I Have No Shame

My garage, two years after moving into this house:

At least you can walk through it now. That’s an improvement. I’m happy to provide the public service of letting you feel better about your own garage, or whatever other room of dirty secrets you may have in your house.

Oh, and I can fit a car in here, see?

Sweet, sweet Miss Lucy. I still owe you an alternator. I’m a bad mama. Hey, what’s that on the wall?

No, not the hacksaw. Not the push broom. The long thing straddling the boards, IYKWIM.

Oh, this is new. It came home today with CC. Here’s the part where I win the husband contest, even though my garage (which is all my mess anyway, not his) looks like the Room of Requirement.


The back of an arrow:

The front of a different arrow:

The front of the first arrow shot into the back of the second arrow:


Color me impressed.

Splitting an arrow with another arrow was the only way CC could drag the range attendants’ attention away from #2, who was with him and is a fine shot herself. For some reason, the old guys there are more interested in a pretty fifteen-year-old female archery protegé than my handsome husband.

When he asked about repairing the arrows, they kind of looked at him and said, “We might be able to fix the back one, but really? You should hang that up on your wall. That’s a trophy.”

The kids and I don’t think the pegboard in the garage behind the Mustang is a good place to display a trophy. They all agree, it’s wicked awesome. We’re exploring other options.

I’m wondering where we can display Dad’s archery talents to have the greatest impact on potential teenage boyfriends. Any ideas?