Relax. This has nothing to do with bulimia or food poisoning... it was a purge of a different sort.

Although at times I DID feel nauseous. And achy. And tired.

And frankly bewildered that I could keep

All

That

Crap.

Yes, this was a purge of a materialistic kind.

By the numbers, with assistance from Count Von Count:

3! Three weeks.

8! Eight bursting recycling bins.

26! Twenty-six bags and boxes for Goodwill.

and

38! Thirty-eight bags of garbage!

(Thank you Count. You may now return to your castle on Sesame Street.)

Yes, that's what it took for me to shovel clean out the disaster area formally known as "The Basement".

After years of procrastination, it's done. I can now walk through my Star Wars collection without hurdling the Easter decorations. I can actually open the dryer door in the laundry room. And no carboard boxes are growing mold or providing low-rental housing for scary spiders.

3! Three Hairy Spiders!

(Count, I thought I told you to leave...)

It's a miracle, I tell ya.

I even got out the paper shredder I bought two years ago (well, I had to FIND it first)... and had a party shredding Very Important Papers such as income tax forms from 1975.

Why the heck I thought I needed to keep every frickin fuel bill, birthday card, receipt and instruction booklet that has ever weaseled it's way into our home, I have not the slightest idea.

Like this Very Important Item from 1982:


So now it's done.

And I can get back to way more important things like blogging, reading blogs and thanking all the nice bloggers for awards I obviously don't deserve.

4! Four Undeserving Awards!!!

(Damn that Count. Now where the hell did I put that wooden stake...)

Kids nowadays. Sometimes they just need to think on their feet more.

Case in point, Daughter and her friends are just months away from their 18th birthdays. Which in our province, is the age when the thrill is taken out of sneaking into gory movies.

So I could only laugh at the following story she shared with me with the other night.

A few of the gang decided to go to "The Cheap Seats" (aka the theatre graveyard before DVD release) to see an 18A movie. However, their usual "ticket purchaser" (a large fellow who shaves) was absent that night.

Hence the competition commenced for "The One Who Looks Oldest" to try their luck at the counter. (Daughter's shiny braces disqualified her right away).

Eventually 'D' (name withheld to protect the guilty) was chosen as the Most-Likely-To-Succeed and nervously made his way to the cashier while the rest of them hid in the shadows.

The attendant scrutinized the lanky youth. "You're 18, right?"

"Do you need ID?" 'D' asked.

"Yeah."

'D' sheepishly stated he "forgot it".

"But you're 18, right?" The attendant asked once more, likely to simply cover his own butt.

"Yup."

"Okay. That will be $ 9.75."

Which is the exact moment when the charade came to a crashing end. For 'D' then made the classic mistake of pulling out his WALLET to get the money.

In full view of the booth clerk.

"Isn't that your licence?"

'D' was speechless as he looked down and there, in all it's colorful betraying glory, was his driver's card, with his under-age birthdate prominently displayed.

With a smirk, the clerk handed him the tickets anyway, along with a piece of sage advice.

"Maybe next time, plan ahead..."

Ah, the foolishness of youth.