empty-nesters: they still have me.

When I lived by myself, "I'm too busy" meant exactly that. Now, the parents know that "I'm too busy" actually means "There is a Star Trek marathon on" which actually translates into "Yes, I will in fact help you lug 18 tons of crap out of the basement, drive it five miles down the road, and haul it into another basement." Isn't language a beautiful thing?

It has become painfully apparent that when my parents designed their new palace they assumed that I would be living the fabulous life of an associate somewhere else. I am moving from a shoebox to a sardine tin (or an Altoids tin, if you are unfamiliar with the fish reference). The closet is the size of a casket and will be filled when I put just my shoes in there, let alone a fall and winter wardrobe. My mother said I could put my clothes in my sister's closet until she gets home from college, or I could put them in the closet downstairs. I am envisioning getting dressed in the kitchen or the front hall.

I will say this: my mother has terrific taste in hardware. All of the fixtures have a leafy-theme that would have looked perfect in Rivendell or Lorien. However, maybe if she had spent less on cabinet handles than on square footage I wouldn't have to make the choice between wearing pants or a shirt when I come downstairs in the morning.