moving

Move-abilia

I am moving soon.

Yesterday, I spent a good eight hours climbing up and down an attic ladder, hauling boxes delightfully decorated in mouse feces.

It made me realize two things:

1) I should work out more.

2) I have too much shit.

There were things I placed in that attic eight years ago that should have had a home in a beautiful ocean garbage patch.

Things like:

Why was I saving this? Was I planning to bring it as a date to my son’s future wedding?

Maybe.

But he had to go. He was a beautiful gift bestowed by two very good friends at my bachelorette party. They gave this to me after my adamant declaration that if a stripper appeared within a 100 feet of me, I would immediately set myself on fire.

They got me a historical reenactor instead. That is actually worse, but that is a story for another post.

There was a box of wigs (?), a relic from my Dolly Parton phase? Underneath the wigs was a dead mouse. I washed my hands for 15 minutes while I yelped and hopped up and down and did a few break dance moves.

There was this:

An heirloom for my future grandchildren per chance?

I had trouble figuring out what this was exactly. Hugo tried to help:

I wished it was a turd. It was actually a partially melted cat candle.

But it was actually topped by this:

I don’t know. I don’t know. It seems like something I would never buy or make, but did I buy or make it? That is a mystery.

The cellar is next. I hope my thighmaster® turns up.

Dearest Reader: Speaker7 is attempting to write a post every day in November so she doesn’t have to participate in NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). This is the fourteenth post. Tomorrow she turns forty. Cheesus cripes on a turd-like cat candle. 

Home is Where the Hugo Is

Someone’s trash is another person’s excuse to add to the giant hoarding heap.

Lordy rat’s nest, do I have a load of crap in my house.

When you are trying to sell your house, it is considered wise to unclutter it, to make the path through the living room 6-inches wide instead of the current 3. It is prudent to not have the mold-covered boxes reach the ceiling when shoulder-level is more appropriate, and the collection of pigeon droppings in the corners is a big no-no.

I am not a hoarder. I am a thrower. I like to throw items away, and contribute to the eventual demise of our species when we are all swallowed up by the giant ocean garbage patches.

My husband is less of a thrower. He walks a thin line between saver and hoarder.

When my parents moved two years ago, my mother bestowed upon me all my childhood things she had been storing for all these years.

I received a garbage bag filled with Barbie doll heads; the hair shorn, the heads painted with nail polish. Ooh! I was looking for these! What a find. I immediately set them up on my mantlepiece and was promptly arrested for being a serial killer.

Or maybe I said “Why in the world did you save these?”

I am trying to avoid a similar situation of handing my son a bag of broken crayons and used pacifiers upon his departure from the nest so I have been throwing many thing away under the guise of “Oh, these are for the garage sale.”

There will never be a garage sale.

And my saver husband has been going along with it rather well.

There’s only been one slight glitch.

This apparently is moving into our new house with us:

Yes. His eyes are following you. You are not imagining it.

His name is Hugo. He is the man of a thousand faces, and was a puppet who haunted my waking hours as a child. My husband saved him from the stash of childhood things.

You used to be able to put mustaches and wigs on him or you used to be able to cower in his presence and beg your older brother to remove the mini-lifelike man from your sight. Fun for the whole family.

He currently lives in the basement because if he were anywhere in our living space, I would feel his eyes boring into the back of my head. He has not been placed in the garage sale box, but in the keep-in-the-storage-space box.

Look, he has hands:

The better to strangle you with while you sleep.

I guess I should be content with the idea of him moving into the storage space. At least he will be out of the house and stop whispering to me when no one else is around.

I have tried to move him to garage sale boxes, but he always manages to escape.

Evidence:

Hugo the man with a foot fetish.

I’m thinking he will make a fantastic college graduation present for my son. Fun for the whole family.