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A Cannonball in my Living Room

Among the things that belong to my mother-in-law that will not fit in her new home is a cannonball that used to reside on the front lawn of her grandmother’s house.  No one is quite sure about its history prior to landing in the front lawn.  All my mother-in-law can say is that it had “been there since I can remember.”

Well, it isn’t there now.  It is in a storage unit nearby.  But it’s one of the many objects that does not fit into one of the neat sorting categories that we have worked out: Things to Throw Away, Things to Give to Goodwill, Things to Take to our House, Things to Give to Other Family Members.

As you can see, Things to Make our Yard Look Like A Civil War Battlefield is not one of our predetermined categories.

It’s quite obvious that it cannot be thrown away – mostly because I don’t want to be fined by the city for ruining one of their garbage trucks.  I am also pretty certain Goodwill is not going to feel the need to add a cannonball to its showroom.  Although it might make for an interesting commercial: “Come to Goodwill, where you can find anything from secondhand clothes to cannonballs of dubious origin.”

It is a historical relic that should probably be kept in the family, I suppose.  (Although this does lead one to the philosophical question, “Is it still a historical relic if you don’t know the history behind it?)  I am just trying to think of a creative way to display it.

We could set it on Wonderbutt’s bed so he can’t drag the bed all over the floor.  Or, maybe we could use it to roll in front of his dog door to keep the critters out at night.

Since it’s already somewhat orange-ish, maybe we could paint a scary face on it, call it Cannonball Lecter, and make it into a permanent jack-o-lantern on our front stoop.

Dimples suggested that her synchronized swimming team could use it to help practice doing lifts in the water.

Or, maybe we should just save the cannonball until Wonderbutt completely decimates our living room, which will most certainly happen when I go back to school at the end of the summer.  Then we can put the cannonball in the middle of the wreckage and say we got bombed.  In the literal sense.  Because people would not be quite as sympathetic about the other kind of “bombed”, I imagine.  Even though that might be more believable.

With so many possibilities, it seems to me that this would make a good contest.  If you have a creative suggestion for our cannonball, please add it to the comments.  The lucky winner will receive an “I Wonderbutt, Do You?” award icon for your blog.  If you are not a blogger, I guess you can always make it your screen saver.

Not the kind of cannonball I meant.  (Oh, and that isn’t me, by the way.)
photo credit: iambicpentameter via photo pin cc

Name this Phobia…

I am obsessed about death.  Well, not about death, itself.  More about what happens afterwards.  No, this is not going to be a religious rant.

I am worried about dying and people subsequently discovering what a horrible slob I am.

I have an anxiety that I will die one day, and people will go through my house and declare, and rightly so, that I was a very mess person.  Why I would care after I’m dead, I don’t know, but it’s a fear. Apparently not a well-documented fear, as I discovered when I Googled it in a failed attempt to find an actual name for this fear. (Ataxophobia, the fear of clutter doesn’t quite describe it.  People who suffer from that condition apparently actually clean on a regular basis.)

For those of you who know me, let me assure you that I don’t plan on this happening any time soon (the dying part).

Anyone who has seen the very untidy state of my house would probably doubt that I have ever given cleanliness a second thought.  However, I think about it quite a bit.  I just don’t actually act upon it as often as I should.

I think it started with C.S.I.  When they showed graphic pictures of people who had been horribly murdered on the street, I didn’t blink an eye.  But when they showed dead bodies in houses full of clutter, that kind of made me think about the uninvited people who get to wander around your house after you die – particularly if it is a not-so-normal expiration.

The onslaught of reality shows like Hoarders did not help to alleviate my phobia.  Most people that watch that show are thankful that their homes are not that bad.  Conversely, I watch that show and begin to hyperventilate.  Sure, you can walk through my house now without towers of old computers falling on top of you, but I bet the people on T.V. had a time before the piles overtook them, too.  Could that junk drawer in the kitchen where I keep old birthday candles signal the beginning of my descent into Hoardership?

Some weekends I will frantically empty out entire closets and fill up bags of things for Goodwill, energized by the fear of dying with mismatched Tupperware strewn around my pantry.  I clean out drawers, organize shelves, and dump out boxes.  Only to find that they magically disorganize and clutterize themselves again within a matter of weeks.

The good news is that I will never commit suicide because I’ll never think my house is clean enough.

There has seriously got to be a name for this.  I can’t be the only person that suffers from this syndrome/phobia/virus thing.  I am trying to sensibly confront my fear, but it would help if it had some kind of clever moniker like Triskaidekaphobia (the fear of the number 13 – God I love that word!).  Your job is to identify this disease and, more importantly, let me know if you, too, suffer from it!

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