In Which We Clean House

 

I have spent the last week organizing and cleaning out super agent Fred's apartment.  Considering it is only a studio, there certainly was a lot of crap to get through.  A huge chunk was Fred's art supplies. Photographic evidence supplied:

 

I had discovered a recycling place here in town that would take art supplies.  They had very clear standards about what they would take, but they would even come and haul them off IF you packed them up in specific boxes and there had to be at least six boxes.  No problem hitting the minimum box.  Photographic evidence applied: 

I spent all day packing paints and brushes and who knows what.  Artist esoterica, that's what.  Then I went to the recycler's website to arrange for them to come schlep it all off only to be met by a notice there saying they were taking a break from donations.  As you can see in the picture above, the windows were all blocked with the flotsam and jetsam I have been dealing with which was fortunate because otherwise I would have thrown myself out one.

I lay in bed that evening crippled and concerned the cats would figure out I was too weak to fend them off and they would eat me, all the while trying to conceive a plan that would allow me to unload nine very heavy boxes of art supplies.  That's when I remembered my old friend Craigslist.  When I sold my house, I put a listing on there announcing free crap and there was a line out the door on the day of the crap fest.  Following that plot, I posted a listing for Fred's stuff and within 12 hours I had agreed to meet some guy over there who was the lucky winner of all the equipment a budding artist could want. 

I also now have more than 200 responses in my email from Craigslist aficionados, but first come,  first serve.  Also, two things that made me glad I went with the first guy.  He was not only interested in the art stuff, but willing to take all sorts of other random junk I was trying to get rid of.  Yay.  And he was really cute in a classically California surfer boys sort of way.  Photographic evidence supplied: 

Anyway.  Everyday when I go over to the apartment and work and work, I think "Oh thank God, I'm almost through." And then the next time I come back whatever progress I made seems to have evaporated and I am confronted with a mountain of Fredtastic debris.  But after today, thanks to the Craigslist cutie, I think I am pretty much finished.  Photographic evidence supplied: 

Before

After

Cute guys who may or may not be on Craigslist:

You know how fond I am of gingers.

The terror of the locker room, hopefully.

Ready to rumble.

Honestly, I'm too tired to come up with captions for nekkid guys.

The old peekaboo pose.

Chipper: It Sounds so Gay

I’m just a simple girl; it takes so little to make me happy. Case in point - I spent Sunday whacking down the giant bushes that have taken over the back third of my yard (OK, OK so I planted them years ago. Who knew they would someday get so big they would scare small animals) and bemoaning the lack of chipper. A chipper is a device that chops up plant materiel into mulchy debris. Lust for one is a gardener thing, trust me. And now one pops up on Craigslist. Yay. I’m on my way over there tomorrow afternoon to seize it that I might cradle it to my bosom. Hopefully, by this time on Saturday, I’ll be ass deep in mulch.

I am seriously thrilled. And it took so very little. Yay.

Free to Good Home

Sweet little black lacquer-esque Magnavox console stereo in always tasteful Chinese Moderne. It looked fabulous in Perry Mason’s pad, it’ll look great in yours. Turntable doesn’t work, but the radio delivers that lovely muffled tone unique to mid-century console stereophonic equipment. Unusual petite dimensions (36 x 18 x 30 inches) make it perfect for the hipster environment tight on space, but looking for that note of Madame Nhu sophistication.

I listed this on Cragislist for free, but could n't get the picture to upload, so here it is.

I'm not Mad at You, I'm Mad at the Dirt. Wait, Maybe I am Mad at You

It is, as so many things are, all my mommy’s fault. When I was just a wee little duckling, she had me store my toys in separate boxes, one for my cars, one blocks, one for Legos, you get the picture. So now when I say I cleaned up my garage I don’t mean I sort swept the bigger pieces of dirt into the corners and called it a day. O baby, no. I hauled every single item out, tried to talk myself into throwing it away (up to and including our car) and if I absolutely couldn’t, I shoved it, neatly, under the stairs where I can’t see it.

I understand my goal of having an empty garage is a futile one. The purpose, after all, is storage, and yet the thrill of big open spaces is so powerful. I don’t want a garage, I want the steppes of Russia.

The best part was that R Man and I were able to work together on a project without me turning into Baby Jane. I do not play well with others. On jobs around the house, I tend towards snarky bitchiness and my sweet, sweet boyfriend has borne the brunt of this way too many times. So to be able to successfully hang up a ladder (hoo hoo) without swerving towards Divorce Court is more of an accomplishment than it might sound.

Boyfriend was so relieved to come out of it with his skin in one piece, he even allowed me to dump the ratty little dresser he’s had for decades. He found it on the street in the French Quarter and dragged it home (just like me!) and has kept it ever since (just like me!) It served us long and well, but time to go is time to go and thanks to craigslist, it’s gone. So farewell, loyal bureau, godspeed, and may the underwear of others repose in your semi-sturdy embrace for years to come.

On a separate note, go immediately to Fabulon and watch the Official Fabulon Video http://thombeau.blogspot.com/2007/07/official-video-of-fabulon.html . The thrill of a glammed-out Dame Shirley Bassey covering one of the great anthems of our time is not to be missed.