Respecting My Elders
I had this coming.
Yesterday, I wrote about how I am tormenting dear, sweet, generous, kind, lovely Enid. It is wrong and I can see that now.
I have always wondered why the elderly travel together. I wondered why they chartered buses and took outlet malls by siege. Now, I know. Old people work together. Senior Centers offer ceramics and line dancing classes as a cover for their operations. They are an organized crime force communicating through an elaborate hearing aid network. They manipulate the legal system with ADA laws and AARP goons. I have proof.
In the process of moving, I have decided that I no longer need any of my worldly possessions outside of my shoes and my laptop and a few choice hair and body products. Everything else, I have decided to bag up and throw away. I think this is very Zen of me. Plus, I can buy new stuff once I finally move into the new condo.
In the past 48 hours, I have thrown out a wall shelf unit, a house plant, a bra with straps that never stayed put, three vases with small chips, a set of three teacups and four saucers, and several other items that at one point, I thought that I might die if I did not own them. Now, I just can't see myself packing and moving them. It took several trips to the dumpster to purge my home of all these things. My arms have never looked more toned. They have also never been more bruised.
Last night, on my final trip to the dumpster, I spotted Miss Chris. Miss Chris has lived here since the continents were fused together. She tells stories about how the dinosaurs roamed the Earth and how Coca-Cola was a nickel. I like Miss Chris, but I hate when she is at the dumpster. She means well. She's a recycler. She has dragged my trash out of the dumpster only to give it back to me a few days later. I have had to load the trunk of my car with garbage and dump it in another neighborhood, just to avoid receiving it all back again as a gift at my back door. A ticket for illegal dumping my my community can cost up to $1,000 or 100 days in jail. I paid the fine for my first offense, but I cannot stand to do 100 days, so dumping is not an option.
I cringed when I saw Miss Chris. She had laid the former contents of my home out like a garage sale. I saw the panties that laced up the sides that I had thrown away because they were too complicated. She grouped my broken umbrellas together according to color. All of the shabby chic (it was a phase) iron items that once adorned the dining room were collected in a rusty pile. I felt violated. My life was on display. I don't need people to see the dusty candles that I never burned in the bathroom. I am ashamed of the number of times that I have purchased the wrong color nail polish, only to let it get sticky and separate in the bottle. But, there it was, ordered and on display.
I doubled back home with my trash bag. I brought it inside and thought of Enid and how I should have returned her damn jar. Then I wrote my grandmother's each a letter. They love getting mail. I figured that once they receive the lovely notes from me, they will call off their elderly thugs.
Until then, I will continue to place a few scoops of used kitty litter in every bag of trash.
PS: To fulfill the community service condition of Avitable's probation, he has volunteered to assist technologically delayed bloggers create widgets to let you subscribe to the comments here. Thanks for the help, Av. Sorry I won't be sending you that picture of my nipple that I promised.