Destashification

So sorry for the spotty posting of late. Things chez Panique have been un peu triste, what with the gut-wrenching anxiety over getting (or, rather, not getting) the necessary math class and my decision Saturday morning to finally get moving on a long-delayed major destash.



For those of you unfamiliar with the lingo, destashing is a culling of accumulated craft materials, and in my case, half-finished projects. Argh. I swear, it's not about the money. It's about a feeling of one little failure (a failure to plan, a failure to research, a failure to execute) after another, piling up, until they fill two utility shelves and loom over you while you are eating (in the dining area) and sleeping (in the bedroom).

At least I started off with a cheery breakfast.



The aroma of boiling milk and oatmeal (I like the old-fashioned kind, but not the steel-cut, that's weird) roused John, but just enough to moan at me about the smell. He's not a fan of breakfast generally, and not of oatmeal specifically. So sad. He doesn't know what he's missing, and in spite of the recent guacamole reversal, he advises me not to expect any further progress on the food front.

I've sorted out about two thirds of my junk so far: that is to say, I've sorted and boxed up about two thirds of what I had, I'm not quite finished, and I'm already losing my attachment to a few things that went into the keep pile. It's a heart-stopping amount of stuff; each of these boxes in completely full. I haven't figured out what to do with it, but it will not, I repeat, not be moving to the storage space. Etsy seems out of the question, since I want this stuff to be gone. A non-profit, perhaps? I told John I'd make a decision by the end of the week.