Monday, July 30, 2012

Buyers Remorse

I got a text from Hub's on Friday morning. He'd entered the uncharted waters of Storage Auctions.

I went with him on two, simply to watch, learn, and laugh. People watching is crazy business at a storage auction! Almost as good as in Family Court, but I digress.

We so weren't buying anything.

We were distinctly, not buying.

The text began, in fits and starts with the three units for sale; how two of them housed complete junk and trash....followed by some agonizing silence. The third unit? Was that trash too? Did someone overpay for that one?

Of course someone bought it.

We did.

Personally, I might have started smaller (or not at all, ps.).  The rules are pretty clear: you have 24 hours to get all of someone else's stuff out. Oh. Right. And the law stating all personal items need be returned. I tend to trend along the lines of what I'd want to find in a returned box; Hub's is going with anything that has their name on it.

I'm glad we're not posting these boxes. 

Loads of the boxes constituted " important personal items", now holding court on one dining room chair.....birth records and certificates, back to 1910, Social Security Cards, gun permits (1934, the gun, already sold in case you were wondering),wedding photos, the ashes of a beloved dog they'd cremated, death certificates of various relations (or enemies I suppose), hospital records and bills. I thoughtfully included the Holy Very Scary Naked Photos nestled up with a #2 pencil I used to gouge out my eyes.

Among a ton of other things. 

I wish I'd saved to count all the lighters we've discovered, am thrilled that the needles all are (so far) capped, and I took a moment to wonder just who saves a hatchet in their sweater drawer. I thought perhaps poor packing skill, until I found the cleaver cleverly tucked in among tampons and mouthwash, circa 1984. Her Tampax really packs a wallop. 

People Are Really Weird. 

Especially those on illicit drugs.

Let's just say that those glassine baggies I found, the little ones? That white residue? Hmmm. Most likely goes with the extensive selection of razor blades, some ripped right out of a Lady Bic, some flittering about unattended, sharp side up, and the mirror boasting snorting snot marks. I figured out what the little pouches containing a spoon, lighter, and hypodermic are; thank God for Law & Order. Without knowledge imparted during a pregnancy spent on our sofa, I might never have identified half of those things.

For the record? Free-basing doesn't lead to more illicit drugs (does anything even top that?) it leads to horticulture. Mint boxes, necklace lockets, old photo canisters hold selections of seeds. Little baby pot plants waiting to sprout and mature. Too bad I'm not that much of a risk taker. We could've grown, like, a lot of pot. 

This history of the family fascinates me; the little snippets gleaned from a forest of delinquent bills, saved Hallmark cards, drawings, post-it notes of phone numbers, certificates of rabies vaccinations, spaying, court documents (both civil and criminal), how meticulous one of the owners must have been at some point to save all of her pay stubs from her first job in 1952. 

And hair.

Braided, pony-tailed, bangs, of several of her offspring. A vial labeled Bob's Teeth captivated even the kid's attention. C'mon. How many of you could wander by a dining table and not stop at that? Bob's Teeth?

The could also have gold in 'em. I thought that was a bit of a stretch, but at this point? Who knew? It didn't. It held Bob's three tooth crown. To cover that unsightly spot he must have had right in the front row.

Cameras. Crapy jewelry. 75 watches. Sharp tools. An otoscope. A snakeskin that I feared meant a large snake might be residing in this mess. So far, we've not found it. I'm hoping this means it is not currently living in my garage. Three ipod nanos. A pattern to make clothes for a 27" doll. A book to build our own sports plane. Thank goodness it wasn't how to build your own boat; he might actually take that on.  Barbie magazines.  The Mickey Mouse Flip Book is cute - and worth something - the lipstick shaped like a pink penis? Not so much.

A. Penis. Lipstick.

The furniture sold in the yard sale Hub's buddy held the next day. We broke even. Mostly. Kind of. Not really. After we paid the kids for working, add in gas, food during this extravaganza, we spent money to have the uplifting and enlightening experience of viewing and sorting someone's else's stuff. I'm paying for an experience we cannot duplicate in our own home.

He's convincing me that we'll more than break even. Sort of.

Guess what.

I'm not buying it.

Details Details

I'm a detail girl. Honestly.

Overlooking some minor details goes with the territory and title of being a New Mom. As well as an Old Mom. I have issues sometimes finding the right word for things - things or people or places I can see in my head? Do not always translate into what flies out of my mouth.

For example, when someone asked me what Hub's ex-wife does, and I said, she works at a hospital in town, they asked (duh, the next question in line - but the one I was hoping they wouldn't ask) - what department?

Yeah, this is generally where the train goes off the rails.

I could see the office. I knew what they did there. My response to this query?

The Titty Fairy Office.

My mouth hung open too - I swear, that is not what I meant to say...only...I wasn't entirely sure what to say. For the very life of me, I couldn't recall (or perhaps find?) the words: Plastic Surgery. Gaping about as a fish out of water, we stared at each other, waiting for someone to say something. My laugh sounded hollow even to me.

Add to this auspicious I'm Becoming A Complete Moron list:

Totally forgetting the baby is on Miralax.

No I did not forget to put it into the bottles, or cereal and fruit, veggies, etc - I looked up the signs for cereal, peaches, pears, fruit, carrots....cow....c'mon, who doesn't need to know the sign for cow? Right. Okay. So I recall to feed the baby. That's well established; look at her fabulous cheeks - eating well is no secret in this house.


(this is a big however)

I feed the remaining cereal to Pucker.

A beagle.


This would be where one of those pesky details - like the freaking laxatives in the baby food along with bowel moving produce products - turns out to be rather important. The dog is so regular she hardly knows what to do with herself; she was pretty regular to begin with. Perhaps, as you might imagine, she hardly needs help on that end. I looked at it as a bonding thing with GiGi - see? Jealous of someone that sits in a chair that drops food constantly along with toys? Doggie heaven. Clean floors without my bending over? Better still.

Dog eating laxative infused poop-inducing baby food?


Explains why some nights she cannot get through the night without either a potty break, or, some Surprise Poop. I'm starting to think it surprises even her. I've only taken a laxative once or twice, but I recall distinctly the Surprise part.

I've been lucky.

I still recall how J takes his coffee (iced, cream, sugar, huge cup, straw). I remember the diaper bag, though not always diapers. Or wipes. But I forget them at different times. I take the dog out, but forget the leash. (that one's a stretch, I know...I just hate the leash) I've run both the washer and the dishwasher without soap, walked into more rooms than I care to admit completely blank on why I am there.

Dressing GiGi to leave the house, in matching clothing, tights and shoes? Having her look so freaking cute no one pays attention to my lack of make-up?


It's all in the details.

Monday, July 23, 2012

Answer A

Living beings in my house tend to fall into two distinct categories:

A. Despite careful tending, they die.

B. Despite total lack of care and attention, they live on,
I am convinced, to annoy me senseless.

The only person who seems to care that the (unwanted...on my part at least) guinea pigs in the basement have made such a mess, have spent quite a bit of time (more than I care to admit) without a serious cage cleaning, we are attracting mice, is me.

Mostly, I am sure, from Lois' side of the condo wall. I suppose however, that once they penetrate the hallowed halls of my home, I should cease to care from whence they came.

Truth be told, I'm not a huge, shall we say, fan, of these idiot animals, since in my book, pigs live outdoors, eat outdoors, poop outdoors, right before they turn into some lovely bacon. These pigs? Shit in the house. Sigh. While I'd like, in the most nebulous way, for them to cease to exist, I'd rather not be the one to find the bodies, or, have to break it to the kids, they are not taking a "long nap", or, hibernating for the winter.


I looked online, to find the best (read: easiest) way to clean a piggie's cage (without actually touching anything) only to find that first, I'd have to touch everything. I'm pretty sure that's when the gagging began. Either way, I'd need to move piggies out of their habitat (I don't really want them getting too accustomed to the idea of this being "a home") then, touch all their unwanted bedding, prior to filling water, food pellets, raw veggies, etc.

I'm awesome at cutting up their veggies. I'm even pretty darn talented at delivering them, when needed. Mostly. So I forget some days. I'm not the only one who does, so I am free to pass along that blame. Perhaps, onto someone who actually claims ownership of these guys. I'm guessing they are guys, a, because they lady at the pet store told J they were guys, and b, I currently am unclear on the anatomical differences between the two. So far, whether they are gay pigs or lesbian pigs, they have not (thankfully) reproduced.

Gloves, clearly, were a must; the bedding that smells lightly of lavender a huge bonus, as these aromatic pests - I mean - pets, are not stunning the world as the latest perfume to be carried by Estee' Lauder. The online articles (yes, I read more than one - want to make sure I'm doing this correctly, lest I be the cause of their demise) gave me a handful by handful accounting of my upcoming laborious process, along with the list of "acceptable" vegetable matter they should have daily. A cup of it, per pig.

I read the list. (far easier than beginning the cleaning of The Cage)

Now, keep in mind, our pigs diet consists mostly of raw veggie table scraps, along with the cheapest carrots one may find, along with a steady stream of vit C rich spinach, and apples, cut with cores and seeds altogether.

The list suggests (rather highly, I gathered, since it listed it twice) staying away from feeding them a diet too rich in those foods; they should be given in pretty consistent moderation. Stay away from apples seeds, cherry or apricot and peach pits: all contain arsenic.

Not here.

The fine print, after the discreet star above the veggies listed, warns against kidneyfailure, too much vit A making them dreadfully ill, just prior to killing them.

I read this, complete disbelief dancing across my face, as this proved one thing, and one thing only: despite my best, well-intenioned feeding of these guys, I've been unintentionally poisoning them. We have been doing this for going on two years.

Leads me to the only possible conclusion: no matter what I do.....

They. Will. NEVER. Die.

Why is choice A never the right answer?!