The King and Queen

4.19.07

I didn’t set out to be a redneck.  I don’t listen to country  music.  I don’t watch NASCAR,  and, in fact, I’m not even sure if NASCAR is the title of something or an acronym for something.

 

I have specific rules in place for how many non-running vehicles are allowed on the homestead (that would be zero).

 

And yet… as the snow melts for real I notice the junk around here has gotten a little out of control and I find myself thinking, “Damn, redneck central at our house.”   It’s not cars, just other stuff.

 

It’s amazing how attractive the little snow-covered hills and valleys in the driveway and backyard were.  And not so much now that the thaw has revealed a pile of brush and logs left over from the tree we had to cut down to build the deck last fall, some lumber left over from the actual building of the deck, and an old shaky ladder that didn’t get put away after building the deck because, “somebody might break their neck on that thing.”

 

In my defense, these items either don’t fit in the garbage can or I’m not allowed, per the city, to place them there. 

 

And as for the acre of dog-doo laden used-to-be-lawn, well… it’s been cold outside.

 

I’m not the only slacker around here.  If left to his own devices I’m pretty sure most of Foxworthy’s redneck one-liners would apply directly to my husband.  He’s lucky he has my positive, east-end-girl influence in his life orthings around here would be total chaos.  Our history together has included motors and other car parts finding their way into the bathtub, a vehicle or two hidden in long grassy areas, and owning more non-running automobiles than running ones.

 

What can I say?  I married a “really-darn-close-to-redneck” kind of guy, and it’s only by the grace of god and sex and no time whatsoever for television that I’ve managed to keep him from going all the way.  And considering he doesn’t like to do things half-way, he’d be the Super-supremo, granddaddy of them all, my mess is bigger than your mess, Redneck King.  I’m sure of it.

 

Okay, for the sake of fairness and the possibility that he may read this, let me admit that I might be exaggerating.  And, while I’m at it, divulge that I am perhaps not the ultimate Queen of Neat.

 

The winters are cold and the summers are hot, work is calling, the kid wants to play… for all these reasons junk gets piled up and ignored.  We’re talking a washing machine with a fried motor, bits and pieces of drywall and wood scraps and pallets, large cardboard boxes, broken vacuum cleaners, and a burning barrel full of stuff so soggy it’ll never burn.  And this is just a fraction of the stuff in the open carport.  I can’t even begin to explain what’s in the two-and-a-half stall garage… except to say that a whole car probably wouldn’t fit in there right now.

 

I survey my domain of junk on this fine spring morning and feel a massive surge of, “Oh my gawd, I need a nap.”

 

Maybe we’ll get a dumpster.  I’m pretty sure I’ve had this idea before, but maybe this will be the year it happens.  After all, I have tikki-parties to plan, and people to invite over to entertain me this summer while my child is sleeping and my husband is busy with the ever-growing, used-to-be-small business.

 

But my girl and I are catching a plane to Florida this week, so clean up will  have to wait for our return.

 

Sometimes we feel like the masters of all we survey.  Unfortunately our kingdom is a mess.