orange, banana, apple, filing cabinet. sesame street might be something of a distant memory, but the lessons are the same; i am the filing cabinet. my exclusion criteria is based solely on marital and procreative status.
last night i enjoyed a bottle of wine and some tapas with my former grad school tribe. we each testified our evidence through sharing stories that we had, in fact, survived the litigious, psychotic classmate with the personality disorder, the older student who never quite seemed to "get it" (and always wrote down EVERYTHING, uttered by the professor or fellow classmate, in pencil, on her yellow notepad), and that after learning the "house-tree-person" drawing assessment we rushed home to administer it to our respective (and prospective) boyfriends, to determine their suitability based on the placement/presence/absence of a chimney on their "house", or a trauma hole on their "tree".
we have each moved on in our various ways; made babies (1-2), moved houses (once or twice), changed jobs (once or twice), or just plain moved (repeatedly). there was some complaining about husbands and children (or husbands not taking care of children), about the struggles of what to cook for dinner (burn for dinner), magazine subscriptions (with suggestions of what to cook for dinner), alumni newsletters from UofL, which i wasnt receiving ("well thats because you keep moving"); please forward to: "please forward to:"....
to summarize with a gestalt; i am a filing cabinet. i am rigid and awkward, but functional. i am obsessively organized, categorized, and compartmentalized. i collect and contain a lot of stuff, some of it is useful, some of it i no longer need, but i am unable to throw away. you never know when you might need it.