Or: "Clean Out the Porch," part of a larger, over-arching theme for 2006 called something like, "I’ve Had it With All this FUCKING STUFF."
I thought about going to work today. I got up, washed my face, wandered around the house, checked the weather, then went back to bed. Just wasn’t into it. My plan for the day involved nothing more strenous than hanging out and maybe watching season one of Sex and the City (which I got for Christmas). But, after slothing it up for a few hours I began to feel bored and guilty for being a bad girl so I steeled myself and plunged into a project.
My pretty bicycle has been residing in the living room since my birthday (in June!) instead of where it belongs, in the porch. The following "Before" shot will illustrate why:
That’s right. Not only is there no room for the bike in this shithole we call a porch, but we cannot even access the closet to get our coats. Clearly a major overhaul was necessary if I hoped to move my bike out here. Granted, there are a few reasons this room causes us problems. Namely the fact that our house has that "charming" old Toronto trait of having no closets. Nor do we have a shed, so this room has got to work pretty hard and somehow accomodate all of our camping equipment, seasonal stuff (shovels, rakes etc.), tools, jackets, shoes and my bike. Ha ha ha! I love this house! Well, I will, when we have whittled our possessions down to a manageable size. Still, there’s no excuse for the volume of sheer crap that was in this room.
Three and a half hours later, 4 bags of garbage removed, a ton of cardboard for recycling taken out, and 2 bags of donations for Goodwill loaded into the car, and here we have the decidedly less embarrassing "After" shot (Now With More Bike!):
Not perfect but SO MUCH BETTER. Among the things that had to be dealt with were two bins of stuff that belonged to my great grandmother. Before I started, I reminded myself that whatever was in these two bins was what nobody else wanted, which helped. The stuff had been in the garage at my grandmother’s house for years, and then lived on my balcony at the apartment for a couple years after that, so some of the things were easy to get rid of. For example, the books. They smelled so horrible I was gagging as I shoved them into the garbage bags. How odd, someone’s entire life reduced to the rubble in these two bins. Some things I wanted to keep: a pretty set of glasses, a Wedgewood platter (even with it’s web of cracks), a 50th anniversary commemorative plate, a ceramic teapot my mother had made. I don’t know why but it seemed so sad when I unrolled a sheet of newspaper and found inside a few bits and pieces of her flatware. I kept those too.