I cleaned my garage yesterday. That’s a good job to have done with. And by “done with” I don’t mean simply that you’ve organized the flotsam and jetsam of your life into cardboard boxes and signed the requisite treaties with the spiders. I mean that you’ve then showered off in ickies, thrown every shred of clothes you were wearing in a decontamination chamber, and are now enjoying a margarita and the praise and worship of your family for doing a job they were really hoping they weren’t going to get stuck with.
It’s good to be done.
I had intended to tackle this job during the ever sacred afternoon nap time, but Luke opted not to have a nap yesterday so I had a little helper. My standard chides and remonstrances took a small turn.
“Honey, don’t play with that. That’s poison.”
“Baby, could you please give that power drill back to Mommy. That’s pointy. Thank you, love.”
Then Luke discovered the Christmas lights and cheerfully pulled them all out of their boxes while I finished with the stacking and sweeping.
In the end I discovered several things that I thought long ago lost. I found a ballet costume that would have been useful last month, several large kitchen-ish gadgets that are now happily snuggled into the “why the hell did I buy ever buy this?” shelf, and a couple of jackets that would literally fit no one I know. The garage sale box is now a mound in monument to stuff that I don’t want but still vaguely hope that someone will give me money for.
Luke and I survived the afternoon without incurring any puncture wounds, spider bites, or frantic phone calls to poison control. The garage sale is scheduled for the weekend after this one. Proceeds benefit my trip to Vegas. Feel free to stop by.