Spring Cleanup was this week. Twice a year, the residents of The Horseradish Capital of The World turn into Ty Pennington’s apathetic cousin and make a valiant attempt to “Pack That Landfill!” while hoarders drive around with pickup trucks loaded up with everything but Granny in a rocking chair. It’s a festival of mental illness with a boring name. (I prefer “Spring Fling” and “Fall Haul”.) This year, I was totally into it. I had finally reached maximum crapacity.
For the last two years, half of my stuff has been in boxes in the yard barn. The other half has been sort-of in but mostly out of boxes in the basement. When I left Athens, I didn’t exactly pack.
I just shoved random shit in boxes and jammed in all into the car:
March 17, 2009, 8:29 PM: “The Jordache Project has failed. 135 pounds of junk will not fit into a 90 pound bag, Start time delayed for purging.”
This arrangement has been a point of contention in Gummerland. She has offered to help me organize. This is not an option. The combination of my ADHD and her undiagnosed-but-um-duh OCD produces toxic fumes. It’s like ammonia and bleach. (Note: “Bleach” is pronounced “bleeyatch”. Yes, Microsoft, add that shit to the dictionary.) In my defense, I did spend a weekend completely organizing the basement. At the unveiling ceremony, she glanced around the room and said, “I can still see your books.” The Gummer is an oppressive regime.
Anyway,
I’m turning forty next month, so I’m spastically trying to deverkaktify (i.e., unfuck) my thirties before the clock runs out. I was totally taking advantage of Super Trash Fun Day and had been in the basement fenging my shui like a wild woman for the last week. It was crunch time. There was a zone, and I was IN IT. I went to the 'MART to get more trash bags. When I returned, she was standing next to a ladder in the garage.
I’m turning forty next month, so I’m spastically trying to deverkaktify (i.e., unfuck) my thirties before the clock runs out. I was totally taking advantage of Super Trash Fun Day and had been in the basement fenging my shui like a wild woman for the last week. It was crunch time. There was a zone, and I was IN IT. I went to the 'MART to get more trash bags. When I returned, she was standing next to a ladder in the garage.
“Lah-rie, have you been in the attic?”
“No, I haven’t been anywhere near the attic.”
“You didn’t put anything in the attic?”
Clear face of all expression. Do not engage. Put the lid on the crazy gravy and let it simmer for a while. I feigned breezy amnesia. “Weren’t we just talking about this?”
She decided that the wind had opened the attic door and put one of her SAS shoes on the first rung. She's 76.
"Stop it. You are made out of chalk." I climbed the ladder and maneuvered the wooded door back into the frame while simultaneously having a mild "Was she pushed or did she fall?" anxiety attack. I informed her that I had not eaten and was both crabby and hungry.
“Lah-rie, help me lift this cahn-crete statue.”
‘What? Why?”
“It’s broken. Help me lift it into this wagon so I can put it with the trash.”
“No, I’ll just do it myself.”
“It’s cahn-crete, Lah-rie. It’s heavy.”
It was time for another session of “Physics with Grandma”. The statue has a circular base. Welcome to the wheel.
After that, she
started going on about the mythical garage sale. She was pointing at things and talking, but I was just sort of watching her and listening to this WAH-WAH-WAH-WAH sound. It was like locust in the summertime or a carnival ride. I looked at my hands. I was not holding a nitrous balloon. (But then, when the WAH-WAHs hit, I was never holding the balloon. There was always some less-than-hipster reaching toward me and mumbling, “Dude, you let go of your balloon.”)
started going on about the mythical garage sale. She was pointing at things and talking, but I was just sort of watching her and listening to this WAH-WAH-WAH-WAH sound. It was like locust in the summertime or a carnival ride. I looked at my hands. I was not holding a nitrous balloon. (But then, when the WAH-WAHs hit, I was never holding the balloon. There was always some less-than-hipster reaching toward me and mumbling, “Dude, you let go of your balloon.”)
“Mom, you’ve been complaining about the basement and the yard barn for two years. You might want let me focus on the basement and the yard barn. I'm really hungry and really crabby.”
“Okay, but help me lift that trash can first.”
(Yes, Gordon Gano, the third verse is the same as the first.)
On the side of the house, there is a metal trash can which has not been moved since last summer. We walk to the trash can, and I remove the lid. “This is potting soil.”
The Gummer and I both know it’s more than just potting soil. It’s a crime scene.
What happened with that trash can is a story for another day
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