02 April 2013
654
R. Linda:
We have this small room that has been used for storage since we moved in. We are all guilty of boxing something up and throwing it in this space. Over the years we've lived here, we have forgotten much of what we stored and now find we can't throw anything else in there as the space is completely taken.
Now, this problem came to me attention this Saturday at breakfast. It seems the wife had boxed up some clothing that the boyos had outgrown, and when she went to put the box in the . . . let's call it the storage room, she found she couldn't and then couldn't get the door closed. The idea came to her that if we aren't using what's in there, we need to throw it out or donate it to Goodwill. I couldn't agree more.
So, with this in mind, we went to the "storage room", and I started to unload the stacked cardboard boxes. Tonya would go through them; anything we didn't want was to go. So it seems there was a lot of my stuff; oh, let me rephrase that, my "junk" came out first. Me favourite jacket and ratty sweatshirt which Tonya and her mother had donated to the Salvation Army many years ago that I had to go down and rescue by REPURCHASING, was in one of the first boxes. Imagine HER surprise when she lifted these two treasured items out.
"I could have sworn you couldn't get these things back." She said.
"Well, I did," I said, taking them from her.
That started argy number one. I told her I did not want to throw out memories and that I had hidden them because I knew she'd re-donate them. And they weren't THAT bad. Well, she compromised. She put them in the RETHINK pile. Yup, she did. I didn't have to rethink anything, but there she was . . . and really?
When we first married and moved in together, I noticed that SHE had "valuable stuff" and I had "junk", as she put it. I had to remove my JUNK so she could move in the VALUABLE STUFF. Yes, indeed. Even the pictures on me walls came down because they weren't as "nice" as hers. We threw my couch out because, once again, hers was better. Well, I had successfully hidden my "junk" and forgot where I had hidden it, and now, as she opened box after box of my "junk", it came to me what the end result would be. I was letting the enemy see where I had hidden me stash.
You'd have thought I had committed the worst crime in history. She went ape shite on me about "lying" to her about getting rid of all the "crap", and now here it is, and it has been living with her stored "valuables" for over what? Eight years? I tell ya!
She told me several times to go do something else, but I knew if I left me stuff—oh, excuse me, me junk—it would be in the donate pile. She threw things in that pile without asking me; most was mine!
This is not unusual in New Hampshire, where the population is 50.6% female, so women think they rule. We even have a female governor; in her case, she does rule. 94.5% of the population is white, while 2.1 are Asian and 1.1 are black. So, to be a woman in the minority only adds to the need to show off a little power when she has it. With 90.9% of New Hampshire residents graduating high school, most people here are not dummies, and 32.9% have at least a BA degree, which is higher than the national average of 27.9%. Well, Tonya's well above that. 22.3% are of Irish ancestry, 18.8% are of British origin, and 16.5 are of French origin. That might be the reason 92% only speak English. So to be in a minority that was not even mentioned, well, that's got to goad her some. Most everyone was born somewhere else before coming to live here, and 51.8% are from somewhere else, like us.
R. Linda:
We have this small room that has been used for storage since we moved in. We are all guilty of boxing something up and throwing it in this space. Over the years we've lived here, we have forgotten much of what we stored and now find we can't throw anything else in there as the space is completely taken.
Now, this problem came to me attention this Saturday at breakfast. It seems the wife had boxed up some clothing that the boyos had outgrown, and when she went to put the box in the . . . let's call it the storage room, she found she couldn't and then couldn't get the door closed. The idea came to her that if we aren't using what's in there, we need to throw it out or donate it to Goodwill. I couldn't agree more.
So, with this in mind, we went to the "storage room", and I started to unload the stacked cardboard boxes. Tonya would go through them; anything we didn't want was to go. So it seems there was a lot of my stuff; oh, let me rephrase that, my "junk" came out first. Me favourite jacket and ratty sweatshirt which Tonya and her mother had donated to the Salvation Army many years ago that I had to go down and rescue by REPURCHASING, was in one of the first boxes. Imagine HER surprise when she lifted these two treasured items out.
"I could have sworn you couldn't get these things back." She said.
"Well, I did," I said, taking them from her.
That started argy number one. I told her I did not want to throw out memories and that I had hidden them because I knew she'd re-donate them. And they weren't THAT bad. Well, she compromised. She put them in the RETHINK pile. Yup, she did. I didn't have to rethink anything, but there she was . . . and really?
When we first married and moved in together, I noticed that SHE had "valuable stuff" and I had "junk", as she put it. I had to remove my JUNK so she could move in the VALUABLE STUFF. Yes, indeed. Even the pictures on me walls came down because they weren't as "nice" as hers. We threw my couch out because, once again, hers was better. Well, I had successfully hidden my "junk" and forgot where I had hidden it, and now, as she opened box after box of my "junk", it came to me what the end result would be. I was letting the enemy see where I had hidden me stash.
You'd have thought I had committed the worst crime in history. She went ape shite on me about "lying" to her about getting rid of all the "crap", and now here it is, and it has been living with her stored "valuables" for over what? Eight years? I tell ya!
She told me several times to go do something else, but I knew if I left me stuff—oh, excuse me, me junk—it would be in the donate pile. She threw things in that pile without asking me; most was mine!
This is not unusual in New Hampshire, where the population is 50.6% female, so women think they rule. We even have a female governor; in her case, she does rule. 94.5% of the population is white, while 2.1 are Asian and 1.1 are black. So, to be a woman in the minority only adds to the need to show off a little power when she has it. With 90.9% of New Hampshire residents graduating high school, most people here are not dummies, and 32.9% have at least a BA degree, which is higher than the national average of 27.9%. Well, Tonya's well above that. 22.3% are of Irish ancestry, 18.8% are of British origin, and 16.5 are of French origin. That might be the reason 92% only speak English. So to be in a minority that was not even mentioned, well, that's got to goad her some. Most everyone was born somewhere else before coming to live here, and 51.8% are from somewhere else, like us.
The median age is around 40.3 years. There is no poverty line to speak of here, as most residents, 72.6%, own their own homes, which is above the national average of 66.6%, and 86.4% of us homeowners have lived in the same house for at least one year before moving elsewhere. The median range in home value here is $253,200, and the median income is $64,277, well above the national average of $51,914. Most residents live in a household with one or two other people which is an average of 2.48 live in a typical New Hampshire household, that be us too. Most of us commute to work in 25.5 minutes, but only 8.2% carpool. 42.5% of us have two cars and two-car garages. So she shouldn't be on too much of a power trip. Nah.
There, stats out of the system, and of course, prove nothing but that the woman of the house RULES.
Well, lucky me was interrupted in this cleanup process by none other than the young whippersnapper, who showed up in the hallway. He said he'd been knocking at the door, and when no one answered, finding the door unlatched, he decided to come find us by following the sound of shouting voices. Even the dogs were lying at the edge of the piles of "stuff" (mostly mine) watching the two of us, and our arguing was probably too loud to hear the Weasil knocking.
Well, the kiddos left with Tonya as it was lunchtime. The Weasil saw I was somewhat in ill humour and distressed, so he had a diabolical idea. One that, when I heard it, had me thinking, yes, this could work "by gum!" An expression the Weasil was using a lot BECAUSE he was just back from New Orleans, by gum! (By gum is a Southern expression. He was talking like a Creole, which was much easier for me to understand than his usual British Weasilese, let me tell ya!)
The plan was this: Weasil had seen a flea market a town over, and he and I would take the "junk" (mostly my stuff) over to the flea market and sell it. Just to prove it had value. Then, we'd put what we earned toward the boyo's college fund, you know, to show the wife up. I know, I know what you be thinking how would "junk" sold at a flea market be anywhere enough to donate to two college funds let alone a rainy day jar. And that was my question.
The Weasil thought a moment and agreed that wouldn't do it. Nope, nope, noppers.
Well, believe you me, the Weasil came up with something else just as good. "Yas gotta startie somewhe-ah," he drawled. Tonya, not in the mood for a Weasil discussion, just said, "Do what you please. I don't care; just get rid of this stuff." Weasil assured me I'd get all me stuff back and not to worry and there was that phrase "not to worry" and once again I didn't. I know stupid is as stupid does. But then he had a more brilliant idea than the first.
"Firs', we gonna ste-al sum stuff, sell it at da pawn shoppee an den show HER da monee and den we gonna git it all back."
"Steal me own stuff?"
"Hush. HER stuff, not yers. Yesss, biccos it will prove ta her yer junk be wor' sumthin'. She's needs her to learn a less-on an we-s gonna tatch her one! We's gonna take all HER bric-a-brac an pawn it. Meanwhile, we iz gonna sto-ah yah stuffins in da shed out a back. Sos when we a-h done we kin show er' da monee like we sold yer shite."
"And you don't think she'll notice her STUFF missing?"
"Nah cuz we onlee takin' da leetle stuff she don' lookit. Da bric-a-bracs, like dissy he-ah." He took a pewter dish etched with a spider and spider web on it. It was something her mother gave her and well . . . " Segond, we pawn it yondah at da pawn shoppee in ton', give da monee to Tonya; three, she put it in da col-lage fun j-ah; four, we take it outa agin a da col-lage fun j-ah lat-ah and replace it wit dis," and he held up funny money.
There, stats out of the system, and of course, prove nothing but that the woman of the house RULES.
Well, lucky me was interrupted in this cleanup process by none other than the young whippersnapper, who showed up in the hallway. He said he'd been knocking at the door, and when no one answered, finding the door unlatched, he decided to come find us by following the sound of shouting voices. Even the dogs were lying at the edge of the piles of "stuff" (mostly mine) watching the two of us, and our arguing was probably too loud to hear the Weasil knocking.
Well, the kiddos left with Tonya as it was lunchtime. The Weasil saw I was somewhat in ill humour and distressed, so he had a diabolical idea. One that, when I heard it, had me thinking, yes, this could work "by gum!" An expression the Weasil was using a lot BECAUSE he was just back from New Orleans, by gum! (By gum is a Southern expression. He was talking like a Creole, which was much easier for me to understand than his usual British Weasilese, let me tell ya!)
The plan was this: Weasil had seen a flea market a town over, and he and I would take the "junk" (mostly my stuff) over to the flea market and sell it. Just to prove it had value. Then, we'd put what we earned toward the boyo's college fund, you know, to show the wife up. I know, I know what you be thinking how would "junk" sold at a flea market be anywhere enough to donate to two college funds let alone a rainy day jar. And that was my question.
The Weasil thought a moment and agreed that wouldn't do it. Nope, nope, noppers.
Well, believe you me, the Weasil came up with something else just as good. "Yas gotta startie somewhe-ah," he drawled. Tonya, not in the mood for a Weasil discussion, just said, "Do what you please. I don't care; just get rid of this stuff." Weasil assured me I'd get all me stuff back and not to worry and there was that phrase "not to worry" and once again I didn't. I know stupid is as stupid does. But then he had a more brilliant idea than the first.
"Firs', we gonna ste-al sum stuff, sell it at da pawn shoppee an den show HER da monee and den we gonna git it all back."
"Steal me own stuff?"
"Hush. HER stuff, not yers. Yesss, biccos it will prove ta her yer junk be wor' sumthin'. She's needs her to learn a less-on an we-s gonna tatch her one! We's gonna take all HER bric-a-brac an pawn it. Meanwhile, we iz gonna sto-ah yah stuffins in da shed out a back. Sos when we a-h done we kin show er' da monee like we sold yer shite."
"And you don't think she'll notice her STUFF missing?"
"Nah cuz we onlee takin' da leetle stuff she don' lookit. Da bric-a-bracs, like dissy he-ah." He took a pewter dish etched with a spider and spider web on it. It was something her mother gave her and well . . . " Segond, we pawn it yondah at da pawn shoppee in ton', give da monee to Tonya; three, she put it in da col-lage fun j-ah; four, we take it outa agin a da col-lage fun j-ah lat-ah and replace it wit dis," and he held up funny money.
"Where'd you get that?" I asked, floored. He'd have something so real, but you could tell it was slightly off somehow. He folded it up and showed it to me again. Folded up, you'd never know it wasn't the real thing.
"Down yondah in Nu'Orlins I gots it frum." Said he.
Which wasn't much of an explanation in me book but that was all I was getting out of him. I sighed, not liking his idea. BUT me stuff was at risk of being boxed and given away. If someone like Ms. Jaio or Wolfie was there, they'd reason why I would pawn stuff only to replace the real money with funny money and then have to go buy back HER stuff. I dunno. I was not thinking quite obviously, and Weasil has that effect on me; my mind just shuts down.
So while he went around the house covertly stashing Tonya's small valuables in a burlap bag (no clue where that came from, probably "Nu'Orlins), I was quickly stashing me stuff in the shed out back. When I came back in Weasil had boxed her "stuff", so it looked like my stuff (he used a Sharpie pen to mark the box "GABBIE'S JUNK") and we loaded it in the car where she could see us and off we went waving bye, taking her "stuff" unbeknownst to her, off to the pawn shop. Oi, I tell ya!
He pawned it all, yes, R. Linda, all without a hitch. At one point, after two minutes in the shop, I couldn't take it anymore, so I went out to wait in the car. I will admit Weasil did all the talking in his new Nu'Olins drawl, and we had quite a bit of moola when he was done. So much so, I told him we had too much of it, and she'd never buy that my "junk" would fetch that much at a flea market. All this would do is prove to HER (once she stopped beating the hell out of me for selling her STUFF) how valuable her STUFF was! Oi, oi, oi! It played on me awakening mind just what did he sell? I had no clue, and this started eating at me.
So we tool into the house and I give her the cash looking and feeling sheepish. She was amazed that I fetched over $400 for "that crap", but OK. And off she went to the kitchen, where she put the money in the jar. Me heart was pounding out of me chest as I looked around and noticed her mother's candelabra was missing. Another turn and I saw her collection of antique spoons -- GONE! I looked over at the corner hutch, the large silver pitcher that was her grandmother's -- GONE! Half the crystals off the old antique chandelier her great, great, great grandmother had passed down were missing not only the large crystal at the base but most of the irreplaceable crystals that made it a crystal chandelier! Holy shite, I almost said as I realised the Weasil had pawned the really good stuff that was all given to the wife by beloved lost family members (except, of course, her very alive mother) and me pulse was racing. I could hardly catch me breath as I went into near cardiac fit. Of course, this brought instant concern to me, instant dropping of the sarcastic attitude about me "crap" being worth that much money, "who knew?" and such, as she and that dastardly Weasil helped me to the couch, the two wee ones gathering around with big eyes as their father near had a heart attack at what he finally realised the Weasil had done! And, to make me condition worse, the diabolical young scamp took the opportunity to go into the kitchen and replace the real money with the funny money as I lay on the couch watching him, me eyes near bugging out of me stupid head and me breath catching worse than before!
I tell ya, I almost hoped I'd have a heart attack for real and die! How was I to face the consequences of this . . . this . . . Weasil-induced situation that made no real and apparent sense. Tonya was all for calling an ambulance, and I told her no, no, don't do that, and while she went to get me an aspirin just in case, I whispered to the nonchalant Weasil to get his arse back to the pawn shop and get her stuff back NOW!
And he did; he left me lying there, O'Hare patting my hand, and Guido looking at me like he thought I was faking it. Yup, and for a moment, I had to wonder that meself. As soon as Weasil was gone, I felt better knowing that he was retrieving her STUFF and that she was unaware was missing (along with the Weasil). I had to keep this act up to give him the time to bring back the valuables while coming up with reasons to not send for the paramedics!
I complained I felt feverish, so she took some time to make me an ice pack for me head and sat next to me soothing me which made me feel even worse, the guilt consuming yours truly. What had I let that young scamp talk me into? I was all for spilling the beans, but just as I was about to unload me sins, in walked the Weasil with a giant cup of Starbucks for me.
"Sacre! He-ah dis will hep." He said as I sat up gently, unsure whether to keep the farce going. But as I went to take the cup, Tonya took it instead, telling us she didn't think that much caffeine would do me any good. AS IF! I wanted to say to her that a jolt of caffeine with a shot of Jameson would do me much better than the aspirin and water chaser she had given me prior.
"C'est very true, Mais, wot I thinkin' eh?" The young scamp said, handing over the cup.
I gasped and moaned and asked her for more water just to get her out of the room, and then I asked Weasil if he had the goods. He did. They were on the front porch. If we lived in New York City, that wouldn't have been a good place to leave them, but we don't live there; we live in the sticks, so they were safe. I whispered for him to start putting the stuff back, and he assured me, "Oui, all in goodly tim' Gabbie," he muttered between his perfect teeth. Oi!
Meanwhile, Guido was sitting with his arms crossed across from me, studying me like he knew, yes he did, that his Da was putting on an act for his mother. It was as he started to open his piehole that I suddenly sprung up and got hold of him and this, just as Tonya walked in with the water glass. I knew she thought I had recovered too suddenly, so I held the youngster so he couldn't talk and said, "OH LaGuardia, Da loves his little boyo. Don't worry. Da is going to be fine." Oh yeah, I did that, and she bought it. Yes, she did; she came to take him away from me, but Weasil got there first and took him in the same manner, hugging him so he couldn't say a word and off he went, telling him he had something from Nu'Orlins for him which of course got the attention of the other one, and off the three went leaving me to get back into acting mode. I know I should be taken out and shot for that, but I was in amok sweat on what to do. Her stuff was still not put back, and there was funny money in the jar in the kitchen; Guido knew something was off, and he thought nothing of telling his Mam and the jig would be up, and I knew it.
Weas had these stick men on strings that you pulled and they danced that he had brought back from New Orleans for the two boys. After he showed them how they worked, he made a deal: they would stay in their rooms and play, and he'd give them one more "prezzie" before he left after dinner. I tell ya, he's a natural born salesman he be, or in truth, he lies as easily as Satan, the smooth-tongued devil that he is.
When he came back, he talked the upset Tonya into the kitchen to start dinner because he thought that's what I needed to make me better. As he had her occupied, I ran out to the porch, got her stuff, and put it all back. I tell ya! I had just enough time to lie back down on the couch before she came to check on me. Me only concern was the funny money. But I thought that could sit there a couple of days and I'd replace it with real stuff. But then I realised I have a joint account, and she'd know. Oi! So while I pondered THAT, the Weasil returned and sat down as he looked around and nodded I'd done good.
I'd have liked to show him done good, but he was too far away, and that would have, of course, brought unwanted attention to why I was thrashing his arse from hell and back. So, instead, I sat there threatening him through clenched teeth.
"Ah, but see I use thos monee to pay thos debt and she no mizz thos candelabra, thos spoo-on, thos dee-ishes, thos nic-a-nacs! She no look any plaze and her perchance lookin', I crozz all dee T's and dotz all dee i's so no harm iz dun. An voila, she learns er' less-own. Oui? She will nevah nevah thow ya crap out agin."
Oh, how I wanted to wring his neck!
"Mais!" He threw a finger in the air, "A-you hav debt cle-air of me. Four hunra dollahs wor'."
WHAT? I mouthed.
"Lookits ze j-ah mais oui."
I looked at the jar as he told me. It looked slightly different, but I couldn't tell what was different, so I looked at him in question.
"Dere iz four hunra dollahs real." He said with a grin. "Imma attach-ed to ze boyz. No, dun thank me, it iz me plazure. Oui!"
All I could wonder was, why did we go through this farce? It was all wrong, to begin with. I had a wife and one kiddo thinking I had heart problems and both wanting me to get checked out, BUT the wife was walking around shaking her head in disbelief (and right she should) that me "junk" be worth some real cash. Meanwhile, I had $400 in a jar in me kitchen that came from Weasil that the wife was not aware came from Weasil, and a shed full of boxes with the "junk" that I said I sold at a flea market. Me problem was further compounded as to IF, and I knew it wasn't an IF, it was a WHEN Tonya discovered all me "junk" and asked me about that -- how was I to explain the $400? I couldn't. The Weasil had made sure of that. I couldn't tell her what he suggested, nor what WE did, without her having me committed for foolish acts or just being plain stupid!
I'd rent a storage shed, but she'd find out. So I did the only thing I could think of. While Weasil was romancing her over washing dishes, and the boyos had been given their last "prezzie" from Mr. Fubar and were busy with those (which were two Make Your Own Voodoo Doll kits), I took the opportunity to run out to the shed and jam my STUFF inside Weasil's red Mustang. Yes, I did. Every single cardboard box was in that car.
When he was about to leave, he did a double take, looking at his car. Before he could open his mouth, I jabbed him in the ribs, and he knew not to utter a word. But he looked half amused, half disturbed, which is an interesting look on his charming but far from charming face. I ensured the wife did not see him out because it would be obvious what boxes were taking up all the seating in the Mustang, and I'd be explaining meself sooner than later.
So off he drove with the promise he'd keep me "shite" safely stored in Colorado.
Yee-ah, so now if I want something of mine, it's in Colorado, across the country. Wonderful. Meanwhile, the wife can't get over the fact that "All that crappy junk fetched $400. Wow. I am impressed Mr. Man," she keeps saying. I noticed Guido looks like he wants to say something every time she mentions that, but I have thus far bribed him with candy. And knowing him, he won't forget, so I fully believe 3-year-old Guido will be weighing in on his coming 4th birthday at a hefty 120 lbs. and probably will be sporting dentures by the time he's five. Yup. But me junk is safe. I think. OMG, What if Weasil decides to have a garage sale? If you see a giant garage sale advert coming from Steamboat, let me know ASAP. Oi!
Gabe
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