Rent time, that is.Rent for the garage spot that I require because I am a spoiled princess who thinks that she shouldn't have to schlep the kids and groceries a half mile which is where I could possibly find a street spot. Our one remaining spot is reserved for Mr. Bunker, lest he has to WALK anywhere, possibly squandering some of that hard-won adipose tissue.
We basically have a ritual now, occurring on the last day of the month. It starts out with him telling me that today is the day! he's going to get it all cleaned out today,followed by harsh admonitions not to write the check for my rented garage spot, because we're broke. BROKE! Sometimes I remind him that we should really be extra super rich because of all the money that he saves buying clearance items. "Those are necessities!" he shouts (really? like those 12 packs of nail polish and the 3 bottles of Stetson cologne?? the 50 boxes of bandaids? the basketball hoop?).
Next, he gets his army of Mexican laborers who stand around and smoke, getting paid while Archie organizes a bucket of drywall nails that are probably valued at about $2.00 for the lot of them. Nobody's allowed to touch anything without prior inspection, which won't happen, because that crazy asshole is too busy sorting through penny drywall nails.
Usually by the third of the month I write the check to the garage, at which point Mr. Bunker becomes unhinged, bellows about how he's really close to having it cleaned out and that WHAT DO I THINK WE'RE RICH??? Then he completely abandons the project until next the very last day of the next month.
There was a temporary void where the frog lamp once lived, and I'm going to start leaving the garage door open in hopes that some of the shopping cart people that walk through the ally will lighten the load. That is, after I search through that mess, because after my office manager saw the pic of the frog lamp, she said that she would sure like a soup tureen, and odds are that there is one in there somewhere. Anything for you, Phoebe.
7 comments:
Holy Crap (oh that was not intended!)
Umm Edith, he really has issues...can't you medicate him so it all just goes away? I guess I really am not a harder after all, all my piles of jeans were hanging up in closets.........
Ooops meant hoarder..
well, I've heard that Prozac is soluble in orange juice....
but what will probably happen is that I'll end up medicated because HE's crazy.
We need some of those "Clean House" reality TV people to come visit.
And if you can still see the floor, then you are off the hook as a hoarder.
Yeah, he's flippen sick. And tell him to get a job and help pay the bills. He's really annoying me now and I dont even know him.
I pleases me to have others annoyed with him.
the garage looks way better than before. all those things are very important. treasures really.
bugger off P.A.
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