I've been a regular fixture at the bottle depot this week, turning the vestiges of our winter's boozy indulgences into solid gold. This in turn, will be handed over to a junk removal company (who claims to recycle and dispose responsibly) to haul away the piles that I have created whilst decrapping the basement and garage. With junk, sometimes it makes you money, but more often it costs you.
The junk removal company does state unequivocally that they will not take "paint cans containing kitty litter", so I guess I will just have to find another home for the kitty litter-filled paint cans that I have been so lovingly collecting over the years. Just as long as they take the dozen opened tubes of caulking that moved with us from London 11 years ago, I will be satisfied.
The junk removal guys are coming next week, giving us one final opportunity this weekend to force someone to sleep on the basement couch with the hole in the seat through which the springs protrude. There will be an 18th birthday party overtaking the house, you see, and coming hot on the heels of graduation the day before, the craziness factor could very well be pushed into hyperdrive.
Saturday night could find me holed up in the bedroom, clinging onto my wireless connection like it's a rope thrown from a search helicopter into the cold north Atlantic which threatens to swamp my little leaky dingy. On the other hand, I may just head downstairs, crash the party, and embarrass the newly minted adult with tales of my misspent teenage years.
I'm thinking I should probably take her out to a bar before she actually turns legal age, or she will forever regret not having done so. Kids today, you've got to do everything for them. I was 15 when I first went to a bar. How old were you?