My mom has a lot of stuff. Tchotchkes, to be exact. Dust collectors. Some of them serve a use: mirrors and clocks. I counted 53 mirrors in her entryway, living room and dining room alone. The clocks bing and bong and chime, all at different times, throughout the day…and night. She has hundreds of candlesticks, collects stained glass and she’s been amassing head vases, ostensibly to pass along to me. Though she’s been slacking on that lately.
They say a person can be weighed down by their stuff. I’m not only weighed down by mine, I also feel the burden of my mom’s. Because when she dies — and everyone does, so it’s imminent — I’ll have to deal with all of her stuff. Sure, my sister could. But she’d just call up a charity and have everything carted off. I could probably live off the money I’d make selling all that stuff for, possibly, the rest of my life. That is, if anyone’s interested in buying it. There must be someone out there who’d appreciate her obsessions. I’m hoping multiple someones. In fact, at least 53 different mirror fanatics. And a few dozen clock nuts.
I sure as hell don’t have the space to inherit all my mom’s stuff. There are only six windows in my apartment and two of them already have stained glass hanging in them. Even photographing and posting it all to eBay would take weeks. There is the option of hiring an estate sale service but that would wind up being pennies on the dollar. If there is, indeed, a dollar to be made.
Anyway, this is the sort of stuff I think about when I should be finding a job. Or writing a book. Or…selling off MY stuff.