Fellow recovering packrats, our annual nightmare is over.
For those of you still stashing, my condolences - the trucks hauled paradise away.
Cleanup Week ended on Friday, and with it went the blast of temptation I get each time I pass through a block where those haphazard piles beckon from the boulevard.
"Wouldn't I make great grease rags?" whispers the collection of dirty green socks. Never mind that I use a grease rag, um, never.
"Let's start a Laundromat," the broken-down washers and dryers suggest. They don't mention their power cords have already been pinched.
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"Remember, children are expensive," chides the infant car seat piled on top of a child-sized mattress that's next to a training toilet. No matter, my lady and I aren't expecting.
Sure, almost all of this stuff is entirely worthless. Wheels wobble on the office chairs. The televisions have dials. The dresser drawers fall apart with one tug on the handle.
A general rule: If it's not useless, it's filthy. If it's not filthy, it's ancient. If it's not ancient, it's broken. If it's not broken, it's already gone.
Still, I'm a cheapskate at heart. Getting use out of any object a stranger rejected as rubbish makes me feel more than just thrifty. I feel ecstatic, far-sighted and more than a touch superior. It warrants bragging, even if those boasts must be delivered from a recliner that smells like a flood and makes my neck itch.
But like I mentioned, I'm in recovery. Not by choice, mind you. The apartment I live in simply has no more room for junk. (Except for that folding stool I found Monday.)
This didn't keep me from enjoying the thrill of the hunt. We have some action photos of the tainted treasures that were there for the taking.
Readers can reach Forum reporter Dave Roepke at (701) 241-5535
