With this new house, HC and I have way more space that we ever had before. We have three bedrooms, a basement, a dining room, and a front and back yard. Because of all the extra room and space and closets, we need some furniture to fill it up. Nothing crazy, but stuff. Like we need a dining room set, outdoor furniture, bookcases, etc.
So KW suggested that we go to an estate sale. KW offered to figure out where we’d go and drive. Pretty much doesn’t matter what we’re doing at that point – I’m in.
We headed out to parts of DC and Maryland neither of us had been to before. Thankfully, because KW’s car has a GPS, we got from place to place with relative ease.
We got to the first place, no problem. We go in. And then it hits me. This is some old person’s stuff. And not just any old person, but a recently widowed, recently relocated, or recently deceased old person. I know we’re dealing with old people because there are the clear old-people signs all over the house. The shag carpet. The china. The 1972 wooden punch bowl with accompanying wooden mugs. The alcohol – mostly random liqueurs – from 1983. The walker. The old-school blue and white with twist off top ice pack. The handrail near the toilet.
Let’s just say, I was distracted while in this house. Yes, the china was really interesting. But I kept thinking about that old person and what likely happened to him and her. Or him and him. Or her and her. Whatever.
When we left, KW asked me what I thought. I said, “I have to be honest, it was a little … odd. I mean, an old person used to live there and now does not.” KW responded, “Look, don’t just assume that they died. Maybe they were just sent to the home.”
Wow. So “the home” is the silver lining or something? Why did I all of a sudden feel like I was eight and my father was telling me that my golden retriever, Reggie Jackson (yes, as in the Hall of Fame NY Yankees ballplayer), was going to live on a farm where he could run and play? Jesus, KW! All you needed to do was pat me on the head and produce a photo of some blond haired dog running in a park and you would be my father!
But we carried on. Because I needed a dining room set and a bookcase.
We hit another estate sale. No good finds. So we moved on.
Then I needed to go to the bathroom.
I drink a lot of water. Well, at least, I try to drink a lot of water. This is good for my skin – or so they tell me, but less good for a long car ride. KW had to ignore Jill, or as I call her, The Lady (AKA the voice on the GPS), and tried to find a gas station. After driving around for about 15 minutes, we finally found one. I told KW I’d go in first to see if there was a bathroom.
Things started off fine enough. I asked the guy in the shop if there was a bathroom. He said yes and sent me off in the right direction. I found the bathroom, locked the door, did my business, washed (read: rinsed) my hands, and went to leave. This is where the problems started. I couldn’t unlock the door. Of course thinking worst case scenario, I was convinced that the lock was broken and that I was stuck. And I then thought that KW was going to be both irritated and overjoyed at my latest folly.
After a solid 3 to 5 minutes of wrangling with that lock, I started banging on the door. Jesus, did no one else have to use the restroom? I mean, I knew KW was waiting to get in there. So what the fuck?! Still, no one was coming to my rescue, so I tried to work the lock again. That’s when I figured it out. It was a trick lock. One of those numbers that you have to push in before you slide back. I did it and just like that – the door opened. By that point, the gas station attendant had gotten to me. Thanks, buddy, but I’m all set.
I get outside and there’s KW. As predicted she was both irritated (“What the hell took you so long?!”) and, after hearing why I was delayed, overjoyed. Well, she was just amused at that point. The overjoyed part came when she returned from the bathroom.
KW (grinning, looking like she has canary feathers all over her mouth): Um, Casey, did you look at the door?
Me (with a face saying, “I was fucking stuck in there for several minutes and even started banging on the door to call for help”): Of course I looked at the door.
KW (pleasure growing): No, Casey. Did you look at the door right near the lock?!
Me: Um, yeah. Looked at the door near the lock. For several minutes, I looked at the door near the lock.
KW: Well, then did you see the sign?
Me: Sign?! What?! There was no fucking sign in there!
KW: Go look – again – for yourself.
Me (I walk into the bathroom, look at the door. Crestfallen, I return): There’s a fucking note on the door!! That was not there a minute ago.
As I said, KW was overjoyed.
Anyway, this little jaunt at the gas station is relevant because as we were getting back into the car, which KW had to park in a weird spot when I was sorta-locked in the bathroom, KW noticed that we were right near Antiques Row in Maryland. Fortuitous to say the least!
Not only was this an all around super fun little spot, I found several items that I now covet, including one item that I bought. Yup, I am now the proud owner of a barrister bookcase. I’ve always wanted one and now I have one. I am the change I can believe in!