The week that was

I had things timed perfectly if I left right then. But the garage door wouldn’t open when I pressed the button — no matter how many times I pressed it. I called on Ol’ Bill to come to my rescue, but the emergency pull cord was out of reach and I wasn’t about to let him on a ladder. So we were stuck. Fortunately, the son-in-law was nearby and got the door open, pulling the plug on the annoying blinking light.

We got hold of a garage door guy the next day. Bottom line: we’ll be getting a new garage door and all that entails in a couple of weeks.

At the very same time the garage door guy was here, so was the air conditioning guy. We had noticed a wet spot on the floor near the furnace/air conditioner and thought it best to call someone.

By the end of the day, the checkbook was suffering withdrawal pains, and any plans we had for buying anything frivolous, like food, went out the window.

Meanwhile, in the front yard, the 50-year-old pin oak has been in the process of losing branches with every little breeze that comes along. I noticed a substantial branch hanging strategically overhead, just waiting for its moment to let loose. Hopefully it will hang on until there’s no lawn mowing going on below when it gives way.

Walking around the fine old tree, I noticed a large amount of some kind of infestation encasing more than one branch and thought, “This can’t be good.” Now who to call? An arborist? Or a regular tree guy? One just sounds more expensive than the other to me. So far, I haven’t called anyone, but at this point the webbing issue seems more important. That branch is going to let loose one of these days no matter what we do. It is too large and out of reach for us to handle ourselves, so unless a tree guy deals with it, we’ll let Mother Nature take care of it in her sweet time.

By the looks of things, you’d think we were preparing to put the place on the market and get out of Dodge. We had the roof replaced last summer and gutters earlier this summer, along with replacing the refrigerator that decided enough was enough and quit making ice cubes. I don’t even want to ask what’s next. Believe me, I’m babying the car.

Because of the spending spree we seem to be on, Ol’ Bill says no eating out. Great — I’m not stressed enough, now I have to come up with meal planning and preparation. Grumpy? Who, me? Grumpy is putting it nicely.

I’m starting to seriously think about downsizing and just paying someone to manage all those stressors.

And then I look around me and break out in hives as I think, “Oh, my, where to begin?” There’s so much stuff, and I’m the age that I think certainly my stuff has value to someone out there. My granddaughter assures me, “No, Gramma, nobody wants your stuff.”

Then the image of the hoarders we see on TV comes to mind and I shudder. Do I just box things up and take it, one box at a time, to the local thrift shop and leave it anonymously on their doorstep, walking away? Kind of like abandoning a baby at the fire station, hoping for a good home for my Lenox collection? And my mother’s Hummels?

Do not mention garage sale to me. Been there, done that, and didn’t have fun. Didn’t make money and, for that matter, didn’t make a dent in our “stuff.”

But feel free to stop by and admire our new garage door.