#2 in a series on the house re-do project in progress at the Young household. This post was originally published two days ago, before the website maintenance by Blogger caused it to be deleted.
Why is it that two generally reasonable, rationale, human beings cannot agree on what to throw away?
Why is it that, the same two people, living in the same house, experiencing the same incidents can have totally different memory-banks of what occurred?
Why is it that any household project inevitably leads to a discussion of how we came to buy/own/retain various items - known collectively as "our stuff" - and further, what are we going to do about it?
Inquiring minds want to know. That would be the LOC's (Lovable Old Coot's) mind, because mine, what little there is left of it, is too tired to contemplate this Solomonic dilemma.
When I am really tired I tend to devolve into verbiage that includes tidbits like "Solomonic dilemmas", and trust me, you do not want to have to experience anymore of that, so let's move along.
I have previously explained how, five years ago, we came to redo the entire house, upstairs and down, except for two small rooms. One is the guest bedroom, the other is.... well, that is a good question. It is either the home office, the LOC's "man-cave", or the junk room, depending upon how recently it has been dusted and vacuumed, and/or whether he has put up the current baseball/football season's pennants, etc. as the decor de rigour.
At the moment, the 49er gear is down, the S.F. Giants stuff is up, and all is well, in his little corner of the world. Well, almost. The LOC pitifully whined about having to disconnect various pcs, routers, modems, etc. in preparation for the new carpet going down. But he got it done.
Silly, me, I thought once the new carpet was laid, we were through the worst of it. I mean, just give me a well-glued seam, and I am a happy camper.
There were some rewards from his perspective though, namely the joyous re-discovery of his 33 and 1/3 vinyl collection. (Younger readers may wish to look up vinyl on Wikipedia, since you have likely never actually heard, much less seen one.)
So all afternoon, I was serenaded by Bing Crosby, Patti Page, Tony Bennett and Perry Como. Granted, he is several years older than I am, but our muscial tastes are decades apart.
There was not a single Eagles or Hall and Oates break in there, anywhere. So right now, his Kiss is not On My List, he does not Make My Dreams Come True, and I am about ready to check myself into the Hotel California. It is such a lovely place.
Meanwhile, I am tossing junk like crazy, while he is retaining things like 200 plastic bags (along with the green tie-thingies) "just in case we ever need them."
I cannot even imagine how much junk we would have to accumulate to fill those 200 bags, and even the passing thought gives me the willies.
After a drape-ironing-marathon, at least I got the drapes re-hung in his room. He glanced up from digging in some box that had not seen the light of day in at least a decade, and remarked appreciately, "Nice curtains. Where did you get them?"
I stood stock-still, hoping there were no errant flies entering my gaping mouth. "They are the same ones I took down awhile back. Before I could re-hang them, you moved a desk in front of the window, and I could not get behind it to put them back up."
"Nope," he responded cheerily. "I would remember them. Never saw them before. Nice curtains, though."
All this friendly difference in perspectives has worn me completely out - so that is all for now. Hope your little domicile is full of goodwill, and nothing else.
Part 3 - Resorting to Subterfuge - tomorrow.