Goin' to the Garage

 I spent a couple days last week cleaning and organizing our garage and here are three discoveries I made: 

1. One wet, mildewed pillow wadded up inside a tent, crammed into a cooler. Not salvageable.
2. A suction machine left over from when Eli came home from the hospital.  Might be salvageable but I really don’t want to try and find things to suction. 
3. The mess I was cleaning and organizing was entirely my husband’s fault and I’m not sure he’s salvageable…and he’s obviously not trainable.

As soon as I graduated, I began making lists of all the projects I had put off while I finished school, and when Christmas was over, I started on the list; repainting my daughter’s bedroom, catching up on laundry, sorting through my son’s outgrown clothing and making daily trips to Goodwill as I jettisoned months (if not years) of accumulation.

And then I started on the garage… (please imagine the ominous thundering drums that should accompany that statement.)

Once upon a time we had a 2-car garage that was stuffed to capacity and rarely able to accommodate an actual car.  After Eli’s accident, we converted one side of the garage into a bedroom and bathroom for him.  This left us with a 1-car garage that was NEVER going to accommodate an actual car.

The second fridge and an upright freezer are in the far corner of the garage and procuring an extra gallon of milk or a carton of eggs has lately turned into an Olympic event, involving balletic leaps over the table saw and contortionist-style limbo-ing under the pressure washer.  Something had to be done and I would have to be the one to do it.  Why is that, you ask?  Sit down, relax and I’ll rant tell you about it.

Whether by osmosis, genetics or example, my mother taught me to be organized.  I love nothing more than sorting, organizing and labeling STUFF.  My label maker and I have a close, personal relationship.

Here is my pantry.  It’s not alphabetized, but its close.

Here are some of my scrapbooking stamps…I assigned them a numerical/alphabetic code, then cross- referenced them in a binder by category.  Yeah… I know it’s over the top, but it’s what passes for fun for me.

My husband is missing this sickness gene.  He thinks he tries, but he’s not even close to playing in the big league.  Here is the credenza in his office.

I will now share with you his method of being organized in his office.  Are you ready?   

It’s LEGAL PADS.  He buys them by the dozen and jots down unintelligible gibberish on them while he’s on the phone.  An important part of his process is to only use the first few pages of the legal pad, and then get a fresh one.  This ensures that when he really needs that important purchase order number, or change of address, he will have to fan through stack after stack of legal pads scattered over his desk.  But here’s the best part; when he needs to “get organized”?  He PUTS THEM IN A STACK.  That’s it.  That’s his system.  You can see how divorce is the only option, right?

So the garage.   Pete and I spent one day and a substantial sum of money to make a therapy table for Eli so he could do strengthening exercises.   The table had to be large enough for him to lay down on and practice rolling over, etc. so it’s approximately 8 x 4 feet.   

We built it this past summer, Eli used it for about two weeks,  and then my husband proceeded to pile up a mountain of junk on it while working on some project and that was the end of that.  Eli’s aide, Mykeshia, bemoaned the fact that she couldn’t get him in there anymore and everyday one of us vowed to get it cleaned up, but I was busy with school and Pete is clearly organizationally handicapped, so fast forward to my “clean all the things” rampage.

I began by putting away all his tools that were scattered around the house and garage.  It took me a full day.  I labeled his tool chest drawers and put the corresponding tool in the labeled drawer.   

That seems like a simple concept, doesn’t it?  I kid you not, he came out for a moment to help me with something and when he needed a screwdriver, he said, “Where are the screwdrivers?”     

It was at this moment that I sensed the enormity of his organizational deficit. 

Speaking of screwdrivers, guess how many are in this drawer?  87.   

Guess what he asked for at Christmas?  Screwdrivers.   

Guess what he got?  Screwdrivers.   

Can YOU guess where they are located?  Well, even if YOU can, HE apparently CANNOT.

I found six containers of zip-tie thingies, because every time he’s in Home Depot, he says, “Hey, we can use some of these” and he buys another package.  I don't think there is anything in our home that has a zip-tie around it.  What exactly does one zip-tie, other than bail-jumping criminals?…and I suspect they probably take the large size, which doesn't come in our assorted pack.

I discovered at least six tents.  I have never been camping in a tent.  To my knowledge, the last time my husband accompanied one of the boys on a scout campout, he slept in the van.  Yet out of six tents, we were only able to compile two complete tents that had tension rods and stakes and the little handkerchief screen thing that goes on top.  To be fair, I don’t think he lost the tent parts, but it does make me wonder who in our household is camping irresponsibly.

I banished him from the Great Garage Cleanup in the beginning because I knew if he were involved I would never be able to purge anything.  (At one point I posted on Facebook for anyone interested in various items to come grab them before he found out, and true friends that they are, my driveway was a beehive of activity as people carted off shelving and golf clubs and life vests while he obliviously worked in his office…no doubt scribbling on his legal pads.)   

But periodically, his nosiness would get the best of him and he would mosey out to see what was happening and I swear it was like Christmas for him.  (In fact, maybe next year I’ll just lead him to the garage for a guided tour.)  

He randomly opened drawers or noticed items on the newly cleaned shelves and said things like, “Hey, I forgot I had a router - that’s awesome!” or “Would you look at that?  I knew I bought some of those once…”

This experience has taught me three things:

1. Should I need to hide anything, the screwdriver drawer is now my go-to spot.
2. I can label the drawers, but I can’t make him read. 
3. In the event I divorce him, I’m making him KEEP ALL THE STUFF.  That should be punishment enough.

Run, Tanya, Run

Hi, my name is Tanya and I’m a runner. I can’t imagine that it’s any harder for an alcoholic to announce themselves, than it was for me to admit that. Not that I’m ashamed – it’s just that I don’t feel qualified.

About a year and a half ago, I made some changes and decided to start running and take a Zumba class. The Zumba was awesome, but the running took a little getting used to (and I never could have done it without the Couch to 5K app, which I can’t say enough about).

Now, I wasn’t a complete novice, since I had actually tried running before - ONCE. Thirty years ago my college roommate Robyn said, “Wanna go jogging?” and I said blithely said “Sure.” She ran me up one side of a mountain (I was living in Utah), back down the other and I staggered home, puked my socks up and never went again.

(This is the actual mountain. Really. Our apartment was right at the bottom, and no, I don't know what I was thinking.)

When I did start again, I eventually worked up to running 2-3 miles a day, three days a week, and I’ve done it for about 16 months, off and on. You would think that would be enough to make me a runner, but I still feel like the words “LIAR” are flashing in neon on my forehead.

So here’s the thing. I have four kids and I don’t have a problem telling people I’m a mom. Sometimes I’m a crappy mom, or a distracted mom, or a mean mom, but still…I never tell someone that I’m NOT a mom (tempting as it might be).

Years ago I took up photography, developed my own darkroom prints, studied the mechanics of composition and took photos semi-professionally for years. I don’t have the time or inclination to do it much anymore, but I still consider myself a photographer.

I have enough scrapbooking supplies to archivally preserve any memory you’ve ever even thought about having, and my shelves are filled with family scrapbooks. Yet when Eli had his accident, I stopped scrapbooking, because for me, it was all about preserving happy memories, and those were thin on the ground for a while. But I still consider myself a scrapbooker, even though I’m not currently producing any pages.

Why is it so hard to still consider myself a runner just because I haven’t run in a few weeks?

I don’t think we always perceive ourselves accurately. Even though I haven’t scrapbooked or snapped any photos lately, I still have all the supplies and skills, so I don’t feel false identifying myself as such. Yet I’m unbelievably conflicted saying I’m a runner if I haven’t run recently and religiously and successfully.

Maybe it has to do with the preconceived notions we have of the way people should be. The runner in my mental stereotype has a color-coordinated sports bra, ropy, muscular legs, and a ponytail that bounces while she talks (as she runs) about things like “endorphins” and “second wind” and “feeling the burn.” She has cool sunglasses and a tan, too. I don’t know why. She just does.

Sadly, none of these magical qualities have been made manifest in my experience. The last ponytail I had was probably tied with fat, fuzzy yarn for my third grade picture. My hair is more likely to be in full bed-head mode, standing on end in matted clumps, and one of my greatest accomplishments was to stop worrying that someone would see me...and laugh...and point.

I can’t talk about runner’s high or my second wind because I CAN’T TALK when I’m running…I can barely breathe. I occasionally pass other women who chat while they jog, and I usually try to trip them, if I can.

My running clothes aren’t color-coordinated - they’re drenched in sweat, and my running shoes give off a cloud of dust every time they hit the pavement because my daughter borrowed them to wear to the dust bowl at Bonnaroo. Now that I think about it, if you imagine that Pig-Pen character from Charlie Brown, you can start to get a pretty accurate visual.

My only special skill is the ability to put on a little extra burst of speed if a cute guy drives by.

So I ran for over a year, sweated my guts out at Zumba twice a week and dropped about 30 pounds. I felt good, but I still never felt like a runner.

I wonder what it takes?

Have you got any secret identities you’re afraid to claim? I’ll be brave if you will. Just say, “Hi, my name is ________ and I'm a _______." I promise not to point or laugh.