Situation: Normal

Look, quite frankly, I have not been in a good way – very anxsty, very stressed. It has all been finance related so nothing new there and something I just have to constantly keep working on.

To feel productive and to take my mind off our financial yoga pose of down-the-drain I decided to clean the garage. Fist bump my brilliance. Also, go me for triumphing over that rather debilitating spider and cockroach phobia. Hello Sydney’s Northern Beaches. Now, if I could just be a little less pathological in my hatred of ants I am sure I’d be up for some human + environment symbiotic award. Or some such.

The garage. I want you to visualise a double car garage that has never been able to fit two cars in it. It fits Mum’s teeny Mazda but you put the Hyundai silver bullet in there and be committed to sleeping in it and peeing in one of the empty Coffee Dare bottles Chef has thrown over into the back. No point even attempting to get the bus in there, it’s TOO TALL.

So the Mazda lives in comfort but has a rather ugly bedfellow. It’s like a physical manifestation of The Odd Couple. On the one side is Mum’s neat, clean pocket rocket. On the other? Well, imagine a garage with lots of shelves and storage systems and order. Then imagine none of that but the equivalent amount of stuff. It’s like one of the kids bedrooms but with bikes. And scooters. And camping gear. And discarded spare furniture. And dust, dirt and leaves. Such a pretty picture.

Cleaning this space is truly a total indulgence of my burning desire for order and to line things up in neat(ish) rows. Oh sure, it’s all going to be trashed in a matter of minutes when someone comes out here looking for a spanner/screwdriver/plumb-bob/random object not found anywhere else inside the house.

We inherited a metal shelving unit from some neighbours who were recently kicked out to make way for another concrete box new home ignoring its capitalising on its proximity to the beach by building a pool. I stacked various things onto the unit – camping gear, Christmas decorations and so forth.

All good.

The spare chairs for our dining table were then restacked and covered with a filthy rag dropsheet.

All good.

Then the major issue – how to store myriad scooters and bikes so they are easy to get to and, most importantly, put back. The kids don’t care about this shit, but I am so bored with having to pull someone’s bike out and then being cobbled or losing skin off an ankle/shin/knee as another bike/scooter/object with wheels and pointed edges says ‘pick me, pick me’!

But then I realise if Chef’s (broken) motorbike was just a metre forward then everything would be so much better.


And I try to move it.


Without realising it isn’t just on it’s side stand but on the full stability stand (so, you know, boys climbing on it won’t end up under it as it topples over. Chef. Sensible.) I attempt to move it forward and surprisingly enough it doesn’t really budge more than a micro-millimetre. Ignoring this sign from the universe the motorbike not to fucking touch it I really get my weight behind it and give it a good push.

Fucking idiot.

The bike does this heavy groan kind of lurch forward and in relatively slow motion moves forward about 5 cms before I realise I am in deep deep shit and it falls away from me.

In some sort of perverse slow motion I try frantically to pull it back towards me but fail spectacularly. Curiously screaming ‘shit shit shit’ does nothing to stop the forces of gravity and TADA! let’s drop a Kawasaki ZZR 750 onto the side of an automobile. Even better, lets drop it onto the side of your MOTHER’S automobile. Their cute little white little clean little not-a-dint-on-it little car.

I bet you didn’t know the pillion passenger foot rest can really make quite a pretty pattern – and dent! – as it hits and scrapes down the side of a car door.

You know, the front windshield panel on a motorbike pops right out as it slams into the side of a car door, while warping the door as it goes smash, crackle, POP!

Total and utter fuckwit.

I just stand there staring at my handy work. The boys all gather round and stare at the murder scene. None of them, NONE OF THEM, utter a single word.

And then I start to cry.

Cleaning the garage? Noble.
Creating order out of chaos? Pleasing.
Doing more than $2,000 damage to your mother’s car in the process? Priceless.

Still, the boys can easily get their bikes in and out of the garage now.