Curb Service

I was going to take a picture of my new curb service shopfront to show you but by the time the light was good enough someone had driven off with it.

What it was, was that with the general influx of the Cute Engineer’s stuff over the last couple of weeks, it became increasingly urgent to get rid of a trundle bed that has been festering in my basement since 2004. That was when my ex-mother-in-law died at the impressive age of nearly 102 and, on account I was still conspiring with the family to make sure my former husband was eating  and took a bath now and then, I got a call asking if I could store “some of her stuff” until they figured out what to do with it. Shortly a U-Haul pulled up at the curb while I was working with a client and the bed, followed by a lot of other chattel taped up in packing boxes, made its entrance with a great clatter of unknown yokels.

No one ever figured anything out. I cleared out most of the boxes over the years but never could decide what to do with the damn bed — which afflicted the user with a spring mechanism that would raise the trundle platform before you had it half out from under the upper frame. I belatedly understood why the yokels had tied it together with a piece of electrical flex. When the Engineer and I put it out we used some clothesline and he toted the whole awkward thing up the lawn in four stages, with a visible aura of manliness. “My girlfriend makes me work out,” he said smugly.

We left it at the curb, the rolling frame under the main one, both mattresses piled on top like an impromptu audition for The Princess and the Pea, or an alfresco extension of my massage studio. By the time I peered out this morning nothing remained. It’s amazing how you can do this. When the Engineer was clearing out his old place he put three large metal articles at the curb and called the county for a special pickup; by the time he had the regular trash out, he had to cancel it. People swoop down, and they must have large trucks.

Now the house is full of unassembled pine bookshelves. And cake stands. I haven’t even had time to shot-put a rock at the 39th rendition of “Oh Holy Shit” on the radio.

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