Tomorrow I get the esteemed pleasure of helping Nurse Betty clean out her garage. Most of you would make up corny (read: lame) excuses for being busy when a friend asks you such a favor, but considering this allows me to go to the dark side (aka, Monica Geller), I actually think of it as a treat. She asked me to help her a couple of days ago, and as she was asking, I had already drawn mental schematics of the garage, decided how many shelving units she would need, and was dissecting the junk - I mean prized possessions - into catergories. She just barely reserved the truck this morning. Sigh...amateurs.
You see, while most of you believe that being type-A organized can be a fault, those of us who are that way only see it as everyone else's stupidity. Why wouldn't you organize the knives, forks, and spoons when you place them in the dishwasher? And what is so damned wrong about sitting out on your friend's porch, only to walk over and start dead-heading her garden because you can't stand to have it there, staring at you, mocking you, snarling at you to fix it? Ok, so I might go overboard a time or two, but I also have my true Phoebe moments.
Nurse Betty can tell you all about the time I asked the waitress how big an 11" pizza was, or the time that I told her she needed to buy the chili con carne without the meat. (I took French in high school and college, folks. I no habla hispanola.) And there, Nurse Betty! Now you can't out me to anyone about how blonde I can be at times.
So back to this garage and why small children run away screaming from it. (Or in Princess 2's case, she happily goes exploring and comes out with treasures like a gardening mat or an old sock.) Have you ever seen that show, Buried Alive? Well, this isn't quite that bad, because none of it actually extends into the house, but the garage is full of useless items. I ask thee of level head, who the hell needs a knitting machine the size of a small piano? Or leftover carpet that could easily be used to carpet a gymnasium?
Tomorrow the behemoth cometh. Whether you call me the behemoth is on you. All I know is that when I'm done with her, people will raise a flag (or in Nurse Betty's case, a finger) in my honor.