Let me preface this with the fact that I have lived in my house for 20 years this month and my attic is, well, let me say where we keep EVERYTHING! Skeletons, portraits – ok, those are not so subtle proverbial examples – but truthfully I have a playpen up there and my youngest is taking his road test this Friday.
When the central air conditioning guys come for maintenance I win the award for the scariest attic. “M’aam (I hate when they call me that) you have a lovely, well-kept home but your attic is a horror show.”
This weekend Gary went up to the attic and passed down the camp trunks and duffles to Danny. I stood at the bottom of the steps bossing them both around because that is what I do.
After the camp crap beloved camp items were dragged down to the living room, I heard Gary banging around in the attic. There could be nothing good about this. Let me explain that when Gary gets a burst of homeowner energy I know there will invariably be something else that catches his attention in the middle and the task will go unfinished. His intentions are honorable but his desire to close is simply not there. At this very moment I was rather annoyed that after 20 years of recklessly filling the attic with useless crap he chose 4 days before the camp trunks were being picked up to clean it.
Me: What are you doing up there?
Gary: Leave me the hell alone, you crazy old hag.
I am not sure why this struck us both so funny, but at the same moment we both started cracking up. And there was poor Danny, standing on the landing between us in a bewildered state.
Danny: I will never get the two of you.
Seriously, Gary was lucky I was in a good mood. That comment could have ended badly if I were in a hormonal rage.