Imagine that you are fresh faced young thing who is just married and setting up a home with your husband. Oh, alright maybe you’re a haggard 36 year old who is just married and setting up a home with your husband. And said home is his parents 5500 square feet home that is jammed to the gills with SHIT. Sure, some of it is pretty, and I’m sure has meaning to someone, and may even be valuable, but when it covers every available space, counter, table it is shit. And if that isn’t shit, the clothes from 1975, the wrapping paper from Christmas 1983 and the Tupperware from the early 1990s certainly are. You spend two freaking years pushing to get the house clean, which involved an estate sale, three 22-yard dumpsters (yes, three), a nervous breakdown or two and an exhausted husband. Then imagine, that just when you thought you had your house together, ready to have your babies and focus only on them you find out that for many reasons some good, some completely insane you had to move out of the house and your mother-in-law was going to move back in. You breathe, you curse your husband, fate, the world, your mother-in-law and the dog, but you get your shit together and do what needs to be done. Imagine you go to the townhouse, your mother-in-law has been living, which is owned by your husband and now needs to be put on the market. As you descend into the basement and start cleaning shit up you have an odd sense of deja-vu. But wait! Just because you have deja-vu doesn’t mean it isn’t happening again, people: She went dumpster diving and got the shit out! Dude, she went into the dumpster and took a Nordic Track Ski machine out and brought it into her basement. Don’t fucking tell me she isn’t completely insane. WWYD? Me? I would drink. A lot. And I did.