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From the back of the garage…

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To the back yard…

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Down the cobwebbed staircase of doom…

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And across the entire length of our nightmare, packed to the rafters basement….

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I cursed him.

On all of the 23 trips it took me to clear my patio table of his crap boxed up treasure.

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It may not look like much, but the boxes weighed a ton and I have a bad knee.

Explanation for my cursing?

A patio table belongs on the patio. Or in our case, on the back deck. But right after we relocated it to the garage… when the contractor replaced the deck last year… my husband piled a bunch of crap stuff on it. I’ve been after him for, count them… eleven! months to move his crap things.

Eleven months.

But our deck was still bare.

So last week I dragged every last piece of crap off the table and back down to the basement.

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If anyone needs 74 old issues of Life magazine? I’m your girl.

But after that workout?

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Success.

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