Tuesday, September 14, 2010

I Call Him Rusty

I don't live far from my parents' house.  And my office is even closer, so I stop by often on my way home to say hi, let the dogs out to pee, check the mail...

...throw boxes of junk in the massive dumpster taking up a third of their driveway, you know, normal stuff like that.

No, dumpsters are not normal.

This is what I pulled up to one of my more recent trips.  A giant, rusty, trash lovin', steel box.

Did I mention there was a great deal of rust involved?


It was junk-clearing time, and we had plen-ty to dispose of.  The garage was full, the attic was full, the basement was full and my sisters and I were keeping watch daily for the TLC Hoarders crew to pull up into the driveway.

But I exaggerate.  My parents aren't that bad.  We all just don't like making the decision to let go of things we have attachments to. 

Um...what is the definition of "hoarding" again?

Could it possibly be crying at the sight of my first Cabbage Patch dolls, covered in dirt and buck naked, in a box waiting to be dumped?  Or clutching my pound puppies for dear life?

Or maybe taking 20 pounds of fabric scraps back to my apartment for projects yet to be named?

But this is not about me.

It's about this huge, nasty trash can that was unwelcome by some members of the family.

And then welcomed when it was discovered that previous renters had left some gooey cardboard sticking out of a giant rusty crack that was absolutely delicious.  Lucky I was there to save them from Hepatitis.

1 comment:

jen said...

When my sister and I were growing up, we shared a room, a very. messy. room. which made my dad always threaten to get one of those dumpsters, place it under our window and start shoveling...eventually it did happen, just not under a window and after both of us had moved out of the house...