So, you are a Michigan gal and you go off to college at a small, private, liberal arts college in Michigan, and then, on the day before your college graduation, you shock the heck out of your baggy old moom by announcing that you have a job in San Francisco. Actually, it wasn’t that much of a shock. The beach urchin had dropped little bits and pieces of hints here and there. She definitely left me outta the larger loop, knowing that I would fret and worry and maybe even try to give her unnecessary (and unwanted) advice. On the one hand, it was harder than heck to not know what was going on. I mean, I was the one who spent her infancy checking to make sure she was still breathing. On the other hand, in a way, I didn’t really want to know and that was a reasonable position, given that, aside from things like breaking into the house via the Blue and Only Bathroom window once (or was it twice?) while we were out of town and she locked herself out, the kid never gave us a smidgeon of trouble. If she was ever out having a better time than we knew about, well, we never knew about it. She didn’t want my advice about finding a job and that’s okay. I do not have good advice about finding a job. My jobs have always been the result of falling down a rabbit hole.

But this post isn’t about my stellar child-rearing skills. It is about stuff. You know, the flotsam and jetsam and cosmic debris that gets collected throughout all those years you raise children. Especially if you live in the same blasted house for 27 years.

Anyway. Imagine if you are a young 20-something and you are living out in SF and you are traveling home to see your baggy old parents little sister and your cool cousins and friends and your ultra cool nonamoose for a little bit of a summer vacation. Your baggy old parents are off rattling around in the Great Not-So-White North when you are scheduled to arrive, so some of those ultra cool friends pick you up at Daytwa Metro and drop you off at your house. Your once cool (but small) bedroom has now been taken over by your grumpy old coot, who is using it for an office and mail / cosmic debris depository. You climb up into the top bunk and there is: 1) A Nesco oven, 2) a large carved wooden fish, and 3) uh, we’ll just call this item an implement of too much fun because it is not a particularly politically correct item in some circles. Hint: think 2nd amendment. Oh yeah, and some stuffed aminals. What do you do? Well, of course you text your friends out on the left coast. Because this is the goofy house that you grew up in and this is the kind of crazy thing your baggy old parents do. And yer baggy old moom laughs when you tell her that because, well, just because…

Actually, I have been told that some of the cool kids actually think that the Landfill is a cool house. I can’t figger it. At the moment, it is a junk-filled, rodent-infested nightmare. I have made almost no progress in the de-hoarding area in the last six months or so. I actually gave up on the chitchen remodel late last fall. I just didn’t have time to deal with it. I guess we’ll do it someday. Maybe I really am over-thinking it…

Today? Some progress. Not by me. But I was told I could take a peek into a certain area of the Landfill and I did and I was definitely impressed. Thank you!

This entry was posted on Tuesday, August 16th, 2011 at 6:11 pm and is filed under Uncategorized. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. Both comments and pings are currently closed.