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Its a thin line
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Kind hearts and gentle people.

You know what the worst part about moving is?

It’s when you start opening drawers and closets and cabinets and finding all these strange little odds and ends that you can’t place or figure out what they once were attached to.

I find the odd little washer or nut on the floor and think, "What is going to fall apart now because this isn’t attached to it?"

Or opening up, for instance, the drawer that holds all the spatulas and big plastic mixing spoons. From seemingly out of nowhere, there’s another big piece of plastic that has found its way into the drawer.

It’s an odd shape. 

I have walked around the house trying to match up the shape with a household item.

No dice.

Could it be from something out in the garage?


I wouldn’t have the foggiest notion of where to start there because Hubs has that place chockablock with every type of "odd" and "end" from our interplanetary system.

It kinda looks like it would be a piece that you’d find inside a vehicle. 

If I throw it in the recycle bin, I’m sure to be asked, "Hey! What happened to that funny-shaped piece of plastic? I was gonna use that!"

I’m pretty certain that although my inner guidance system tells me to chuck this foreign object into the blue bin with the hazard warnings on it, I know it will get boxed up with everything else that is in that particular drawer. 

And in another five years, I’ll pull it out again and wonder, "Hmm. Where did this come from?"

As Hubs and I were pulling the Sterilite containers out of the garage last week to sort through them all and decide what was going on the Budget truck and what was going on the donation truck, we found all sorts of bits and bobs that we’ve been toting around for the last umpteen years.

"Do you really still need that?" I asked, pointing at something he had pulled out and was holding close to his chest.

"I might need these someday," he said softly, cooing to this possession as if it were a baby bird fallen out of its nest.

"It’s a jar of tile spacers. You have two 10-gallon buckets in there filled to the brim with them. Let’s put these in the donation pile."

"You don’t understand. These are the mini-spacers. I might need these ...," he said, wiping away a tear that was forming in the corner of his eye. 

I went into the garage and pulled out four wrenches of various sizes and weights.

"Fine. You keep that, and I get to donate one of these."

Without hesitation, he tossed the plastic jar into the "donate" bin. 

Now, you can just imagine that if he were to start packing up things inside the house, Mr. Fixit would be tossing stuff left and right into the "donate" bin. No questions asked, just grab it, toss it, be done with it.

We had a lightning round session of that the first half-hour. Both of us were just grabbing stuff out of the closets and throwing things into one bin or another. 

Then ... we came to his closet.

He was standing in front of me, at the entrance to the closet, and was just about to start pulling stuff off the shelves that belonged to The Kid.      

"Oh no you don’t!" I said, "You stop right there, buddyboy! I want you to turn to the left and start working on that side. Ignore the right side, ’cause I’ve already got that covered. I want you to go through all those shirts hanging there and start pulling out the ones you want to donate." 

"I can’t donate any of these! I hardly have any shirts to wear at all!"

"Now, you know as well as I do that that’s a big fat lie cause you’ve got at least twenty shirts hanging in the bathroom closet alone. Come on, old man, get busy!" 

I could feel the ire emanating off his body.

 He wanted to stamp his feet and pout but I wasn’t having any of that.

He pulled off exactly the two shirts I wanted out of there.   

I said, "Man! You’re good!"

He was clutching those two beat-up denim shirts in his big, gnarled-up fist and said, "These are my two favorite shirts!"

"Uh huh. And when is the last time you wore them?"


"If you want to keep them, try them on right this minute and if they fit, you can keep them." 

He held them up and it was clear that they would fit. 

Not him, mind you, but someone about 40 pounds lighter.

"Hand ’em over ... come on ...," I said, trying to pry them out of his fist.

We had a tug-o-war for a minute and I said, "Donate or I cut them into rags."

No hesitation.

Off they went to the "donate" bin.

"That’s it!" he bellowed, "That’s all you’re getting!"

I was snickering as I walked down the hallway, giving myself a "thumbs up."

He came out as I opened his armoire.

"No!" he said, rushing over and throwing himself in front of it, arms spread out to keep me from getting at the guts of the thing.

"Move it or lose it, old man! I got some underwear and socks that need to go into the rag bag!"

"I don’t care! You know I’ll wear it if it has holes!"

"That’s right, I do.  But you have 18 brand-new pairs of socks and underwear. I’m going after your holey orders!"

 He turned around quickly and grabbed at some socks and underwear.

I was standing, arms akimbo, and said, "That’s OK. I’ll just wait till you’re at work."


"You’re a mean little woman, you know that?" 

 "Yes, I do."

"Hey ... what else of mine have you gotten rid of?"

"If you can’t see it, you ain’t gonna miss it," I said, huffing and buffing my nails.

Remember those two 10-gallon buckets?

Heh heh heh ... he’s down to one ....