scoreboard & traffic signal

CRAZY. CRAZY. CRAZY.
That's my husband, Nick. Crazy as a shithouse rat. I should have known, as his whole family is CRAZY. Not just politely crazy, but really fuckin nuts. They all hoard. His sibs who are unmarried (divorced; their spouses fled) are therefore unchecked in their hoarding. Their houses are like those that show up on the news every now and then when the neighbors report offensive odors.
When I met him, there were paths through the rooms with looming piles of old newspapers and broken lamps, some of which were shaped like fruit. He planned to repair them and collect a vast fortune in a garage sale. Where were the alarm bells? I guess I couldn't hear them over the rumbling of my starving student's stomach. Oddly enough, he was attracted to me because I'm neat; or I was prior to sharing an address with him. His crap is like cancer moving through the house.

So our 2 car attached garage (a coveted luxury downtown) is so chock-full of useless garbage we can't fit a car in there. These indispensables include a huge LCD scoreboard (?), a traffic signal-- you never know when one of those will come in handy-- and of course a set of left-handed golf clubs. Let's don't be hatin' on those lefties. These items usurp the expensive sedan which is hence either left out in the elements, or parked in an expensive indoor spot 4 blocks away.

Sometimes when I clean, I dispose of some of these bizarre odds and ends. I have to pay a small bribe to the doorman across the street to use his dumpster, as Nick has previously found his belongings in our ally trash can on his nightly trawl through the trash. He once became apoplectic because he discovered some pajamas (he doesn't wear pajamas) sized medium (he's XXL) from Goldblats (a store that's been closed for about 15 years) in the trash. So that's why I bribe the doorman.

These items clogging our garage are the things that won't fit in the WAREHOUSE that he owns.
The warehouse is a story for another day.