An Open Letter....

My dearest Love,
I realize that since we moved to this house-you have taken an interest in the garage and how clean the garage is, how it looks from a passing car, what stuff is left out and cleaning the garage every now and again. When we lived in the Modified Ghetto you did not care...now we moved on up and we "care"

When you left for work this morning you called me George Jefferson. And I believe that you stared humming the song to the Jefferson's. I am not George Jefferson, as I am not a middle aged African American male-whom came into a windfall. The Windfall part -you can tell me about that later if you have any news from the financial standpoint.

I went into the garage this morning when I was headed out the door at 830 this morning to take your clothes to the laundry and pick up the paint that YOU wanted. As I was loading up the clothes, I noticed that the messes you were talking to Mr. Jefferson about was the Tomato vine thingy that I did not put out there. You were aggravated by the broom, pooper scooper blue tarp and these size 11 mens crocs that are all outside of the garage door-none of which I own. And I know that you would say that I do own the broom as my mode of transportation which is really quite funny, and you would know that I think that it is funny by the mild smirk on my face.

So my dear, I will not be heading outside to pick up the junk in the garage because, and I woefully submit to you these explanation:

1-I am not George Jefferson, although I do have my own neatly maintained piles of stuff which does not compare to your crap beside the bed. Like the bag from Labor day weekend that you have yet to unpack. George Jefferson I am not.


2-My back hurts. Which explains my unique gaite.........

There is a certain amount of adoration that I feel for you at 7AM when you make fun of your stuff and blame it on me. Ah Love!