Sunday, September 7, 2014


This weekend I was convinced to tackle a chore that's been on my honey-do list since we had the ceilings redone five months ago: clean out the spare room.

I never know what to call this room. On the original floor plan it's labeled "Den". That would be appropriate if there were bears frolicking within. (Sadly there isn't.) I could only call it a den if it had a comfy leather chair in which I could drink brandy from a snifter while admiring my taxidermia.

I was once invited into a straight man's den.
It could rightly be called a "Guest Room", but it's almost never in a condition for company. Lately, in fact, I've been making sure the door is tightly closed whenever anyone knocks. Or Skypes.

I sometimes call it the "Computer Room". There is a computer in it. That I almost never use since getting my MacBook. It would make more sense to call it "Printer Room" than computer room. It's across the hall from the "Toilet Room".

I suppose I could call it a "Home Office". But I can never work from home without JB giving me stink-eye for "playing" on the computer whilst he folds laundry. Once while attempting to work from home, he sent the not-so-subtle message I wasn't performing anything he would consider "work" by repeatedly ramming the vacuum cleaner into the back of my chair. That made for an awkward conference call.

I have to give JB credit for making rush-hour commuting pleasurable.

For now I'm just calling it the "Spare Room". And since I'm between jobs (my euphemism for "unemployed") I have no excuse for not cleaning it. No, really, just ask JB.

Thus I began cleaning the spare room like any normal person who forgot to take his Adderall would: by thumbing through my high school freshman yearbook. Aren't we all glad I grew out of that awkward phase? Evidently I could only convince one 9th grade classmate to sign my yearbook.

Proof that cheaters never prosper. I bet her algebra sucks too.

Its tone has the finality of Senior year. Of course I had to go through the other three books to see if Wendy ever got to know me better. Apparently she didn't.

I'd barely moved on to my college yearbooks when JB came in to inspect my progress. And I thought getting hit with a vacuum cleaner was bad.


  1. Okay I'm going to have to side with JB on this one. Clean out that crap otherwise I'm afraid we might see you starring in that show hoarders in a few years.