Does Spring Cleaning Bring Me Joy?

We did a bit of spring-cleaning in our house this past week. This initiative wasn’t my idea, but my husband’s because he hates to see his family relaxed and happy. Either that or it’s because he walked into the attic and was hit in the head by a Fisher-Price toy that hasn’t worked since 1999 and now hosts a rather vicious spider kingdom. At any rate, we were filling up trash bags like nobody’s business.

Our de-cluttering process didn’t need that KonMari thing that’s all the rage with the organized types right now, either. KonMari is the method that has you pick up an item and ask yourself, “Does this bring me joy?” before deciding if it gets 2,000 volts of electricity or a last minute pardon from the governor. I mean, who has the time to go through that charade when you just want to get the job done? Last time I checked, Netflix doesn’t watch itself. But if I had asked myself that question, it probably would have gone down like this:

DOES THIS BRING ME JOY?

Beer koozie that says, “FUTURE PEE INSIDE”: No

Leaking pen from random dentist office: No

Business card from a coupon blogger who insulted my outfit in an elevator in New Orleans six years ago: No

Duck Dynasty t-shirt given to me as a gag gift from my sister and is too small, anyway: No

Expired baby formula coupons from 2001: No

Kate Gosselin Halloween wig: No. I mean Yes. I mean No. I mean, why is this so hard?!? Why you gotta do me this way, Gosselin, you temptress?

Once we had all of our closets cleaned out and the unwanted things packed into plastic tubs and trash bags, I told the kids that we were going to sell everything at a garage sale. “Why, there’s got to be at least $1,000 just sitting there!” I said to my husband as the kids cheered, visions of used Pokemon card profit filling their heads.

“Unless you have a wad of cash totaling nine thousand nine hundred ninety nine dollars and ninety nine cents stuffed in there, I don’t think you’re right about that,” he answered, while we watched a plush bear with his face half eaten-off slowly slide out of the bag and onto the floor like a featured extra from The Walking Dead. “Besides, the last time we had a garage sale, you told me to remind you to never, ever have another one.”

“Are you sure that was me?”

“Well, it was some sweaty blonde yelling, ‘As god is my witness, I shall never barter over used spatulas again!’. I’m assuming it was you because Dog the Bounty Hunter wasn’t in town that day.”

“Okay, fine, but I was just upset because that was right after we got taken by the Rodriguez gang.”

Oh, yes. The Rodriguez Gang.

For those of you not current on Austin, Texas Garage Sale crime rings, the Rodriguez gang is a notorious group of amateur criminals that hit us hard a few years ago. It was a nice, sunny day and we were doing a steady business selling broken stereo equipment and out-of-style denim in our driveway when suddenly, out of nowhere, five tricked-out Chevy trucks roared around the corner and came to a squealing stop in front of the house. “I think that’s the Rodriguezes,” Chris whispered as we watched approximately 200 people hop out of the vehicles and head our way.

“How do you know it’s the Rodriguezes?” I asked. “Have you met them before?”

“No,” he answered. “But I know it’s them because the word RODRIGUEZ is on the back window of all of their trucks in 10″ high Old English font decal letters,” he answered. “See? Right next to the decal of Calvin peeing on the Ford logo.”

Before I had a chance to look, however, they descended on us like bargain-hunting locusts. The next 10 minutes were a blur of Grandma Rodriguezes asking the two of us non-stop questions about our items for sale while Baby Rodiriguezes cried and Toddler Rodriguezes yanked leaves off our potted plants and fed them to each other like Capuchin monkeys. And then all of a sudden, as if they’d been given some sort of signal, they all stopped what they were doing and moved as one unit back to their trucks and got inside. There was nothing for us to do but stand in shock while we watched them roar away from our house like the caravan in Mad Max: Fury Road if it was blaring Hot Tejano and transporting slightly worn baby equipment.

“What just happened?” I remember gasping. “What was that?”

“What just happened is that half of our stuff is now gone without being paid for,” my husband answered. “The Grandmas must have distracted us while the rest of the gang grabbed things and left. Man, what a racket. Someone should tell Scorsese to leave the mafia alone and make a movie about these guys.”

“Oh, my god! That is insane! Should we call 911?”

“Sure, if you think the police will be happy to put out an APB for a $3 broken rice cooker and a DVD of Big Momma’s House, Part 2 with fingernail polish spilled on it.”

So, for that reason and many others (laziness), it looks like we won’t be having a garage sale to get rid of everything we cleaned out. We’ll have to just load up the car with the bags of junk and make the 20 minute drive to Goodwill and back a few times until it’s all gone and out of our house.

That is, unless one of you has a good contact number for the Rodriguezes. Because if they drove over in their trucks and took all of the crap away for me, no questions asked, you know what that would bring me? I think you do.

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In other news: My kids and I went to Universal Orlando Resort and the Wizarding World of Harry Potter last month, and I have FOUR guides on Alpha Mom about it to help you plan everything for your trip! Please take a look and share with anyone you know who may be interested. Thank you! FIND THEM HERE.