Plastic All Right?
So cleaning out the attic, I found several broken things, which, craftsperson that I am, I was going to make into some sort of collage. That stuff went in the trash. I also realized that we have a whole corner of the attic devoted to storing baskets. Wicker ones of all shapes, sizes and colors, like they had fallen from the heavens. I prayed for "assets" and God thought I said, "Baskets."
We have enough clothing stored up there to outfit an entire village, including a box of clothes that belong to my husband's friend, who left them in Phoenix seven years ago. He has given us permission to give them away. I guess we're waiting for him to change his mind.
After I got through with the attic, I started dejunking the downstairs little by little. Today it was the broom closet, which instead is filled with plastic bags. Thousands of them. Do you do this, hoard those bags just in case every grocery store, drug store and department store, and every other retailer in the land runs out of them? I don't even like plastic bags. I'd ask for paper more often if the grocery sackers didn't get so mad about it.
They're like, "Plastic all right?" All cheerful and fun-loving.
And I'm like, "Paper please, actually."
And they let go of the plastic bag and stare at me like, "What did you just say? No, seriously. What in the hell did you just say?"
And I'm like, "plastic's fine," in the tiniest voice imaginable.
So I threw some of this stuff away, but left just enough to be magnets for more junk. I just can't bring myself to do a clean sweep.
I guess I'm afraid that someday someone will come to our door and say, "Give me 16 baskets--nine of which are pink and seafoam striped and 12 bags of clothing, one of which hasn't been opened in seven years. OR ELSE."
And I'll be like, "Plastic okay?"