I wasn't in a super happy mood the day I filled the back of the van and headed to Goodwill. I remember muttering something about being the only one who ever cleaned anything without being forced, and I would be danged if I would clean stuff I didn't even care about for the rest of my life.
Cleaning Rage is never pretty.
In my own defense, I will say that I don't toss The Brain's clothes. Not even the stained t-shirts. Because they might be special. Nor do I sort through his many books, nor would I ever EVER throw away any of his CD's, DvD's, or anything like unto them.
And maybe I should have consulted him on the Malt Machine. Because it was his. But honestly, the thing cranked out malts with all the speed of a one armed car hop at Sonic, which would explain why it hadn't been out of the pantry for at least a couple of years.
And not that I do a lot of thinking when I'm under the influence of Cleaning Rage -- but if I had thought about it, I would have chalked it up in the category of "Who the Heck is Going to Notice Unused Appliances Missing From the Pantry?"
After several years of irregularly purging the house, I can tell you that there are only two things I've regretted or even remembered throwing out.
The first one is too awful to talk about. No, really.
The Malt Machine is number two. Not because we desperately need a Malt Machine, but because it was his, and his discovery that it was missing had a little more impact than I anticipated.
So I guess what I'm saying is that cleaning while "under the influence" is not all it's cracked up to be, and can be sorta hard on the marriage.
(Crack... under the influence... ha! I crack myself up.)