When I bought my house 18 months ago, the lady who moved out left all kinds of crap in the garage. She left two big plastic trash cans, which was nice. She also left three trash bags full of beer bottles, which was not so nice … and also explained her erratic behavior as the closing date neared. But mostly, she left stuff … hangers, crates, junk.
I got rid of a lot of her junk, but once I got to the messy stage of moving, the garage became my personal dumping ground. Dunno where to stash that box of dog stuff mixed in with photo albums? Why, the garage is a perfect place!
Soon, the garage consisted of a pathway around my crap. Meanwhile, my Honda sat in the driveway. And wept.
Mr. Wonderful challenged me to get my car in the garage by November 1. I hated him openly for this, but took him up on the challenge.
A few weeks ago, I cleaned out all the crap – including moving a sweet 1930s love seat that I picked up at a garage sale for a mere $20 – which included delivery, thank you. The love seat is now in the laundry room. The random crates and a desk top that were left by the previous owner were configured into an exciting new garage storage solution. All that was left was some random shit – like seven bags of stuff and two microwaves to go to Goodwill.
Well, I dropped the stuff off at Goodwill last week. And today, Mr. Wonderful helped me move the last of the random shit. And then?
And then, I pulled my car into the garage.
The angels sang. My parents probably felt the sudden urge to weep and didn’t know why. Foxie Doxie and Geriatric Poodle were very impressed.
It’s a tight squeeze, and thanks to Mr. Wonderful, I now have one of those old lady tennis ball contraptions to tell me when to fucking brake already. But the car? She is in. And the world is my oyster.