I seldom haunt the garage. It is not my happy place. Crowded with strange smelling boxes and shadowy objects, the dank space is a shipwreck of flea-market flotsam. Every now and then I’m ordered into this hellhole to retrieve an item for Beloved. Yesterday she assured me there was a box of rags somewhere within the mice infested maze -- and she needed them pronto.
I’ve learned from previous beatings not to ask where something might be lurking. Ye gods forbid I should question the crap's very existence. Stalling for time, I offered to glean through my closet of business/casual attire and find tattered cotton suitable to replace the generic rag; but no. For reasons unknown Beloved collected real rags (as opposed to faded shards of Ralph Lauren’s retail empire) and now was the moment of their liberation from cardboard bondage.
Blessed with what military professionals call “shithouse luck”, I eventually located the box sans panic attack and bouts of nausea that usually accompany my rare garage explorations. Because Beloved cleverly marked my grail in big, black letters, she was presented with her wish within the hour. Exhausted -- but flushed with victory -- I retreated to the patio and repeatedly toasted success with fermented grains. Had the sun burned brighter, I would have anointed my ablated flesh with oil and presented the goddess Cerridenwen with sacrificial nail clippings.
All in all, it was a rather typical Friday afternoon at the hovel.
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