Junk and The Hunk

Junk.

We all have our own definitions of what qualifies to fit within it's definition.

(For those who would like an "official one": anything that is regarded as worthless, meaningless, or contemptible; trash. Dictionary.com)

Yesterday I decided to tackle the murky abyss that is our "Junk Closet" (commonly referred to as drawer, but lucky me, it morphed into a walk-in closet here). 

I marched in with great determination, wading through a tangled mess of charger cords, battling an army of dust bunnies and wading in a sea of gift bags waiting to be re-gifted...among countless other objects of complete and utter randomness. 

This is the closet that gets stuck with the "Geesh!-Company-Will-Be-Here-Any-Minute -Where-Can-I-Stuff-This-Pile?" and "I-Do-Not-Have-The-Time-Nor-The-Inclination-To-Figure-Out-What-To-Do-With-This-Thing-So-I'll-Tuck-It-In-Here-For-When-The-Desire-To-Sort-Miscellaneous-Items-Hits"-which will be never- stuff. After months of such reasoning, a great risk grows when considering opening it's door, as one can never be sure what might fall out upon doing so or becoming completely enveloped should you step within it's cluttered contents.

Yesterday, I set out to abolish the risk. Partly because I couldn't stand it anymore, and partly because, like wearing good underwear in case you're in an accident, I considered that if I should tragically be taken to or from the ladies retreat I am, Lord willing, going on this weekend, i couldn't bear to have friends and family going through my closets, wondering at the secret pig sty's hidden throughout my dwelling. 

There was one downside to doing this task yesterday. Wednesday comes after Tuesday, which in my neighborhood, is trash day. When I throw what I define as JUNK away, I do so with the utmost careful precision planning. Such items as an old, empty stationary box or broken fire alarm from 1985 that hasn't been so much as looked at in five years CANNOT be thrown willy nilly into the trash can.  
Noooo siree Bob! 
Not when cohabitating with 

Mr. I. Mightuseit Someday. 
If he had a super-power, it would be the ability to sniff out objects I've carefully tucked below the surface of the trash can/bag, sure to make good use of the saggy bag of coffee grinds.  He'll pull it out and exclaim, "Gee Whiz, a band of wild monkey's must have run through the house! How else (eyes shifting to 'yours truly') would this perfectly good {insert any forgotten/rusted/useless/broken item here} thing be carelessly thrown away???". Trust me, this knack for finding such hidden 'treasures' is quite a feat for a man who finds it problematic finding anything beyond the first visible layer of the refrigerator. It is a gift to be sure!

While we have an honest and transparent relationship, it is not beyond me to have a 'special trash bag' saved and ready for lightening-quick retrieval at the sound of the squeaky brakes of the trash truck next down the street. Quick! Quick! Quick! What he does not see going, he will never miss! Go! Go! Go!

The truth is, I get quite a naughty little thrill from the intensity of a successful " Operation Last Second Trashcapade". The truth also is, my hunky husband reads this blog and so I will insert here a little bragging of his kind heart: Every week, all year long, he sets out a cooler with Gatorade in it for the trash collectors. It started last summer when our cans full of soiled diapers put obvious grimaces on the faces of the burly, normally trash-tolerant men. He felt there was no choice but to give them a reason to come back and reward them for their acts of bravery. My husband is a kind man.

 He is so kind, in fact, that he rarely can pass up an offer for a FREE something or other. A few weekends ago, when our family was on an overnight camping trip (did I mention it was tent-camping?) in West Virginia, we paid the yearly visit to a very classy {ahem.} flea market in a neighboring town. There, as we meandered among purses made of confederate flags and a fine selection of Indian wind catchers, a vendor with a plethora of plastic bikes, trikes and kiddie automobiles made friendly conversation with my husband. (He must have seen the target sign on his forehead). "Lookee here, sir..would that cute little gurl of yers like this Jeep here? She should have it. Take it, it's yours fer free...and here! Here's one fer the boy too!...Take 'em both!".  And he did. How could he say no to dirty, battery-less, big hunks of plastic to join the already cluttered barn at home? The 'tractor' didn't even have a seat! Needless to say, I didn't do my happy-dance.

Most unfortunately, my brother-in-law only enabled my darling 'just-say-YES' husband and transported the plastic (free) junk home. I was hoping to whisk it to Goodwill (although I doubt they would have wanted it) before the children saw them on their home turf. 

But alas....

 Two of them stuffed the pudgy little hat-wearing twin brother into the seat less tractor.

He loved it.

As I was considering the fact that these items have no power, and thus little appeal, I hear my three year old daughter exclaiming upon the discovery that the pink/grey with dirt Jeep had made it home:

"Oh my goodness! Jesus heard my prayer! He brought my pink Jeep home!!!"

I gave up and broke out the Clorox Bleach cleaner.

Our smart-as-a-whip two year old (still sporting a Nuk and I don't care) shared her Jeep's power with her sister's battery-less one.

:

We all have our own definitions of 'junk'. Most often times those living life under the same roof have very different definitions. One is not more right then the other, nor is it something in which to allow strife to gain a foothold in one's relationship. One can learn to save (be resourceful) and one can learn to let go (live without clutter). I suppose we'll be working on striking that balance with good humor 'til death do us  part. Besides, a little espionage (spying for thrown away treasures)  and covert operations ("Operation Last Second Trashcapade") adds a little necessary spice to domestic life, don't you think?

PS. If you happen to be driving down a street some morning around 6:30AM and see a harried housewife in her bathrobe, running down her driveway at breakneck speeds towards an approaching trash truck, with a large plastic tractor under one arm and a pinkish play Jeep under the other it should all make perfect sense to you. Just smile and wave.