Grunge Garage: Do Not Judge Me!

He has a dream.

He dreams of a manly place where no kids bug him, no wives nag him and no one needs anything from him. A tidy place where he can keep his tools and possibly park his car.

So it goes, on sporadic Saturdays here in beautiful downtown Brownsville, that my husband heads out to clean ‘his garage.’ He makes a great show of it. Banging and clanging and using the occasional *&%!-word.

That’s because our garage is full of it. Crap, that is. Old bicycles, hobby horses, tires and toys, used stereos, magazines, pop cans and sporting goods. Not to mention three stray cats and their litter-box. If it's smelly, dusty or homeless, I can guaran-dang-tee you it lives in our garage.

On such a Saturday, he generally comes inside to ask questions like this:
Him: Hey. Do you want this (fill-in-the-blank-with-plastic-from-Nixon-administration)?
Me: Yes I want that! I might use it someday!
Him: But Honey, it’s broken. Also, you’re old. You'll hurt yourself.
Me: Well, the kids might want to play with it!
Him: But it’s broken. And the spiders…
Me: Anyway, the memories! And it could be valuable. Keep it till I check Ebay.

Defeated, head down, he slinks away. Closes the garage door, gives up and heads to 'his office' (the bed). Flips on the Military Channel.

He says it's my fault, the mess in the garage.

But here at the Weber Center for Completely Uninformed Social Research (WCCUSR), we have determined that this is indeed not my fault, because I have the female pack rat gene.

This gene causes pack rat women like me to think about, nay, ponder the sadness that will befall the household if Really Important and Necessary Stuff - like baby shoes, Hot Wheels or Veterinarian Barbies end up in the Goodwill bag.

Several of my girlfriends also carry this gene. There's Brenda, who moved three truckloads of antiques and furniture from California to Ohio - all for two people. Marlene regularly fills her garage with unwanted stuff from other folks' garage sales. Another woman I know saved the crayons her son used - 30 years ago.

Perhaps the Queen of my pack rat friends, Sonia has kept the shirt her husband was wearing when she met him, a banana from her honeymoon breakfast (in a baggie) and her babies' belly button stumps (more baggies).

And, true to form, all over the Midwest, our husbands dream of orderly tools and parked cars. Then they scratch their heads, lower the garage door and retire to 'their offices.' Flip on the Military Channel.

Why do pack rat women save this stuff? I mean, besides the fact that it could become valuable on Ebay?

I think it's because time flies by faster than a Walmart bag in the wind. I can't remember what happened last week, let alone ten and 20 years ago, so I need this moldy old crap to remind me. Also, some stuff is just too precious to throw away. It’s just like that old Jim Croce song, the one that goes ''If I could save time in a baggie...''

But it is true: the garage is a mess. A maze of storage boxes, broken bikes and overflowing recycling bins. Even I can't ignore it anymore. It's getting so bad that the three stray cats have reconsidered homelessness.

O.K., O.K., I hear you. One of these days, I'll let my husband have his dream of an organized garage. I will fight my pack rat genes and he can toss some stuff. Yes sir, I'll let him do that. Just as soon as I check it all out on Ebay.

Bum Vacation

I yearned for it.

Walked slowly past, looked longingly, touched lovingly, eyed the price tag, sighed and kept walking.

“You don’t need it,” said the voices in my head. “The one you have is just fine. It looks OK. It will serve you for years to come.”

But still, I lusted, year after year after year. The look of it, the feel of it, the downright luxe of it…

The Padded Toilet Seat.

“Psssst,” it says. “Have a sit-down! Relaaaxxxx…..”

Ahhhh. Nothing like it. It’s a bum-break, a pooper-pamper, a wee (-wee) vacation for the tired tush.

(Not that I would know. I never utilize these things. For I am a Pretty Flower, who never, ever has to use, um, facilities. No, I am only thinking of the family.)

But, like I said, here at the Weber house, we were already the proud owners of a toilet seat. Yeah, we’re wealthy like that.

It was here when we bought the house. From the late 1980s, heavy, dark, oak - purchased in the days of stenciled walls, country-blue geese and Randy Travis.

So I waited. I waited and waited and waited for that ugly oak Randy Travis Toilet Seat to break. Or die. Whatever. The practical Youngstown girl (Another steel mill could close! Or I could lose my job! Again!) in me just couldn’t see replacing a perfectly good, structurally sound shitter-seat with a new one.

Oh, we, er, they gave Randy Travis their best shots over the years - in sickness and in health. Little and big men in the house, lots of slamming up and down, lots of sideways spillage.

I waited 16 years. SIXTEEN YEARS. I gave him the best years of my life, and still, the ugly oak Randy Travis Toilet Seat WOULD NOT BREAK.

This year, I said the hell with it. I simply could not wait anymore. We received our tax return check, and I got crazy.

I went to Walmart, plunked down my $19.41 and walked out with It: a Deluxe, Lovely, Soft, Vinyl, Padded Toilet Seat. Color: Vanilla.

I rushed home, tore out my toolbox and set to work. A simple thing, toilet seat replacement, right?

You'd think so. You'd be wrong. The Randy Travis Toilet Seat wouldn't let go. The corroded bolts had seemingly melted into the very porcelain of the crapper bowl.

I hated to admit it, but I needed some man power. I called my husband.

He grunted, sweated, cussed. Then he got up from his chair to come work on the toilet seat. Grunted, sweated and cussed some more. Randy Travis did not budge.

Oh, I was so close. So close to my dream of pampered poopers for all. (Except for me, of course. Again, Pretty Flower…) What to do?

Then it hit me out of the Tidy Bowl Blue - we’d call our buddy Greg. Dude's a complete genius when it comes to home repair, car repair, any-dang-thing-repair.

Best part? Will work for beer.

It wasn’t long before Greg pulled up, in his magical truck o' tools. I knew now that I was THIS CLOSE to my dream of cushy-seat-softness (Well, the family was close. I’ll never know…)

Greg whipped out his equipment, and tackled Randy Travis, who was really having trouble letting go of the Webers. Seemed he planned on hanging around “Forever and Ever, Amen.”

But he was no match for Greg and his large tool.

And, after a couple of hours of blood, sweat and toilet water, my dream finally came true.

Randy Travis was trashed.

And in his place, in all its comfy, soft, dreamy glory, was the vanilla Padded Toilet Seat. I was in heaven. Think of the peaceful pees! (For the family, I mean, I think only of them...)

We all stood around to admire his work, while Greg mopped Weber sewer water from his brow.
I felt bad for the guy. He was certainly due many, many cases of beer for this odious task.

But, he remained unruffled. He simply shrugged, packed up his toolbox and said:

"You know, I never have liked these things, these soft seats like this. It's like taking a crap on the couch."

Yeah. Thanks, Greg. Thanks a lot.

No beer for YOU!