I have a pile of manilla file folders on my desk at work. They’re labeled and have varying degrees of priority irrespective of their elevation in the stack. Depending on the day, I get through an astounding volume of production. And then other days, well…not so much. But not for lack of trying. Today, Day Four, was one of the “those” days.
The euphoria of the dumpster has waned. You have no idea how exciting it is to have a full size train-car dumpster delivered right to your driveway until it happens to you in real life. It will forever be a defining moment in my life. I rode that high for about 18 hours, which is exactly the moment I saw it again at 8:30 this morning. I remember thinking, “huh..someone left their dumpster in my driveway…” Oh wait. Right. I think I have a large triplicate receipt for that. Shit. I better put some stuff in it.
It’s incredibly easy to fill a dumpster. As long as you give your wife something to do while you frantically try to junk precious memorabilia and nostalgic relics dating back to when feathered hair and the Go-Go’s were publicly acceptable. I got busted trying to toss a nine dollar lamp that was clearly going to cost $17,497 to repair, and nearly got my head taken off. If this was a union gig I’d be making serious hazard pay. That being said, I’ve pulled the ultimate David Copperfield. I’ve taken what was once in a remarkably small space and blown it up into occupying a tremendous amount of volume. It’s like my basement is a clown car.
The other discouraging thing about packing a giant dumpster full of “junk” is that it doesn’t take up much of the work day. On our docket of incomplete tasks are painting, deck demolition and resurrection, and repairing an ungodly amount of damage. This includes our renters decision to see how long they could go without cleaning the bathroom. Spoiler alert…..
Three years. Apparently you can go three years without cleaning a bathroom while scheming a way to encrust a once perfectly good facility with more filth….aaaaand continue to enlist it’s basic service. As disgusting as this was, it served a purpose. Diana, always the martyr, volunteered to perform CPR on the WC. There was the initial wave of guilt as I watched her roll on the yellow rubber gloves, but I was able to purge our basement of many items – the identity of which will die with Mumford and his sons.
Day Four. We don’t have a lot to show for it. It was a prep day. Diana spent six hours in a small bathroom. Scotty prepped three bedrooms for a major paint overhaul. We got the ledger board up for the joist hangers to repair and extend the deck. Kéa repaired the wounded drywall where, as our tenant explained, “Ricky just tripped and bumped into the wall. It’s very thin there. So his elbow, knee, and hip caused the damage with his elbow and arm making the big hole.” I hate those “thin” spots in the drywall…