A shed is coming for me.
I find the idea of a 470 pound shed bearing down on me a touch disquieting.
However, I have no one but myself to blame.
I had stuff. Quite a bit of it, actually. And plenty of room to store it.
Then I got married. The new wife had stuff too, which she brought with her into our home. Then we, get this, bought stuff together.
Yeah, brilliant move, right?
It gets better. Then we got all crazy jiggy with it and had kids. Let me tell you: you don’t own a ton of crap until you have kids. They need stuff. Toys. And cribs. And clothes. And furniture to hold the clothes. And dining sets.
Yes, dining sets. With dull knives that can’t cut through warm butter and forks with little nubs on the tines like they have on fencing swords. And plates and bowls with obnoxiously colorful pictures of animals and other things that, in the real world, would eat my kids if they came across the little rug rats unattended.
Oh, the irony of that.
These dining sets are made of incredible space-age materials that are indestructible so they won’t break when my vicious little toddlers throw them. Of course we bought several sets.
Oh yeah. After a while, we found ourselves in possession of several broken indestructible dining sets. Funny, that. I hear the fragments are neigh indestructible.
We’ve got it all.
Which led me to this moment, where my house looks like Oscar Madison’s apartment after he’s killed Felix Ungar and chopped up the body and just left the pieces where they fell, and, as a direct consequence, a shed is hurtling towards me at whatever speed a semi truck driving from Utah to California averages.
Ever seen those Viking pictures from Mars? Back in the 70’s, when the American Space Program actually meant something? There’s this shot of the Martian surface, and it is strewn with rocks and boulders.
This is what every floor in every room of my house looks like. Except instead of rocks and boulders, it’s kids toys and pillows and bottles. And, in some cases, boxes of my stuff and my wife’s stuff, pushed against a wall where it’s mostly out of the way…of all the kids’ stuff.
I feel like I’m on Mars every time I see it – I find myself suddenly unable to breathe.
My first instinct was to buy a wood chipper and reduce the entire contents of the house – sans living inhabitants, of course, I am forced to add due to some concerned relatives who fear for my sanity and are keeping copies of everything I write, just in case – into a powdered mixture that can be easily dumped into the city’s storm drains.
I mean, stored in barrels. I would never dump stuff down the city’s storm drains – they lead directly to the bay!
But I am reliably informed that the items I wish to destroy A) cost money, B) will cost more money to replace, and C) will be replaced, come Hell or high water, should a wood chipper manage to not choke on them one weekend while the rest of the family is away.
So I have done what every reasonable homeowner who is out of space is forced to do when he has a family that owns stuff.
I bought a shed.
Yes, I have actually paid hard-earned cash money for the privilege of having a shed barreling down on me at about freeway speed.
Wish me luck when it arrives. Cause once it gets here, assuming I successfully dodge it, I have to assemble it.