A GUY AND HIS STUFF - more comedy from Bad Girl

Something went very wrong in my life several years ago:  I married a hoarder.

Our basement is a serious hazard.  Experienced tracking dogs could get lost in there.  Entire families have been known to disappear down the stairs without a trace, only to reappear days later with enough furnishings to equip a three-bedroom townhouse.

I think there should be a law that prevents hoarders from setting up house with purgers, and in fact, I would suggest the following revision to the standard wedding vows:  “Do you promise to love, honour and refrain from filling the basement with 25 years worth of junk…”

Now lest you think I ruthlessly discard priceless family heirlooms, let me give you an abridged – VERY abridged - list of the contents of our basement:

A complete set of Road and Track magazines dating back to 1978, augmented by Car and Driver, Hot Rod, and Popular Mechanics;

The left mirror from a 1969 bronze Firebird (nothing else, just the mirror; the rest of the car died in 1977);

Sections of an electric slot car racing track dating back to 1960;

Nine defunct cameras;

Unknown fabric objects that might at one time have passed for clothing;

Assorted pieces of wood, wire and metal tubing;

Various and sundry car parts, fan belts, mats and cigarette lighters from Triumph Spitfires, Lotus Europas, Pontiac TransAms, all of which are no longer made, no longer running, and no longer owned, but the parts “might come in handy some day.”

I suggested a garage sale once.  This went over with the kind of enthusiasm that might be associated with a mass accident on the Gardiner Expressway.  Conversation went something like this:

Wife:  “We need to have a garage sale.”

Husband (aghast):  “What are you talking about?  We don’t have anything to sell!”

Wife:  “What about those ‘Welcome to the Slag Pits of Ontario TV tables over there?”

Husband (clutching said items to chest):  “You gotta be kidding!  They don’t make ‘em like this anymore!”

As for the last twenty years, I only have myself to blame. Love is blind. Instead of gazing into his eyes, I should have looked in his room

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The victim wore haute couture…

When fashionista and television celeb Gina Monroe goes home to attend the funeral of her late grandmother, the last thing she expects to encounter is murder. And the reading of the will is anything but fashionable as unanswered questions arise. Who is the dead woman in the woods behind the family house? And why is she dressed in Milano designer clothes?

With help from her cousin Tony and Detective Rob Dumont, Gina investigates the not-so-model citizens around her. When another murder occurs, a pattern slowly emerges. Did Gina's grandmother die naturally—or were there really three murders? What’s more treacherous than navigating a pack of society matrons at a designer sale?

Stalking a killer…