Confessions of an Old Slob in Postcards 4

“America” entering San Diego harbor, 2009

Perhaps every home has a moment like this. We rush in after work. That bag or this bag will be going somewhere else tomorrow, so we put the bag down in the garage. Dear G puts things on the bed lid of the truck or in front of the shelving. I have a tendency to put things on the BBQ or the floor near it. Or the washer. Or the dryer.

Pretty soon, the garage is edged with bags, boxes, or a miscellaneous of containers. Like lace or fringe.

I announced loudly this week that we were cleaning out the garage today. “I don’t see why we can’t get rid of things,” I said knowing that thought was premature. Still, after we make our cake, I hope we will go down and dent the garage cacophony before we go buy him a new phone. Yes, washing a phone will kill it.

Tomorrow we will go down to the harbor and see the ships of the “Festival of Sail.”

• Himself: Playing his game.


• Herself: Writing you before diving into the dust of the garage.


• Reading: ”Orange is the New Black.” She writes well.


• Balance: Licking the mixer beaters.