I have sooooo much to do. Or at least there is so much I would like to do before tomorrow evening, when the Boyo returns to Boston.
I did succeed in not completely wasting the time of two friends who came by with a van. A shitload more stuff was dropped off at Goodwill. The IRS is going to think I’m insane when I compile all my receipts and total the amount given to charity in goods this year.
Once again, one of my fine neighbors decided to trash pick through stuff that was this time still on my porch, as the van was brought around. Fucking no-class assholes.
I think it’s the same household of people who have ransacked my shit each and every time I’ve had anything out for roughly a minute. Rude bastards should at least give me a card.
This time they took a mirror, which kind of fucks me since that’s something I could have claimed had value on my tax returns.
They’re actually the folks that made me decide not to have another yard sale. I really don’t need people coming up to me and trying to bully me into giving them shit. Yeah, I’m yuppie scum and all that, but I’ve fucking worked hard all my life and can live with out you treating me like a criminal just because you don’t want to give me a whole, fucking 50 cents for a some designer shit candle I once got for a gift. Or sell you the Nikon camera body I accidentally put into a box of things for a buck.
People suck.
At least I came to a half-decision on some stuff. I put the old dishes that I really can’t decide whether to keep, sell, smash or give to charity in the same box. I’ll move it, and if we don’t have the space I’ll store it or decide out there.
Mostly it’s blue willow.
When I was little I was fascinated by having people and birds and houses and shit on my dishes. Over the years, my mother gave me plates and odd pieces that she had picked up, or she had gotten from her mother, or her mother had gotten from her mother. So I have pieces of unknown lineage, age or value, but they all came from my mom.
I also have blue-willow looking Wedgwood plates with historic buildings in Boston. I figure I might just need to use them or maybe hang one in the kitchen to remember my Massachusetts roots when I’m in Cali. Perhaps M. will indulge me in such things.
Maybe I’ll never take the stuff out of the box. Or maybe when I get to California the decision on what to do with the old things my mother gave me will become clearer.