“We’ve got to kill the storage unit!” she’s said a thousand times. The ten by twenty foot space is crammed and full of dusty treasure: junk, empty boxes, furniture, tools, paintings, antiques, artifacts, a great big rug, a washing machine, a bell jar, clothes, a broken lawnmower, art supplies, packing quilts, camping gear, shoes, old LPs, and boxes in the back we haven’t opened in oh, like seventeen years. No, almost eighteen! I think I’m going to be sick. How have we survived, he asked rhetorically, because it doesn’t really matter, here we are.
Killing the unit means we move and that’s just peachy. On Saturday I found out that the storage company had a vacant storage unit only four doors up the row from ours, closer to the porta-potty, even, and I grabbed it! Now we have a place to put the “keeper” items from the older unit once we pull stuff out and sort it. Brilliant!
I also have no more excuses for not weeding all my bins of ludicrous dead technology (among many other museum pieces) in the old adobe, because I have a place to store whatever I want to keep until we move, and to long-deserving hell with all the rest. For example, in what we call the “closet” in the bathroom is a heavy-duty plastic storage bin almost completely full of old Radio Shack stereo cables, speaker wire, and telephone cables for landline phones. I think there’s some coax in there from an ancient teevee installation, too. The whole thing must weigh forty pounds. Now I’m nauseous again.
“Kill the storage unit, John!” He rents a second one! I love it!