The Big Blue Bin

It is Thursday already, and I realized that if I didn't write something in the next 72 hours, I would have already broken First Resolution, 2010. So I hurried over here to post a blog. The problem with a resolution like this is that one has to come up with something. Something that means something. Something that says something. Something that communicates something. Of course, what all those somethings are is completely relative to the moment. So what do I want to say and communicate in this moment? Damned if I know. So I figure, I would share a something instead. A recent memory that contains lots of other, older memories -- for me and my sisters -- and are all kept in a big blue bin.

The big blue bin resides, most appropriately, in my old bedroom at my parents' house in Connecticut. As most of you know, I've led a somewhat transient existence, and my old bedroom has become the receptacle of all these sojourns. (My stepfather started to call the house "a storage unit" as all my sisters have left numerous mementos there over the years.) There's the box that contains my high school diploma and decorated mortarboard as well as my diploma and my basketball uniform from St. Joseph grammar school. My pom-pons (correct spelling!) from all six years of cheerleading. Six boxes of books which I've blogged about before (see library). My futon, my rocking chair, not to mention some of my police gear that I should have handed in when I left the force, but didn't. (Ahem.) There's my collage board from New York and my hope chest filled with my linens from Manchester. There used to be a wicker footlocker that I bought from Pier One sometime around my move to Newington, but my sister recently asked for it and took it over the holiday break. The general rule is -- aside from my sister's wedding gifts that have taken up residence in her old bedroom until she buys her house -- anything that has been left in the house is up for grabs. Even what's in the big blue bin.

The big blue bin is a Rubbermaid storage box that my mother bought for me one birthday when I was trying to condense all my property into items I wanted to keep "for the future" and those that should and inevitably would make their way to the Salvation Army. As human beings, we tend to be pack rats; we tend to store things away for someday, only to realize that someday might not come. Every time I go home, I try to get a handle on this stuff. And every time I succeed and fail in equal parts. One year, the year I was leaving for California, I went through all my clothes and put my cast offs into a big blue bin to be deposited at the Salvation Army. However, my mother said that she'd like to go through it before I did so, as I was getting rid of a lot of sweaters (that I erroneously thought I wouldn't need in sunny SoCal -- haha). She said that she would drop the big blue bin off at the Salvation Army herself. I love my mother, but she's a bit forgetful, and one year later, I returned back to Connecticut and my old bedroom, and the big blue bin was still there...with more clothes in it. The situation was this:

After I left, my mother did some laundry and found items that were foreign to her. Thinking that they were mine, she put them into my old bedroom. On top of the big blue bin. But I'm not the only person who stays at my parents' house or does her laundry there. My sister Kate and Julie do --and, at that time, did -- also. (And possibly Beth and Sara. Who really knows?) And since all us girls are relatively the same size, fluctuating up and down by a size or two, my mother never really knows whose is whose. So, the big blue bin became the place where spare clothes ended up. And whenever someone was missing something and asked about it, she would be directed to the big blue bin. By the time I arrived that next Christmas, the big blue bin was filled with bras, underwear, a couple pairs of shoes, some old t-shirts, sweatpants, and my old sweaters. Which! Ended up coming in handy as I was back in Connecticut in December and needed warmer outer-wear. Brilliant! The big blue bin was here to stay. Cut to Christmas 2009.

My sister, Kate, and I stay at my parents' house on Christmas Eve. Since 2005, Kate's husband has also stayed, and this year, their newborn daughter was in residence, too. (Even though I was kicked out of my bedroom and had to take the little room -- the one packed with Kate's wedding gifts -- I didn't mind. There's something about waking up Christmas morning with a baby in the house. Especially when its the baby's first Christmas.) Christmas Eve, Kate asked me if there were any of my old pants in the big blue bin as she was still working off her pregnancy weight. Having completely forgotten about the big blue bin (as I am now becoming my mother with every dying brain cell), I told her I didn't know, but it would be worth a look. She did, and there wasn't, but I was glad to be reminded of the big blue bin as I didn't bring any workout wear past a couple of sports bras and my running sneakers. Two days later, when I was ready to resume my normally scheduled cardio program, I popped off the top of the big blue bin hoping for some ratty old t-shirts and something to throw over it like a misshapen cotton sweater or an old college sweatshirt, or even a baja poncho from someone's spring break trip to Cancun.

On top there were some sweaters. There's the Calvin Klein one with the American flag on the front (bought in NYC at Filene's Basement; I don't know what I was thinking). There's the Irish knit cardigan (bought at Marshalls in Manchester when I needed something for a St. Patrick's day ensemble). There were some old bras (which might have been mine, but then again might not). The Nike running sneakers, size 9 (something to remember for next year; I hate packing shoes). A couple pairs of Victoria Secrets pjs (Christmas gift from when my mother was still buying us Christmas pajamas). There was my sister's 1996 parks and rec t-shirt (thank you, Kate), and... OH MY GOD! MY POLICE ACADEMY HOODIE! (Squealing in abundant joy!) I pulled on my yoga pants, the parks and rec t-shirt, and the hoodie, scrapped my hair into a ponytail and bounded down the stairs feeling like a sixteen-year old. I entered the kitchen and bellowed to my mother, "Mom, LOOK! It's my police academy sweatshirt!" My mother was not as happy as I was, but she was happy enough in that fake mom-way to appease me.

Wearing the sweatshirt made me feel young. I felt tough and strong. "Don't screw with me," the sweatshirt said, "I was a cop!" It reminded me of the 25-year old I used to be. The one that loved working at the PD. The one that didn't think much past the moment she was living in and the only plans she made was for drinks that night. The one that felt invincible. The one who didn't have a care in the world because the future was still far away. I wore it for four days and enjoyed not feeling like California Me, but Manchester Me. It was a nice reprieve.

Kate was driving me back to JFK for my flight back to Los Angeles. By the time I was preparing to leave Connecticut, I was more than ready to go. The morning I left my parents' house, I was busy breaking down my old bedroom for whoever stayed over next, re-packing my clothes, and double checking that I had my boarding pass. I threw my used linens down the basement stairs where all the dirty laundry from the occupants of the house lands. And I threw the sweatshirt down there also, knowing that Mom will clean it...and put it back into the big blue bin.