I am a collector of miscellaneous, useless, and utterly fabulous items,
but so was Fred Sanford and he kicked ass.
You big dummy.
My poor husband. Seriously. My poor, sweet husband. See, he married my crazy ass 18 years ago and I really think he had NO IDEA what that meant beyond unlimited blow jobs and really awesome sauce cooking. I've always been a pack rat, a sappy, sentimental person who thinks everything has to have a story and is therefore, a memento and must never, ever leave my possession. This can make for some Sanford & Son living around here. Especially when our past two moves have placed us in smaller and smaller houses.
When we first moved to Covington, we lost an unbelievable 1,000 square feet. Instead of really downsizing, I did what any hoarder would and I stored that shit in my garage. When the garage flooded, I cried over stuff I hadn't seen in over 2 years (and that I'd forgotten we owned because all the drugs I did in the early 90s have ruined my memory). When we moved out into the bowels of Newton County a year and a half ago, we lost another 400 square feet, but we gained a double garage. Well, that's a collector of crap's dream storage right there. F#ck the cars. I need that space for all my shit.
For the record, this is NOT my garage, but it easily could have been in another 30 years.
It's been 18 months since we moved. My sweet husband said, "Honey, we don't need the stuff from the child care center you never opened or the 5,000 garbage bags filled with hand-me-down clothes. You have to let some of this go." Of course, I responded, "F#ck you, dickhead. Don't touch my stuff." So, he backed off and let all the shit I've been collecting for 18 years sit in that spacious double garage. And then, I had this brilliant idea (those are the only kind I have). We lost a bedroom in the move and all the Littles' stuff couldn't fit in the tiny bedrooms on our new house and was taking up space in my hoarder storage facility (aka the garage). The Teenager's bedroom is about the size of a walk in closet or the middle bedroom of any single wide trailer built in the 70s (and I would know because my grandparents lived in one in Pensacola). My brilliant idea was first to clean out the garage and make a ginormous bedroom for the Teenager. Then, I modified my brilliant idea once I saw how much money this would cost and decided we'd clean out the garage and make it a bedroom for my husband and me. See, I don't need new paint, a padded floor, and a faux wall. I just need for it not to be really, really cold or really, really hot. That's money saved, bitches.
Johnny thinks, "Crazywifesaywhat?" But he doesn't say that shit out loud because he knows it will cause an episode and, if he wants unlimited blow jobs and home cookin', he'll make sure my brilliant ideas are implemented post haste. I'm not a total bitch. I sell my brilliant idea as a way to finally unload all the shit he's been moving from state to state for 18 motherf#cking years. Johnny is all about that. He prices out the insulation we'll need for the garage doors, googles how-to videos, and makes a plan. That's how he rolls. I don't do anything, except talk about how fabulous it's going to be once the Teenager takes the master suite and has her own bathroom and how much space we'll have in the garage for crafting. That's how I roll.
Then, my kitty turns into a feral beast and I can't lift anything over 10 pounds or my shit will fall out.
I will be of no help to my poor husband as he cleans out the last 18 years of my hoarding. We're under a deadline as well, because I have surgery scheduled for December 12 and I don't want to do anything but lounge around and play Lee Trevino Fighting Golf on my Nintendo until after Christmas. He asks, "Will you promise to stay inside and not say anything about what gets thrown away?" I say, "Are you f#cking stupid? Of course not." We borrow a friend's trailer over the fall break and once that's full and there's still enough shit for a straight up Etsy themed episode of Hoarders, my poor husband rents a U-Haul truck. He tells me to take my nasty ass, broken kitty inside and when he's done, he'll let me know.
Well, goddamn. It's kinda sexy when he gets all brutish like that.
Johnny fills an entire U-Haul truck with my mementos, including 5 artificial Christmas trees, a bag of clothes I haven't worn since about 1995 when I had a proclivity for shoulder pads and way faded denim, craft supplies (oatmeal cans, magazines, toilet paper rolls), a set of luggage we purchased second hand to travel to Italy and should have left there, a box of nudey magazines from the late 80s/early 90s when big hair and small boobs were all the rage, a typewriter that hasn't worked since I got my hand stuck in it when I was drunk and telling a fabulously funny story to a room filled with other drunks who thought my trapped hand was funnier than the story, my collection of paperback Westerns that I had every intention of using in some fantastic collage one day, the frame from an oversized mirror (like 8 feet high and 4 feet wide) that could have been repurposed in any number of ways, a stuffed chipmunk family (as in a dead chipmunk family- there's a story there that can only be told over cheap wine), a collection of lunchboxes and, sadly, retro Tupperware and Jello molds. When Johnny made the first trip to the Goodwill, I'm sure hipsters in a 50 mile radius were on alert. Etsy shop owners were gunning their engines to get down there and scoop up my cool shit. After Goodwill, he stopped by the dump where he filled almost half of one of those long flat bed containers with God only knows what he deemed not worthy of the thrift store. The horror.
I went out and I swept the almost empty garage while he was gone. He didn't throw away ANY of the Littles' toys or his stupid drums and music equipment. I thought about setting some of his amps on fire in the yard, but I'da had to pull them out there and then, there would have been all the questions from the police. I hated Johnny's face right then, but I loved him, too. I guess that's what marriage and interventions are all about, friends. All I know is I gots me a double garage that needs fillin'. Stat.