Tonight I (through the kindness of dear friend John) parked the car inside the garage. Inside. The garage. Inside! The GARAGE!
In the six years (and two houses with garages) that we have been together we have never managed to park a car inside of a garage because of all the crap stuffed in there. The garage is just an extra room on the front of your house where you put all the junk that won't fit inside the house, or is too dirty, i.e. lawn mower, wheelbarrow, etc.
I needed a sitter this evening for a couple of hours and despite his bleary-eyed new parent sheen, John volunteered to come over and hang. He kindly asked if there was something he could do rather than sit for two hours, and figuring it would only take a few minutes, I pointed him at the garage. Honestly, there was just a bunch of recycling and stuff in the way and the other stuff could just be shoved off to one side. But it's just something I couldn't get myself out to the garage to do, for whatever reason. For whatever reason named Delia, I suspect.
Bless you, John. Sainthood awaits you after a lengthy and prosperous life. You Da Man.
And now I'm sure the neighborhood watchdogs will think I'm gone because the car is not in its customary place in the driveway -- but they will be wrong! Muwahahaha!!!
I'm going to go out there one more time and look at it before I go to bed. It is glorious to behold. But it feels a little wrong: Why is there a car in the garage? Where's all our junk?