Moving Story (2002) - Part I

[Since I've been slacking of late, I'm posting a three part story I wrote about 5 or 6 years ago. This is Part I. As always, the names have been changed]

I'm moving.

Moving is full of scary propositions, not the least of which is taking out a mortgage. It doesn't help to know that translated, 'mortgage' is Latin for "Pledge Unto Death". I thought I already did that on my wedding day. The concept that little ol' me is going to borrow some fraction of a million dollars is enough to make me double my Zoloft. You're talking about a guy who still refers to twenty bucks as two large. But hey, if borrowtilithurts.com says I qualify, I must qualify. Everybody knows the internet doesn't lie. So we forge ahead… blindly.

The first thing we need to do is make our house somewhat presentable. Now, if real estate were a pick-up bar, my house would be the 54 year old optician with a paunch, caps, and combover hair who sucks in his gut and winks every time a young girl walks by. But that's okay—I don't need a supermodel. Any broad with money will do. We bought this house eleven years ago when it was just my wife, Lois, and me, three cats and a dog. That blissful solitude didn't last very long. Before I could suggest, "What say we drop 2 grand on a big screen TV for the living room?", there were five of us humans (or evolving facsimiles) plus three cats and a dog... and not a whole helluva lot of living space. You'd recognize my house if you ever drove past—it's the one where all the walls have bowed under the strain, giving it the appearance of a vinyl-sided pickle barrel. You'll also notice the occasional blanket, chest of drawers, or femur projecting from an upstairs window or vent. If you bring something in through the front door, something else must squeeze out an open orifice. It's just physics: Newton's ten-pounds-of-stuff-in-a-five-pound-house law.

And the fun doesn't end there. Ten years ago, Lois, being the sadist that she is, decided she no longer wanted to work at some steady, nine-to-five job with dental coverage and paid holidays off. She was going to start a daycare center IN MY HOUSE! If she wants to kill me, why not grind glass into my Hamburger Helper like other wives? It would be less painful. But no, I'm being slowly and methodically stripped of the precious few bits of reasoning I have remaining. The worst part is that not only did the clutter increase, it spread to the great outdoors. It looks like the Japanese bombed Toys R Us outside my kitchen window. We've got the plastic nondescript seesaw, the plastic alligator seesaw, the plastic octopus thingy that spins round and round and flings kids off when it goes too fast (my personal favorite). We've got the plastic slide/clubhouse combo, the plastic turtle sandbox, the plastic shopping cart, plastic pool, plastic jai-alai set, plastic golf clubs, plastic bats, plastic balls, plastic chairs, and a functioning plastic post office where plastic letters are delivered in a plastic mail truck and paid for with plastic money (at least I can relate to the last part). I'm convinced that 3 million years from now, an archeologist poking around in my backyard will shock the scientific world with his discovery of Plasticene Man. They'll design new "Evolution of Man" posters and depict Plasticene Man using the picture of me they found in one of those Plexiglas picture cubes. There I'll be, walking nearly erect, smack between Cro-Magnon and Australopithecus. (I'll be the one with the cell phone)

No sir, I've made a management level decision: Time to get rid of some of this junk! I was feeling so cocky I wanted to issue an official memo, but decided not to press my luck.

"Lois, I'm renting a 30 yard dumpster and we're throwing all this stuff out."
"No were not. I need it for work"
"We need six varieties of seesaw?"
"We're not throwing anything away."
"Four plastic picnic tables?"
"Forget it."
"I can walk from the back door to the edge of our property without ever touching the ground! I'll just step from one Little Tikes toy to another, and maybe rely on the occasional PlaySkool or Step1."

No response. Okay, scratch that—no words were spoken. Her response was clear.

"How are we supposed to sell this place with all this clutter?", I whined.

Just then I knew I'd blown it. Up to that point, I still had a strong foothold. We were toe to toe, eyeball to eyeball, mano a mano. This was my Cuban Missile Crisis and I blinked first.

"Rent a storage unit. We'll keep it there until we move."
"I absolutely refuse to rent a storage unit. I've made my decision and I'm sticking by it!"

The man at the storage rental place was very nice. I found a charming little 10 x 20 unit right near the office for 114 bucks a month. I decided to go home immediately and begin emptying out the garage. I figured if I could clean that out, I could accomplish anything.
Our little one car garage was filled to capacity with everything you can imagine—and then some.

In some cases, I had two or even three copies things. I always felt it was more cost-effective for me to go to The Home Depot and buy another Makita Hammer Drill than it was to try to find the ones I bought previously. So I loaded up the Ford Ranger with the top strata of household sediment: A broken Nordic Trac, a few hundred pieces of crown molding and corner bead scraps varying in length from 1 ½ to 9 inches, a roll of leftover vinyl flooring, one kitchen chair (we liked to keep an even 5 in the kitchen), a box of high school yearbooks and several boxes of assorted glove compartment and trunk fallout. Never know when I may need those starter checks from the bank that went out of business six years ago.

As I grabbed the last boxful of bric-a-brac from the garage, I unearthed a metallic green patch that caught my eye. It was familiar, yet I couldn't place it. I dug deeper, tossing aside empty golf bags, a moldy sleeping bag and dilapidated accordion doors. There it was! Of course! I had always wondered what happened to that little Dodge I used to drive. I guess I should call my insurance guy back and apologize for so strenuously insisting, "I don't own an Omni!"
Nah, that was years ago—he forgot by now.

Despite my objections, Lois insisted on coming with me on this trip so she could check out the storage place. I knew I was going to have some explaining to do, but figured I'd wait to see if she caught on to what I was scheming. We backed the truck up to the unit and I opened the orange corrugated door. Then I unhinged the large, rusted, secondary door and braced myself to see if the jig was up. It was.

"Two doors?", Lois asked.
"It's for added security."
"Why does this one say DiNunzio Carting on it?"
"It's an advertisement. Some places'll do anything to make a buck."
Lois cautiously inspected the "unit".
"Um, don't mind that lettuce and coffee grounds", I said. "The previous tenant was a Colombian sharecropper. Guess he forgot to sweep up before he vacated."
"Are you going to get the dumpster out of here or shall I?"

I suppose that would make this my Chernobyl—I melted down and had the dumpster gone in half an hour.

I rationalize it this way—I may not be getting rid of all the clutter, but at least in the new house I can spread it over a larger area.