Poor old people.

So. The Great Wall of books that's been precariously balanced on our sideboard for approximately three months while friends take all the decent stuff out of it? (Don't get me wrong, we encouraged them to. We even gave them green bags and made recommendations.)

It's gone. I chucked a tantrum last night and renewed my efforts to rid our house of Crap We Don't Need.
Four 50L boxes and four green bags. I didn't count as I packed, but maybe 150 - 200 books? They filled the back of my jeepy little car, and off I set to enrich a charitable foundation.

Thwarted. Just five minutes away are two brotherhood bins, which I've donated stuff to before. They're on a main road and must be serviced often -there's not usually a load of excess stuff lying around them. I pull up, get out, start thinking about the logistics of 'posting' all these fricking books through the maws of doom, and become aware that some old guy has wandered over to tell me off.

Apparently the truck has just been and won't be back for a while, I shouldn't fill up this useful space with BOOKS and just where did all this stuff come from anyway?
The last said while peering intently through the back of my car. Actually, it was "Where did you get all this stuff, anyway?" like I must have stolen it, or was revenging myself upon a librarian ex-boyfriend. God forbid I should be capable of reading an actual book, or even worse, many.

"Ah... my HOUSE?!"
"What, ALL those books?"

Ok, I have a naughty side.
"Well, I've just found out I'm illiterate."

Said, I confess, in much the same way as "I have an inoperable brain tumor," or "My ability to think has just been wished away by a vengeful fairy godmother and I'm going to spend the rest of my life camped in Centrelink."

He wasn't very happy. I blame tv, for burdening impressionable old people with erroneous stereotypes of the young people of today. He probably thought I was serious.

And on it goes...

Hubs is sitting at his laptop patiently scanning defunct cds. This is part of the Great Clearing Out of Crap.

I would probably look at said spindle of cds and go "Gee! Haven't listened to THESE for four years, didn't bother to label them at the time, mustn't be important!" CHUCK.

The love of my life is instead loading each one, listening to it and then deciding where to file it.

Sample commentary:
"The Romantic Sax album!"
Is there such a thing? Oh god, it's tinkly-tinkly music. You know, the tinkly function you get on really crap electronic keyboards.
 "Hey, this isn't the Romantic Sax album!" ...and then the sax cuts in.

"Are you feeling the romance? Are you? Somone must. Where's the sax? (tinkle, tinkle) Where's the sax? SOME people must get romantic to this. Oh. Hey, there it is! Saxaphone Healing...
Oh yeah, play it for me, baby. Listen to this one! You are the saxophone beneath my wings.
(sings) I never told you I'm your hero. I'm going to put this on your computer." (evil glinty eyes)

"NO!" I am a little terrified by this prospect. For all I know of our network, he could be doing it right now. And lest you think I'm making this up, I TRANSCRIBED all this dialogue. Yeah. Take that.

"Oh yeah. Right now."
Fortunately for me, distraction arrives in the form of a particularly, humorously crap cd.
"Should I save this one and give it to someone? Yep. Ok. I'm going to write on it right now. Sax for Max. Good one. (sings) Did I ever say I thought you were gay?"

...and so on.

Five minutes later:
"Do you want to hear Miss Piggy and Ozzie Osbourne sing Born to be wild?"
"Um, okay."

It's everything I dreamed it would be. And husband? Well, I can't decide whether he's ADD, autistic or I'm just so OCD I don't notice his brand. I'm pretty sure this is not entirely normal.

Up next: Kermit playing "Wild Thing" on ukele, gatecrashed by Pink Floyd and Animal on Drums. I kid you not, I couldn't make this up if I tried.