So this weekend we developed an intricate, Tetris-like plan that would move furniture around, move books out, and clear some much needed space. (I'll pause here to say that this all began when we realized just how much space we need for Cate's art supplies/paintings/yoga cards, but that's a post for another day).
Here's a picture of Brian packing one of six boxes of books destined for Mr. K's.
So here is where the problem is. We get to Mr. K's (a lovely group of people, well worth the drive to North Charleston, and we all know how much I hate having to drive to North Charleston). We walk around the store while the staff determined which of our books they could take. We made a pact that we were not going to bring any books back home. That, obviously, would undermine the whole space-clearing project. We were quite reasonable and adult about the whole thing.
And then we saw the books. All the books. All the beautiful, glorious books.
90 minutes later, we'd sold a bunch of books for cash, and spent our newly attained store credit on an entire box of books. The evidence of our addiction is below. We have a problem.
Frances was exactly as judgmental as you might expect.