I spent all day Saturday re-reclaiming a reclamation project. Between Oodgie's business (why aren't you people buying these?) and our collective lack of organization and energy, our den had yet again become a graveyard of old bills, broken electronics, and prints that were hanging in our individual apartments for years before we were married.
In addition to throwing out credit card statements from 2002, I took it upon myself to move a bunch of crap to our basement storage rooms. Our building has "community space" where people can put things they don't want in their apartments, but can't bring themselves to sell, give-away, or add to a blazing pyre before the homecoming game. We've been enthusiastic contributors to this space, and as I was unloading a box of VHS tapes and a framed Hopper print, I had an unsettling realization.
Or an entire house.
The subject of space comes up regularly at Casa de Cheeky. There's no question that concepts like "second bathrooms." "back yards," and "gaming rooms" are very appealing to us. I'd love to let Cheeky run around in an enclosed space without that space being limited to a thirty foot radius from me at all times. And that pile of stuff downstairs is a testament to our ability to accumulate crap, a skill I have little appetite for neglecting.
I actually feel bad about all the garbage we've got downstairs. It bullies it's way into every corner of the basement, picking on other people's stuff and taking their lunch money. It voraciously consumes everything in it's path. We're even negotiating with neighbors to adopt extra furniture as if we're hosting some potlatch at Pottery Barn. It's getting ridiculous
The most chilling thing about this--and an ironic deterrent to doing anything about it--is the concept of moving all this crap some day. Movers are somewhere between cockroaches and toe cheese on the phylogenetic tree, and the fewer interactions I have with them the better. My eye starts to twitch when I imagine them lumbering up the stairs with a disassembled dining room table, then
menacingly awkwardly waiting for an oversized tip while I count the number of gouges added to its frame. The only alternative would be to ask friends to help (and we're well beyond the "we'll pay you with beer and pizza" stage of our lives) or do it ourselves, which...um, no, that's not happening. I'd happily leave all our stuff buried down there, next to Fortunato and the Ark of the Covenant, as long as my out-of-shape butt is spared that task.
And so it continues, and the Museum of CroutonBoy's Left-Overs continues to gather items for it's collection. I'll be down there again this weekend, wedging an armoire behind a box of old paint cans and Christmas lights. Unless someone wants to borrow it for a while...all you've got to do is come pick it up!