Yesterday was our fifth wedding anniversary. We’ll start there. A week ago, my Mom called and offered to take Felix overnight, so we could have anniversary date night. Initially, we were like, “Um, yeah, but can we do it Saturday night instead?” Then Mark had a brilliant idea!
Rewind five years and two months. Wibbly wobbly…timey wimey… (extra credit if you get that)
A soon-to-be-married CDG and Mark sign a mortgage on the house in which they now reside. Mark promptly begins gutting it. Over the next five years, he systematically guts 75% of the second floor and rebuilds it all–beautifully, I might add.
All the stuff we needed out-of-the-way while various parts of our home were unfinished find their way into the spare bedroom. Chaos ensues. Our cat, who went to live with a very nice lady named “Cindy” about six months ago, spent four and half of those years being angry at me for:
- moving Mark in with us
- moving her to a new home
- renovating the home, loudly, with power tools,
- getting dogs, and
- having a baby
Then, petfinder.com and I found her “Cindy.” Everyone, including the cat, loves this situation. But I digress.
She spent those angry years peeing on the carpets in the spare bedroom. If we shut her out of that room, she peed in the bathroom, or on the basement floor. Just. Eeew.
Due to the overwhelming amount of stuff in the spare bedroom, we couldn’t get the carpets up and out until after the cat was gone. Until we suddenly found ourselves with a free and childless Saturday morning in June. And Mark had a brilliant idea!
Say it with me now, “Yard. Sale.”
So, last week we cleared everything out, sorted, purged and organized. The carpets came out, along with the smell–halleluia!–and we got ready for our yard sale.
What? A romantic fifth anniversary weekend shouldn’t include a yard sale? It worked for us! We also squeezed in dinner out, sushi to celebrate the sale, and adult… conversation. Gutter minds…
So, for the past week, the words “yard sale” have been in large font around our house, and my mind keeps turning back to the ski resort slang term yard sale, referring to a spill so bad that all your gear scatters when you fall, as though it were on display at a yard sale, rather than assisting you with your alpine descent.
Since what I lack in skiing prowess and athleticism, I make up for in enjoyment (my Dad, who taught me to ski, always says, “If you don’t fall, you’re not trying hard enough!”), yard sales were a frequent and prominent part of my downhill skiing experience. If I had a dollar for I hit the snow with my poles ten feet away in opposite directions and my skis on their way down the mountain without me, listening to some yahoo on the lift calling out, “YARD SALE!” I wouldn’t need to go back to work.
Of course, it’s been more than five years since I’ve skied. So we put my ski boots out. At an actual yard sale.