So, if you're married or dating, or have any sort of contact with another human being, you realize that there is a certain give and take in a relationship. Certain things are done by certain people. While my expectation as a young married gal was that Joe would be in charge of cleaning the garage, when we moved to the farm, that expectation went out the window.
So, being OCD, I took it over.
I can't stand for my kids and their toys and my strollers and the freezers to be covered with dust at all times. Even if it's just for a moment, I like the feeling of a nice, swept, orderly garage...and then a car drives by, and one of my kids wants the one ride-on toy that's way in the back of the neatly arranged toys.
But, I digress.
I knew the garage needed to be cleaned, but I hadn't gotten to it...plus the guys have been working behind my house lately, and what's the point.
However, I noticed on Saturday morning, as I came home from running, a funky smell was coming from our garage.
Now, our garage is detached, and not the fanciest, by any means, but it generally doesn't smell.
However, by Saturday afternoon after the third birthday party drop off, it was really ripe. I wasn't feeling the best, so I ignored it again, chalking it up to Joe's boots or something.
Sunday, Joe noticed it.
That's when you know it stinks. He doesn't have my crazy sensitive sniffer, so when he notices it, I figured something should be done.
Monday, we were gone, but when I came home, still pulling into a stinky garage, I mentioned it casually to Joe that maybe he could take a look around...
he didn't bite.
So today, this country girl literally pulled up my rubber boot straps (because who wants to wear anything but something that can be hosed off if there's something nasty to remove?) and started unloading our garage. In the midst of the red dog (and if you've forgotten about what that is, read about it here), there were these brown pebbles.
Lots of them.
If this was a mouse, which ohdearlordpleaseletitnotjumpoutandrunacrossmyshoes, this was a monster. As I swept, I sniffed, and behind my chest freezer, there it was...something fuzzy.
I am not one to do something like this myself. Thank the Lord Joe was still around this morning, and armed with a shovel, he extracted the fuzzy monster from the back of our freezer.
Also known as a bunny...the ones that eat carrots and deliver eggs on Easter... but need I mention that they SHOULD NOT DIE behind my freezer?
Joe transported Mr. Rabbit to the field for its final resting place, but I didn't want to even see where went or what it looked like. I just wanted it gone.
Did I mention at that point, Amelia and I were hiding behind the car?
I know, I know...it's a bunny, but you smell one and then find one in your garage, amongst your cozy coupes and jog strollers, and then go all Animal Rights on me!
Now, I know that it wasn't going to hurt me, as it was obviously dead, thus the odor, but I'm not really big on dead varmits. I'm pretty much a wuss when it comes to that type of stuff. I can handle the cleaning up after the dog; I have learned to understand and clean up after the dirt and grime and dust of farm life. But varmints...no. way.
Once again, I have been tested to see if I'm cut out for this farm living, and at about 10:30 this morning, I wasn't sure I was.
But this country girl did survive. We have a swept garage, rid of stink and rabbit carcass, and I am one more step closer to being more outdoorsy than before.
That is, if you consider being outdoorsy, having your husband handy with a shovel and your pest man on speed dial.