There’s a big project brewing here.
Weeks in the planning.
And although I know you believe this is simply a product of my tendency to use hyperbole, I’m not actually joking this time.
Weeks of planning.
And now, the time has come.
Phase One happened today.
Truth be told, Phase One has nothing to do with the project at hand.
It’s just that the project at hand involves a dumpster.
How often do you have a dumpster parked in front of your house?
Don’t answer that if you don’t want to. Really none of my business.
But we don’t have a dumpster very often. In fact, this is a first.
So in addition to the project that requires a dumpster, my brain starts thinking about all the other things lying around that could get plopped into a big ol’ dumpster while it happens to be sitting there parked in front of the house.
All that stuff in the garage…
All that crap in Child A’s closet…
Several crates worth of guitar magazines from 1972 to the present that we keep carting around with us wherever we friggin’ go because you never know, somewhere, someday, there might be a classic guitar periodical emergency and we’ll be the only ones who can help. Despite my suggestion that the likelihood of that scenario is several orders of magnitude less than the likelihood that we’ll win the lottery, we keep lugging the crates of guitar magazines around and still never buy lottery tickets.
My logic is lost on so many.
But back to the dumpster.
The reality is that the dumpster will only be here a week, the major project is going to take up most of the weekend that the dumpster is here, so other than clear out the side yard that has been collecting crap since we moved in (the dangers of having a part of the yard that you cannot actually see), the rest of my household purge will likely stay a pipe dream.
But…one thing absolutely, irrefutably has to happen while the dumpster is here.
First, let me assure you that my pathology does not, in fact, run this deep.
Issue Number 1: The former owners left many cans of paint for us so we could do touch-ups without having to buy new paint. However, since A)We repainted every square inch of the living space (no hyperbole there either – I’m not kidding, we even had to repaint the ceiling) we could not use any of the gifted paint, and B) I now firmly believe that what seems like a thoughtful gesture is in fact a desperate attempt to not have to deal with things like paint cans when one is already hysterical because one is moving their family from California to Oregon. At least, it’s what I’d do.
So about a third of those cans we inherited along with the house.
Issue Number 2: We did not realize for the longest time that if the paint cans were empty and dry that you can just throw them away. I always assumed that you had to deal with them like nuclear waste disposal and call in the toxic round-up people. Nope. Dry cans can go in regular trash. And then I found out that you can let a half-empty can dry out and throw that away in the regular trash too. And if you need to speed along the drying process, just mix in some kitty litter.
Well spank my butt and call me Charlie! (No, actually, don’t do either of those things.)
So Himself and I spent the afternoon prying open paint cans that had sealed in ways that the government would envy, waving away fumes that I believe could have been used for stripping rust off industrial machinery, and mixing kitty litter into cans of putrified colors that carried with it the risk of making us swear off tunafish salad for the rests of our natural lives.
Don’t you just love Sunday afternoons?
But now every single can (except for 4 or 5 that actually do contain colors that we might legitimately need to use for touch-ups) is open, drying, and ready to get thrown by an unwilling teenager into a dumpster some time next week.
This is progress.