Ever since my husband started his insulation and ceiling project down in the cellar, things have started to float upstairs…
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The den couch is now covered in crap.
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As is the den chair. These old uniforms (and ratty, full of holes, military issue socks because we can’t throw anything out, ever! ) were so stinky and full of mildew I made him take them to the laundromat in the next town. What does he plan on doing with them? Absolutely nothing.
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My auxiliary side desk in the home office is now covered in coins.
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And musty old boxes are being unpacked in the living room.
This particular box unearthed a treasure he was thrilled to see again.
Work continues in the underground crap filled cave basement, one small section at a time because my husband is still miserably bored by retirement.
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He clears and cleans a few square feet..
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Having moved all the cobwebbed clutter that resided there…
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Behind him to the section he previously cleared, insulated and ceiling’d. (That’s the past tense of ‘put up a ceiling’ in case you were wondering.)
He’s shuffled more useless junk around in the past month than Fred Sanford did in his 6 year television series run.
To be honest it drives the OCD part of me a little nuts. Now would be the perfect time to sort, clean, and organize… but he won’t. No matter how many times I suggest it or offer to help. It will be so much more work to do it later, but the man cannot multi task to save his life. The last time I brought up the subject? He snapped at me and said “One thing at a time!”
So he’s down there now, alone. Having turned the corner on the front wall…
The husband and I stopped into an antique shop the other day and when he asked the cashier where the rest room was located? She neglected to mention the all seeing eye.
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From far away this piece of art does indeed look like an eye.
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Though when you see it from the side?
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You realize the artist probably has a cellar filled with junk like ours.
I think I may have mentioned my husband’s obsession with crap useless vintage items. I’ve spent nearly four decades watching him sort through dusty boxes at yard sales, flea markets and antique stores…. but last week he surprised even me.
When we moved back to Maine 20 years ago he had to start a new job before we sold our house, so I stayed down south for a few months while he bunked with a relative. Since he didn’t want to make the trip empty handed, he filled his truck with boxes and stored them in an uncle’s attic. I thought we’d collected all those boxes long ago, but after taking his uncle out to lunch last week we were told some of them were still upstairs.
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Did we find the boxes? Yes, after 3 seconds of scanning from the top step I pointed them out. Did that stop my treasure hunting husband from searching someone else’s junk for a heretofore unknown copy of the constitution or a Honus Wagner rookie card? No. It did not.
I’m happy to report he found nothing but junk which thankfully stayed where it was. And after opening our leftover boxes, I would have been happy to leave some of those there as well. They were heavy as hell and mostly filled with books and clothes.
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It was a bit like a time capsule. My Pat Conroy phase reared it’s head.. and 20 years later I had to wonder why I felt the need to schlepp those all the way to Maine. But it was when I examined the clothes that a little piece of me died.
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Because it was at that moment I realized I am literally twice the woman I used to be, and not in a good way.
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Lord Dudley Mountcatten helped me sort when we got home, though to be honest it wasn’t a tough job.
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Not one single thing fit. I mean, hell… it wasn’t even close. If there’s anything more depressing than being smacked in the face with your weight gain by a box full of size sixes and eights, I don’t know what it is.
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Oh, well. I did manage to dig out a few pieces of long lost jewelry … and they don’t care what size I am.
I’m trying to see the bright side of my husband’s latest purchase. It’s not easy, but when he brought it home last week and attempted to park it in the garage?
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I saw a glimmer of hope that he might actually throw some things out to make room. You know, like the old broken gutters, the yard sale fake oil painting and the air conditioner that hasn’t worked since 1999?
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But we’re talking about my husband … so things just got stacked in higher piles.
I told him there was too much junk. Repeatedly.
Did he listen?
I think you know the answer to that.
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He did not… and ran into the broken air conditioner instead.
As you already know, my husband is the king of free. He can’t pass up anything, no matter how useless…. as long as he doesn’t have to pay for it.
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This has driven me nuts for years and I have never, ever! felt the need to join him in his obsession.
Until last week.
When I saw this on our local Facebook page:
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Pre-Covid our plan was to replace all the flooring in our home. (Post Covid? Holy crap, I don’t want strange people in my house!) Along with that plan would have come long overdue new furniture, to include coffee tables. So since the plan went out the window with the plague, I thought why not? This looks good… and it might be a nice interim fix.
I should have known.
When the husband lifted it out of the truck? It jiggled…. and never even made it into the house. What an utter piece of junk! Fake wood, loose glass and legs so unsteady dropping a napkin on it would probably cause it to collapse.
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Out it went, in front of our house.
How bad was it?
The damn thing was there for a week and though lots of people looked, no one wanted it.
Next stop?
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The recycle center.
Where I left it…. and my desire to ever pick up anything marked free again.
River's world..... 