It's Skeleton Season

Sometimes it only takes a few words to make you realize you really don't know a person.

I remember every detail of the moment that changed everything. We stood in the living room, surrounded by orange and brown floral furniture and wood paneling. The console TV loomed silently over the room, its black screen still. There was no sense in filling the home with any sort of life as we were just running quickly into the trailer to grab a few of my things before returning to my uncle's house. I stayed there for several months while my mother was hospitalized (a story - or ten - for another time) and my father was deployed for the first Gulf War. Fourteen-year old me decided to listen to the messages on the answering machine.

Yes. Answering machine. It's hard to believe, but there was a time before electronic voicemail when calls were sometimes handled by contraptions similar to tape recorders. (And don't ask me what a "tape recorder" is because, really? Just get off of my lawn.) As I hit play, my uncle stood patiently waiting for message after message to finish. Bill collectors and salesmen and a few out-of-the-know people had left random words that meant nothing to me.

Then came The Message.

"Hi. This is Carol of Lutheran Social Services. I'm trying to reach Kathryn as I have information about the son she surrendered in Minot, North Dakota in 1970. He would really like to speak with you, but I need your permission to pass on this phone number. Please return my call . . . "

As the message ended, silence fell heavy. I was naive at the age of 14, but I knew what she was referencing. I mean, I didn't know, but I understood the words.

I looked at my uncle. His face told the story of someone who had just heard words that were forcing him to realize a huge portion of his childhood was a lie. He was the youngest of the siblings and should have known. Yet, somehow, he didn't.

He had no idea that his older sister had been pregnant, given birth, and relinquished custody of a baby boy while living with their parents.

I had no idea that my mother had given birth to a child before she gave birth to me.

Details were filled in later, but not until after my mother passed away sixteen years ago this week. She never returned that call, instead choosing to take her secret to the grave with her. Or so she thought. We knew. We never spoke a word about it, but we knew.

Her entire life had been a lie.

Camping Is Poopy

I have . . . memories of camping. The word "fond" had to be left out of that sentence because there's nothing "fond" about those memories, unless "fond" has been redefined to mean "OMG PLEASE DON'T MAKE ME DO THAT EVER AGAIN."

Ahem.

Long ago, in a land far away, my family would travel an hour south of Minot, North Dakota to a tiny little campgrounds on the shores of the Missouri River. We would pitch our navy blue tent amidst a sea of similar tents and campfires (Campfire Bananas, anyone?) and a few signs of civilization. We had a water pump and real working bathrooms, so it wasn't so much "roughing it" as it was "suffering through a few days without TV."

Which, we didn't have cable when I was a kid. TV was stupid without cable back in the olden days, so I never watched it. Really, there wasn't much suffering involved.

And, yet, I hated camping. Or at least I have re-written history to say I hated it. I'm sure that cramming two adults and two children into a tent made for some cramped quarters. I'm sure the air mattress we slept on was less than ideal. I'm absolutely positive that the weather wasn't usually all that cooperative. But, still, there is only one thing I can say that is absolutely the entire reason I hate camping.

Poop.

As in, one clear sunny day, I was swimming in the Missouri River and I saw a piece of human poop float by. It was within arms length of where I was standing, but not for long because HOOOOO! WHO KNEW I KNEW HOW TO SWIM THAT FAST? Michael Phelps couldn't have caught me as I fought my way to shore.

I never entered those waters again. And, to this day, I still hate camping. I know it's illogical. I don't care. Camping is poopy, dammit. I don't need to relive it to know it.

Imagine my glee when Alexis and Mr. Husband conspired and decided to buy a tent.

Oh, yes, they did.

I made it really very clear that I wanted nothing to do with their shenanigans. I like climate control and sleep and comfy beds and, wait, did I mention that I like sleep? I don't imagine that much sleep would happen if my night were filled with pooptacular nightmares. That's what would happen if I slept in a tent, you know. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder would rear its ugly head and I'd be forced to relive that horrific day over and over and over.

No thank you.

My resistance resulted in the two of them adapting their conspiracy so that it was a bit more reasonable. They decided to camp in our very own backyard. To that I say, GOOD LUCK. There shouldn't be any poop floating by back there, but there are herds of deer that walk through, more toads than I want to think about, and a lovely collection of stinkbugs. I made it very clear that they were welcome to enjoy the great outdoors, but I'd be sleeping in my own bed, oh and take the dogs with you, pleaseandthankyouverymuch.

So, they did.

They camped outside Friday night and they were kind enough to take the dogs with them.

They left me in the house. Alone. Well, the cats were there, but the cats don't follow me around snorting and snoring and farting and generally grossing me out like the bulldog does.

You guys, THEY LEFT ME IN THE HOUSE BY MYSELF.

I got eight whole hours of uninterrupted sleep. No kid wrapped around my head. No dog butts in my face. No flailing man twisting the covers into a useless ball of suck. No snoring. No kicking. Just beautiful, sweet silence.

It was the greatest night of my life. I know that I'm a loser for feeling that way, but I don't care. IT WAS AMAZING.

I love camping now. All it took was for me to get to sleep in my own bed.

 

The King of All Hoarders Shall Wear a Gold Crown

I remember the call because it was the sort of call that makes me want to scoop my brains out with a spork.

"I found a gold bracelet on the street. What should I do?" he asked.

I won't specify who exactly "he" is since "he" doesn't like it when I talk about him in this space, so let's just call him The King of All Hoarders for now, mmkay?

So the King of All Hoarders found a bracelet in the middle of the street while walking around downtown and didn't know what to do with it. He wanted to return it to its rightful owner, but how do you do that in a busy urban area? I thought my solution was the best possible one.

"Are there any garbage cans near by? Just throw it in one."

I was serious. Based on his description, the bracelet had been worn by Vanilla Ice's mom back in 1989 and it needed to stay there. In 1989. The King of All Hoarders would be doing the owner a favor by making sure he or she never wore it again.

Of course, The King of All Hoarders didn't earn his name by throwing things in the garbage. Nooooooooo. Instead, the King of All Hoarders took that bracelet home and stashed it in one of his 22,690,426,824,624 hiding places.

And there it sat, safely surrounded by cash receipts for coffee and straw wrappers and random pieces of plastic that must belong somewhere so lets just keep them to be safe, y'know? TEN YEARS WENT BY, so obviously that bracelet was in a very safe place. If it weren't, I would have found it and thrown it away. That's what I do, after all. I wage wars against the hoarding.

I don't know what made him think of the bracelet last week. He was on vacation and just hanging out around the house because he has days he needs to burn. Apparently that made him think of all of the things he's been meaning to do for the past decade? Maybe? Regardless, for some reason he set eyes on that bracelet last week and suddenly had an urge to do something with it.

I fielded a bunch of phone calls about the whole thing. He asked if he should try to go sell it and I said, and I'm quoting myself exactly, "Go ahead. You won't get much, but at least it will be out of the house."

My "You won't get much," was based on a vague memory of what the bracelet looked like. It was 14K gold, but it was junk. Hideous, out-dated, ugly junk.

The last call about the bracelet came while The King of All Hoarders stood inside one of those stores that buys and sells gold. He didn't go to a pawn shop because he wasn't sure where to find one, but for reasons unknown, he knew where the gold shop was hidden. He stood in that store with his phone in his hand and he said, "Three Seventy-Eight."

"Have fun buying a gallon of gas with that," I replied. It's good always being the one who is right.

"No," he said. "Three HUNDRED and seventy-eight dollars," he clarified.

I was stunned silent. For a long time. Actually, I still don't have words to describe what I was thinking at that moment. I know that those words are full of conflict. Like, "YAY! Unexpected money!" but more so "Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo!"

You guys, the last thing anyone should do is reward a hoarder for their hoarding. Now the King of All Hoarders will remind me of that damn bracelet every time I go through a box and try to get him to part ways with some useless piece of junk. "But, remember the bracelet? This might be worth money some day!"

I can already hear the words. I want to murder the words. With a spork.

I'll go buy myself a good one with the money he got from the bracelet.

Photographic Evidence that Vinyl Albums Aren't Worth All That Much