Ever since I saw that episode of the Simpsons where Moe tells Homer he's all la-di-da for saying 'garage', and Homer says well, what do you call it, and Moe says 'the car hole', I have been physically unable to say garage. And anyway, car hole is more appropriate for the place where one would put a car here, if there was space for it.
No matter how hard I try to keep that thing organized, it turns back into a pit of despair within seconds of my shutting up the door (which, by the way, swelled so badly last winter I couldn't get it open to get to the garbage cans... another item to put on the to-do list.)
The fact is, there's only so much you can do with choreography. If I could accept that I am never going to have an elegant meal in the back yard and will probably never camp again, and get rid of the patio set and tent, I could probably whip that thing into shape.
But not today. Today, I'm weeding the outside of the garage, aka the garden of despair. If I'm not back in 24 hours, send a search party, wouldja?
1 comment:
You mean that some people actually put cars in their garages? What a novel idea. Our assorted garages have been nothing but storage and work spaces.
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