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I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR!

In case you didn’t already know it: I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR! Today’s declaration of empowerment is sparked by the fact that I not only (finally) unpacked my office (98% of my office), I organized the garage. That’s right – my garage is now a thing of glory. It is so organized that I can actually fit my car inside.
The story of my of my disastrous garage began four months ago on moving day – well really a few weeks before that. Hubby #1 put me in charge of finding a mover. I HATE being put in charge of things (refer to my disdain for making decisions on the unknown facts list), not because I don’t like things to happen my way (again, the list), but because I can’t stand the pressure of potentially making the wrong decision. So, selecting the mover on my own was stressful because I knew that, for example, if the mover I hired happened to drop Hubby #1’s flat screen TV that it would forever be my fault since I would have been the one who had hired the incompetent, butter-fingered mover. Follow?
Nonetheless, in the expected I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR fashion I took on the task. I asked friends for references, I called movers, and I had movers come to the house to give me estimates. In the end, I felt confident with my decision – a mover recommended by a very picky friend who ran the business with his son (I’m always a fan of family businesses). He came to our house and looked carefully at all our stuff, making notes as he went, then told me that our life would be moved six miles down the 101 by three men in a 30 foot truck for the bargain price of $WTF. Sounded okay to me. I felt confident that I had made a good choice.
Flash forward to moving day. Three men showed up right on time at eight am. One of them was older than my mother and smaller than me. They were riding in a fifteen-foot truck… They were confident they could make it work though. Long story short, they did make it work – in three loads. Three loads meant that by the time they arrived at our new house with the final delivery, it was past nine o’clock. So, the final load, which mainly consisted of the contents from the well-organized garage at my old house, got haphazardly flung into my new garage. Hubby #1 was surprisingly calm about all this, probably because the TV made it inside in one piece.
For months, the garage was a place I avoided because it was so overwhelming. I would occasionally have to brave my way down to dig up a missing box of cookbooks that I finally found underneath an old dog crate or the box of paper party goods precariously balanced on top of a tricycle, but in general, I was grateful for the solid white garage door that allowed the mess to stay out of sight and therefore out of mind. Then last week, I felt the urge to tackle the beast. For a second I tried to talk myself out of it, but realized that it could be months (or longer) before the urge returned, and so down I went.
Four hours later, the job was done. The left side is sporting equipment (which we own a surprising amount of given how un-athletic we are), boxes of CDs and suitcases. The front is baby clothes, toys, gear, etc., and holiday decorations. The right is random half-full boxes of Hubby #1’s tools and miscellaneous junk (aka – not my problem). And in the middle, is my car!

I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR!

I am slightly concerned that my back will never recover, but the quick sharp pain I feel every time I bend down (which you do quite a lot when you have kids) reminds me of my impressive, tetris-like garage, and I feel a sense of pride (and a little relief) that I climbed my Everest and didn’t die along the way only to be hiked over by garage organizers to come.

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