General Crap

Almost a year ago, Bryan and I bought a house that was too small for our stuff. We decided we needed to move out of our elderly and palatial duplex apartment, which had one bedroom, into a cramped and rather dumpy two bedroom house because we needed more space for Odessa, who was but an adolescent possum-sized lump in my abdomen at the time.

For a while after we moved into this house, it was a maze of stuff canyons like you would find in Utah, only less scenic and of less interest to geologists. If you walked in the front door, you were glowered over by boxes of books teetering on all sides. Pieces of furniture I once considered elegant and understated became monstrous and terrible to behold.

Now, about 7 trips to the Goodwill and the installation of a back yard shed later, we've wrangled it under control. But there remain some rather complicated items that are harder to know what to do with. One of them is a battered faux mahogany desk which was willed to me by my great aunt Attaway, whom I don't remember meeting in person. Another is a Beseler photo enlarger from 1956 that I'm sure someone in the world who isn't me would want. Another is an IBM Selectric II Correcting typewriter in a lovely pomegranate red that Bryan has a somewhat passionate attachment to. Yet another is a painting I don't want to talk about. And then there is the backpacking guitar that I keep lending to people who are going to places like Uganda and Vietnam, and which keeps finding its way back to me somehow. I'm considering drowning the guitar unless someone stays my hand.

Also, it would be nice to be shed of Zucchini, my 11-year-old cat, but we've got to keep her because she is the price of my 21-year-old folly. For the record, I am not, and have never considered actually drowning Zucchini, although I may have spoken of it in jest.

Anyway, it is Sunday night, and I want to go to bed, and all this stuff is staring at me rather balefully.

Anybody want a photo enlarger? Anyone?