I'll be spending the next 12 days avoiding my ultra-conservative family members, but on Nov. 5th, if things go the way they appear to be going right now, I WILL try to feel their pain and fear. God knows I've had eight years of practice.
Last year, right around this time, my husband and landlord had this fantastic idea that they would do a little business together when she (our landlord, who has a penchant for liquidator and estate sales) ran out of places to store the things she was inexplicably compelled to purchase and my husband (a salesman) found himself between jobs. What transpired shortly thereafter was the offloading of four or five (i lost count) horsetrailers full of "inventory" heretoafter referred to as The Crap in My Garage. At first it was all kind of novel and my husband was gung-ho and some of the crap came and went before I even had a chance to stub a toe on it, but after a while, I noticed that the arrival of new crap had begun to overtake his interest in the endeavor. Hence this undertaking. In a perfect world, this page would serve as a kind of unloading dock for The Crap In My Garage. In the world, as we know it, it will serve as an inventory of the Crap that eventually brakes free from my garage, sneaks into the house and smothers me with its sheer volume.
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