There’s no easy way to say this.
I hate my garage.
I mean, sure. I don’t like the shed much. Once I found the spider eggs growing on my ski bag, I was pretty much done.
But I don’t keep anything in the shed anymore. Grow spiders on my skis and our relationship is over. Which, now that I think about it, should have also been my policy with boyfriends.
I moved my skis to the storeroom off my bedroom. It’s the only indoor storage we have. It’s carpeted and climate controlled – a virtual haven.
Especially compared to the garage.
There are things I need to keep in the garage. My bike, for example. And house painting supplies. And of course my hard-won refrigerator. I can’t exactly move those things to the storeroom. Not even the laundry room.
But venturing into the garage is a bit like visiting the world’s worst zoo. Mice live in the garage. So many mice. Enough mice to recast The Secret of NIMH and An American Tail. At the same time.
Squirrels occasionally make their way into the garage too. Brazen squirrels. Don surprised one once when he opened the garage door. The squirrel ran up Don’s front, down his back, and out into the yard.
Spiders have also colonized the garage. Or, more accurately, spiders have colonized the dozens of Dickens Village houses stored in my garage.
They’re Willie’s. She stored them in my garage when she moved. Two years ago. That’s a long story. Maybe I’ll tell it next week.
The only good thing I can say about the spiders is they seem pretty equitable, seeing as they share the Dickens Village with a few skinks.
And I can’t really say I blame any of them. Wouldn’t you live in Fezziwig’s shop if you could? Or Nephew Fred’s house?
I’m not too thrilled about the skinks. But the worst, of course, is the snake. It slithered under the door. Used the trash can to scrape its skin off. Went on its merry way…somewhere.
It left its shed skin behind, which I thought was just some unraveled rope. I saw that skin, every day for a week. Each time I brought trash out to the garage. And I’d think, “Why does Don have unraveled rope on the floor of the garage?” Because anytime something is not where it’s supposed to be, I blame Don.
That’s probably not good for our marriage. But Don is pretty indifferent to his messes. And my judgment of them.
I finally realized it was a snake’s skin on trash day. And could I leave the trash cans for my husband to bring to the curb?
I could not.
He was in Canada. Fishing. Incommunicado.
That was a tough battle. My herpetophobia warred with my Obsessiveness. If I left the trash cans, I wouldn’t risk getting killed by the snake.
But then the trash wouldn’t go out until the next trash day. My Obsessiveness assured me this was just as deadly as the snake.
That left me with one option.
I took a deep breath, grabbed one of the trash cans, and screamed. I screamed all the way down to the curb.
I repeated that three times. Once for each trash can.
And it worked. The trash cans made it to the curb. The snake didn’t get me.
So now you’re saying to yourself, “Wow. That garage is pretty terrible.” And you’re right. But there’s one more problem we haven’t discussed.
Long ago, Don and I agreed the garage and shed were his spaces, the rest of the house was mine. I took this to mean each person was responsible for cleaning and tidying their space.
Don took it to mean each person could do as they please in that space, and if the other person enters that space and throws away something that is clearly trash, then that person is some kind of monster.
“Clearly trash” might be a bit aggressive. “Something I have no need for and therefore Don doesn’t need either and I hate clutter so I’m getting rid of it” might be more accurate.
About once a year, I get really tired of the morass in the garage. I put on old clothes and start cleaning.
That means I’m the one who finds the dead mice in the mouse traps.
I don’t touch them. Not even with a broom. I will consent to cleaning the garage. But dead mice in traps are a hard line. I didn’t get married so I could exchange one bad last name for another. I got married because I don’t throw away dead mice in traps. I don’t throw away shed snake skins. And Don doesn’t know this yet, but I don’t pull the Dickens houses out of the garage to sell for Willie.
When the Dickens Village took up residence in the garage, a few other things did too. Willie’s Christmas tree, for example. But also Indy’s shop vac.
The shop vac was typical Indy. Parts missing. Duct tape holding things together. Indy and duct tape are basically synonymous. We used to have a magnet that read “Duct tape is like The Force. It has a light side and a dark side and it binds the universe together.”
If that’s the case, then Indy is a duct tape Yoda – a quiet, wise, unassuming master.
Indy told me I could have the shop vac. Those were the sweetest words I’ve ever heard him say.
My Obsessiveness awoke when Indy offered me that shop vac. Its eyes glowed and fingers stretched, longing to snatch up the shop vac right then and there. It whispered and urged. Think of all the things we can clean with that shop vac.
And I did. I thought of all the things.
So yes. I vacuumed the garage.
Indy took the shop vac back.
I don’t think it’s because I vacuumed the garage. But sometimes the people in my life view my Obsessiveness as one of those boyfriends I should have jettisoned over the metaphorical spider eggs – an interloper and bad influence, a ne’er do well desperate to wreak havoc.
I, of course, defend my Obsessiveness, like I defended those spider egg boyfriends. My Obsessiveness is good. It loves me. It wants good things for us, like a completely empty garage. And storeroom. And kitchen cabinets. All the drawers empty, too. And pantry. And everyone sitting perfectly still on the sofa, not eating or making food, clothes perfect and pressed, every hair in place.
I don’t think the people who love me conspired to take away the shop vac. But it’s possible. I obviously couldn’t be trusted. Left with my Obsessiveness, there’s probably no end to what I would have vacuumed. The deck. The heating vents, with all the Skittles and crayons trapped in their depths. A dozen other things that seem perfectly reasonable to me but are probably very alarming.
I brought trash out to the garage the other day. It was early, still dark. After all these years with Don, I was still startled by the fake deer wedged between the trash cans. I shouldn’t have been, considering some of the things I’ve found in that garage. But a fake, life-sized animal in the dim of the early morning looks a lot like a real, life-sized animal.
And I’m not dealing with that.
Even if I still had my shop vac.