DATELINE — Tuesday night.
As I’ve done all but three or four Tuesdays in the past two and a half years, I worked. Tuesday is the night we do layout for the fabulous Braidwood Journal. If you haven’t read my paper lately, please do so! Small towns bring a wide amount of controversy. It’s fun!
Anyway, I generally get home on Tuesday’s late enough that the boys are all in bed, but not so late that it is obnoxious. This past Tuesday I rolled in right around midnight, humming a little Lady Gaga, ready to hop in bed and have a great snoozer. So I click open the garage door, and this is what I see:
I can hear you all now. What Marney? A car and a rust stain and some random toys crushed into the back of the garage. WHAT?
Those are George’s socks. On the floor. IN THE GARAGE.
For piss sake.
It is utterly and completely hopeless.