As Long As I’m Okay…
I’ll get to the title in a minute. But first, allow me to set this up for you.
My parents’ neighborhood holds a huge community garage sale every year. This year, since we moved into a new house, we had a lot of stuff to get rid of. Moving, in case you didn’t know this, is a FANTASTIC time to thin out the things that you put somewhere “for that special occasion” and then five years later you see it and go “Oh my God what is that horrible thing and why is it lurking in the corner of the garage like a serial killer?!” (Oh, just us? Never mind.)
I drove Tot over for a good weekend visit and a chance to
dump our crap be eco-friendly and try to give our beautiful things a new, loving home. My mom informed me there were a few more things in the attic that she wanted to sell, and would I mind getting them down for her?
Well, hey. The attic’s “roof” is like 4 feet tall, and I’m 5’10”, but sure. No problem. I just sort of look like this…
As I climb up there, “a few things” ended up including (among others) a massive, bulky plastic tote box. I’m not sure how they got this bastard up there to begin with, since the attic is one where it’s got that narrow pull-down ladder and it is only made for skinny people who have size three feet.
The following mostly-true-life conversations happened.
Me: *bumps head on beam* Why am I up here again?
Mom: To get the boxes down. Let’s go, chop chop.
Me: I’m the tall daughter. Why didn’t you send the hobbit daughter up here?
Mom: You’re available and she’s got a dog.
Me: That makes NO sense!
Mom: Are you coming down? Don’t make me send the fire department up there. That’s embarrassing.
Ten minutes later, it looked more like this…
Me: I don’t think I have a good grip on this box.
Mom: That’s okay.
Me: No, I mean it might fall on me. I’m going to fall.
Mom: That’s okay.
Me: My finger’s caught. I think I might lose my finger.
Mom: That’s okay!
Me: Oh my God. Mother. Are you even listening to me?
Mom: Am I okay back here or are you going to fall on me? *scoots back ten feet*
Me: Your concern is underwhelming.
Mom: As long as I’m okay… Don’t break that!
Garage sales…bringing families together since … when were garage sales invented again?
* My mother would like me to point out that this was jesting. I think. Or maybe it’s a post-trauma cover-up. (No, she was joking.)
** My sister would like me to point out that she is 5’3″ which does not qualify her for “hobbit” status. Mostly. But she’s still a shorty. With a dog. (?!?!) So…there.