Chinese checkers and sunshine

There's nothing like a major relocation to make you ask yourself: Where did all this crap come from, and why am I holding onto it?

If all goes well, by the time this column hits the paper, The Other Half and I will be unloading our lives in sunny Tampa, Fla. Frankly, the way things have gone to date, I have to wonder whether Wednesday will find us in West Virginia, puzzling over a map with me screaming, "Why don't you ever listen?!?!"

I guess it hasn't been all that bad -- just throwing a lot of stuff into the Dumpster, spending evenings in front of the television sitting on the floor instead of the couch, several eventful trips to the laundromat and a landlord-tenant dispute. But other than that, it's been great.

Did you know I own a battery-powered sunflower that opens its eyes and mouth and belts out "You Are My Sunshine" at the press of a button? I didn't either, until I uncovered it while cleaning out a closet. I dimly remembered receiving it as a gift and wondering what it was about me that made someone stand in front of a sunflower display somewhere and think, "You know who would love that? Heidi!"

I also uncovered stuffed animals received from The Other Half when we were dating a decade ago, a carved burro acquired in Tijuana in the mid-80s and the boxes and instructions to about 50 items that broke in the past decade.

For most of the rest of it, I blame The Other Half and his pack-rat gene. Scientists are close to actually identifying the pack-rat gene, which typically is passed down from mother to son and rarely skips a generation. I caught Mr. Half packing up stat books from sporting events that happened in high school, a box of Chinese checkers I hadn't seen in nearly nine years of marriage and one of those ancient label-makers where you have to squeeze a trigger to make it print. We've owned a modern label-maker since 2000, so why are we still carrying one that prints white letters in woodgrain-style tape?

As for the laundromat and sitting on floor, here's how that came about: The classifieds really do work. I gave myself two weeks to sell my washer and dryer -- they have units in our new apartment -- and give away a couch and chair I want to replace. All of it was gone in two days.

So Sunday found me standing by a coin-operated, triple-load washer wondering who I'd end up knocking down to get the last available dryer. I was gathering up my drip-dry bras -- which aren't those dainty little numbers for small and cute ladies but offer so much support they could start their own 12-step program -- when here comes a cute guy I hadn't seen in ages. He was in there doing comforters.

We had a five-minute conversation with me holding my own bras the whole time. I capped it off by hitting my head on a low-hanging light fixture.

Too bad I couldn't sit on my couch and tell myself it wasn't so bad.

Why did I enjoy sitting on the floor to watch television so much as a kid? Could it be because I could hop up off the floor with absolutely no problem anytime I wanted?

Maybe I'll laugh at the memory of all this while sitting on my new couch next week, the open windows allowing warm ocean breezes to blow across my face.

Or maybe I'll be in Florida's finest mental institution by then. If so, it may take awhile to file my next column.

Heidi Hall is the former managing editor of the Southeast Missourian who now lives in St. Petersburg, Fla.