You know what I love? Throwing shit out. Oh, sweet Jesus, I love throwing shit out.
I live in a house full of compulsive collectors. My son collects Google paraphanalia, early Apple computers, flash drives and techie t-shirts. (My favorite shows two stick figures. One says "Make me a sandwich." The other says, "What? Make it yourself." The first guy says, "Sudo make me a sandwich," to which the second guy replies, "Okay." I have no idea what it means, but the geeks wet themselves when they see it.)
My daughter collects plush toys, clothing that no longer fits, fans, princess outfits, shoes, and anything involving pandas. (Despite all that, she's a jock. I bought her a heavy bag and boxing gloves for Christmas. She's eight years old and can land a nasty hook. It sounds cute till she clocks you.)
My wife collects, as best I can tell, randomly-chosen newspaper clippings, books she won't actually read, CD's she doesn't actually listen to, and shoes. Oh, and stupid crap for the animals. And second copies of books she forgot she already bought. Plus pens. Blankets. Empty file folders. Grudges and resentments . . . except that applies to all women, really, doesn't it?
Damn: I think I just added to that last category.
You know what I collect? Big lawn and leaf bags full of their crap.
Now that we're putting the house on the market, (great timing, Reynolds,) and moving to the Euro zone, (yay, a stupidity daily double,) I have carte blanche to empty the house. To drain the swamp.
You cannot possibly imagine how much crap I have already hauled off to the dump or placed at curbside for Monday morning pick-up. If you were standing still I could bury you in the crap I've thrown out. I could fill your swimming pool with it. If I were to pile it all, one bag atop another, and you decided to climb that pile, you'd need oxygen before you reached the top.
The garage, (or as I like to think of it, the big room full of stupid crap I said we shouldn't buy,) is almost purged. The third floor is almost purged. (Just two guinea pigs away from a clean top floor. Anyone want a couple of Guinea pigs? It's not like they shit their own weight each day or anything.) I've purged my kitchen (yes, it's mine) and pantry. And the attic (the room full of crap I've been trying to throw out for fifteen years) awaits.
Habitat for Humanity has taken a big chunk of the furniture. I've run my wife's SUV back and forth to the dump, the storage locker and the library. The walls are mostly clear of pictures. The painters are coming next week. The carpet guys soon after. Then it's the handyman and the cleaning people, and we will slap this anonymous suburban hellhole on the market and hope for the best.
That's the new house there in the picture. Not the one at the top of the hill, that's a castle belonging to the Frescobaldis. But see the whitish smudge halfway down the hill and to the left? That's the place. It's not the place we thought we had, which was on the campus of the International School, but it's the one I really wanted. Grapevines and cedars, thick stone walls and a view of vineyards and the town of Pontassieve.
But I can't go until I have thrown everything out. I'm seeing light at the end of the tunnel. I'm planning a purge surge for Sunday.