Dont Mince Words

Box recycling run

One of my friends asked me if it was difficult cleaning my mother’s house. No, it wasn’t. My anger overshadowed memories and sentimentality.

My mother was a member of The Greatest Generation.  She grew up during the The Great Depression and rationed during WWII. That means she’s a saver.  After my Dad died, I did the great clean out version 1.0.  The house was painted while my mother considered moving to a retirement community.  She never made that move, but it gave her 18 years to collect more.

A lot of what I pulled out of the house was pure recycling.  Boxes, paper, glass, and plastic.  That’s what made me angry. I made seven trips to the recycle center, one run to the county dump, and filled her big blue recycle can five times. What was funny were the things I thought she had too many of.  She averaged 1.3 pairs of scissors per room.  She had more boxes of toothpicks than the cast of Hee Haw could use.

Once my brother and I took what we wanted, there were still a few things we hated to leave for the bulldozer:  the bunk beds my Dad built and the IBM Selectric II typewriter my mother used.  I volunteered to come back one more time and conduct a donation-based “estate” sale.  The proceeds would go to hospice.

I wrote a best-of nominated Craig’s List ad inviting hoarders and collectors to come clear out the house.  A half-hour before start time, they were lined up with their tote bags, ready for a grabfest.  I quickly learned that hoarding is a family affair for couples in their early ‘50s.  I opened the door, they ran in and went floor to floor.  Most people would stay at least and hour.  As they would make their donation, they’d tell me what a great idea it was to make it free. Then they’d tell me how excited they were about finding X, Y, or Z.  A found item artist is going to pull apart the Selectric and make an art piece.  A 20-something kid took the bunk beds so he and his roommate will have more room.

While mom wouldn’t approve of strangers milling around her house, I think she’d be happy that we were able to pass on some of her clutter to folks who could use it or hoard it. A good cause will benefit and I can safely say, I’ve done my duty.  The door is shut. The house is sold.

I hate beginning new relationships late in the year. I freeze activity from Thanksgiving through Valentine’s day in order to avoid awkward invites to family events and eat bad chocolate. This year I was moving across country, getting settled, and dealing with my mother’s death. It was a perfect time not to date.

I kicked off the new dating season by meeting a friend of a friend. As a favor to her, I connected with him on Facebook and decided to meet on his day off “next Friday.” Well, that Friday was Valentine’s day and I didn’t realize it, but it was ‘brews and blues’ at a local ale house, so how bad could it be.

During the week, I got to know the guy better and it was not a pretty picture. He’s still married but trying to divorce his wife of 20-some years. His house needs to sell but mortgage is underwater. He lives with a high-functioning autistic 19 year-old.  He lost his job during the down turn and is now an hourly employee.

I showed up because where there’s beer, there’s a way. And I need to get out. He was short and petite and wreaked of cigarettes. I had an IPA while he sipped on  diet coke. The band was good, but I was safely home after the second set. The next day, I discovered through a Facebook post that I had attended an AA event. That explained the slow service from the bar, the 5 p.m. start time, and the lack of drinking. I suppose he was testing himself since he mentioned his sponsor was on speed dial.

This was my inaugural date for the 2014 dating season. When you aim low, it can only get better.

My biggest fear when I moved to Virginia in the winter was exercise.  I know, I know. But in Santa Barbara and Los Angeles I did a lot of walking and hiking. To move and immediately get hit with single-digit temps was scary.

Five additional pounds later and I developed a solution based on my age and physical capabilities. Your Layoff Lady of Leisure / Heiress bought an elliptical trainer. I created a home gym in my second bedroom. I hate going to gyms and this is the only piece of equipment I’ve always loved. In a week, my FitBit tells me I’ve gone 45 miles and shed 2.5 pounds. I credit new sneakers and a reduction in my Cougar Town-sized glasses of wine (except when it snows).

I’m not sure what you are supposed to do when you inherit money, but I know my mom, who has told me to lose weight my whole life, would have approved of this purchase. Giving up excesss volumes of wine? She’d question that.