Monday, August 13, 2007

I'm not Mad at You, I'm Mad at the Dirt. Wait, Maybe I am Mad at You

It is, as so many things are, all my mommy’s fault. When I was just a wee little duckling, she had me store my toys in separate boxes, one for my cars, one blocks, one for Legos, you get the picture. So now when I say I cleaned up my garage I don’t mean I sort swept the bigger pieces of dirt into the corners and called it a day. O baby, no. I hauled every single item out, tried to talk myself into throwing it away (up to and including our car) and if I absolutely couldn’t, I shoved it, neatly, under the stairs where I can’t see it.

I understand my goal of having an empty garage is a futile one. The purpose, after all, is storage, and yet the thrill of big open spaces is so powerful. I don’t want a garage, I want the steppes of Russia.

The best part was that R Man and I were able to work together on a project without me turning into Baby Jane. I do not play well with others. On jobs around the house, I tend towards snarky bitchiness and my sweet, sweet boyfriend has borne the brunt of this way too many times. So to be able to successfully hang up a ladder (hoo hoo) without swerving towards Divorce Court is more of an accomplishment than it might sound.

Boyfriend was so relieved to come out of it with his skin in one piece, he even allowed me to dump the ratty little dresser he’s had for decades. He found it on the street in the French Quarter and dragged it home (just like me!) and has kept it ever since (just like me!) It served us long and well, but time to go is time to go and thanks to craigslist, it’s gone. So farewell, loyal bureau, godspeed, and may the underwear of others repose in your semi-sturdy embrace for years to come.

On a separate note, go immediately to Fabulon and watch the Official Fabulon Video . The thrill of a glammed-out Dame Shirley Bassey covering one of the great anthems of our time is not to be missed.

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