No Joy

There is no more room in the house. The kitchen cupboards don’t close. The laundry is in a perpetual cycle of never making it into the drawers before the articles are worn and then put back into the dirty laundry. The cabinet on the wine rack spontaneously bursts open and not awesomely because we have so much wine but pathetically because it’s stuffed with napkins for a party we will never have. Old CDs are stored in the trunk of a car that serves less as a mode of transportation and more as test subject for the Insurance Institute of Highway Safety.

But change is coming. Goodwill has already received a massive donation of books and men’s clothing. And the G keeps claiming she’s going to blow out her closet and toss all her Exile in Guyville era outfits in the garbage. No longer will the last place we look for our winter coats be the coat closet because we are afraid to open the door lest an Emmy falls on our heads.

There is a sad note, however. It goes “bwwwerrrthpp.” The collection wasn’t extensive, but all my old Sports Illustrated Swim Suit issues have been trashed. And that one Playboy. So long nekkid ladies. May the hobos enjoy your glossy pages.



The loss isn’t too terrible since the internet still exists and every one of those images could recaptured with a click of the mouse. But I feel bad for the future friends of any kids we may have. They’ll never be able to find my old porn collection in the basement or attic or anywhere. Now they’re going to go have to hang out with Avent’s second kid and go through his giant cache.

Bwwwerrrthpp.