Call me crazy, but I believe a three-car garage should hold at least one car. And yet, ours houses zero. Not even a bike.
Over Thanksgiving, my dad was kind enough to help Brian install these gigantic, white cabinets and I love them. Seriously. Every time I look at them, my heart races just a tiny bit. They are sturdy, clean, and look really impressive. And best yet, our junk is carefully concealed behind the gigantic white doors. Why do I have 8 cans of various shades of green spray paint? I don't know. But I can tell you where exactly it is stored in our garage, lest the need arise for some basil or lime colored paint. (far left cabinet, third shelf, in the back.)
I even took down our Christmas decorations on the 26th of December (sorry, just not very sentimental) and waited with baited breath to store all of our ornaments, tinsel and bows with precision. Except the lovely white cabinets are now full, and we still have about 300 boxes on the floor. Hence the need for overhead storage.
I've been asking (read: nagging) Brian to put up the overhead storage since December 27th. It's going to mainly house what I like to call "Seasonal Decor" and while it's out of the way, at least it's still within reach. (Easter is coming up fast, people).
The only problem with the overhead storage? The only time Brian has to do it is on Sundays. And Brian said he would do it as soon as football season ended. So while I cheered on Green Bay (from a distance, naturally), I felt torn. If they win, Brian is happy. If they lose, my seasonal decor continues to occupy a giant chunk of floor space and my car continues to get dirty since it sits outside, next to the sprinklers, every night. Which is more important to me? Does it matter?
I think you know where this story is going, since the Packers play in the Superbowl this weekend.
I did manage to convince (read: harass) Brian into hanging the shelving this past weekend. Technically, the Packers were not playing. This was his one, shining moment to get into the garage, hang some wire rods, and call it a day.
So he did. Kind of.
I tried to set the stage as best as I could. I took Scotty far, far away (Target) and left Brian to work on his own, uninterrupted. I know I give him a bad rap for his handyman skills, but my dad (i.e. Bob Villa) was impressed with Brian's craftsmanship on the Gates of Hell (we all remember that one, right?) and I started to think maybe I should ease up on the poor guy.
And then Saturday happened.
Scotty and I had just gotten back from Target and were fixing lunch as Brian happily measured and drilled in the garage. All of a sudden I hear the sound of the drill followed by this very terse, "Help!" and then silence. It was so quick I thought I had imagined it.
So I started walking to the garage, but something inside of me said, "Run!" I rounded the corner, threw open the door (had he fallen off the ladder? Did a box fall and hit him? Are there wolves in the neighborhood?) and was greeted by literally a sheet of water pouring down from the ceiling.
Brian, poor guy, looked awful. He was wet and angry and totally freaked out. And oh yeah, there was a fountain of water pouring out of our ceiling through a hole in the ceiling.
Like any good married couple in a time of crisis, we immediately started yelling at each other.
"What did you do?" I hollered.
"I don't know what happened!" he screamed at me.
"Turn off the water!" I yelled back.
"I don't know how!" He was now jumping up and down in the water as it gushed over us. I'm sure the neighbors were getting a kick out of this one.
For whatever reason, back in November, my dad had randomly pointed out the water valve to me. It was in the spot where we were going to put the cabinets, and for some reason, like a dream, that whole conversation with him flashed through my brain in this very moment.
I ran to the wall, found the valve, and turned it. The water, blissfully, stopped gushing. And Brian stopped jumping around like a crazy person.
And then, as we stood facing each other, wet, confused, but mostly relieved, the door to the garage started shaking and I realized that in the heat of the moment, I had left Scotty inside to fend for himself. He was standing on the other side of the door, shaking the handle and screaming at the top of his lungs.
The rest of the story, sadly, is pretty dull. We called a plumber (cheap, let me tell you, on a Saturday afternoon. On an emergency basis.) We sat around and looked at the dirty dishes piling up and discovered a new-found appreciation for the beauty of running water. Brian mopped, swept, and cleaned the garage while the plumber cut a giant hole in our ceiling and replaced the pipe Brian drilled into with another pipe. Brian wrote a check to the plumber, and just like that, the water was running again.
Honestly, I don't fault Brian. It was a one-in-a-million chance that he would drill into literally a 1/2" pipe in the ceiling (that technically was placed too close to the wall anyways.) And he cleaned up the garage, including Scotty's five thousand Cheerios and Craisins that were littered about, and now it looks better than it ever has.
Now we are letting the insulation and ceiling dry. A dry wall guy will have to come out to patch everything up, and then maybe, just maybe, my garage shelving will be hung. I'm just hoping it happens before December 26th, 2011.