No. No It Can’t.

There are a lot of Siennas in our neighborhood. I see them because they’re parked in the driveway rather than in the garage. “I don’t think the Sienna can fit in our garage,” I said to Lynnette a few days ago. “Really?” “Yeah,” I said. “Because why would so many people not park them in their garages?” I continued. “Well, maybe that’s just because you can’t see the one parked in the garage,” Lynnette said. “That’s true, too,” I said. “Caaaan,” Lynnette said. “I still don’t think so,” I said. Well, today we found out which one of us was right.

Lynnette and I started cleaning the deepest part of the garage under the premise that in order for the van to fit into the garage, it would have to nearly butt up against that wall. I figured since we were there, we might as well do some heavy cleaning because we’d ignored it for so long.



We did something we should have done a long time ago: got rid of all our old shoes. There were so many pairs – both mine and Lynnette’s – from a decade ago dying slow deaths in their original boxes. The first 30 minutes of cleaning was a nostalgia trip. We both help boxes open toward each other. “Remember these?” we said. “Holy sh*t!” I squealed. Many of them were cracked or coming apart, and the vast majority no longer fit us. We loaded the old and broken shoes into Madison’s old wagon and towed them to the dumpster. I didn’t cry, but that’s because I had said goodbye to those shoes a long, long time ago, but let them decay in the garage anyway.

When we had cleared the front of the garage Lynnette brought out the tape measure to find out once and for all if we could fit the Sienna in the garage. The answer? No, because of the freezer we keep down there. There’s no place in the garage that would have allowed us to park the Sienna in there, and even if there had been, the space would have been so tight, it would have prevented us from ever being able to get to the freezer (or thing else on a shelf). So… that didn’t go super well. But we learned a valuable lesson: measure twice, clean the garage nonce.


“First, Fast, Best, Footaction. This is Phil speaking, how can I help you?”

We rediscovered a large plastic bin filled with old clothes that belonged to slimmer versions of Lynnette and me. “Is this the I’ll-hang-onto-it-because-maybe-one-day-I’ll-be-able-to-fit-again container?” I fished out three of my t-shirts in size large. “YEP!” I shouted. This was a nostalgia trip on steroids and/or heroin. Lynnette and I flipped through shirts and dresses and recalled where and why we wore them. I found my old Footaction polo shirt and immediately threw it on. It’s headed for the washing machine, then a place in the back of my closet. Congratulations, Footaction polo shirt, on being recalled to the Major Leagues. You will probably sit on the bench for the rest of your career, but I am positive you prefer the walk-in closet to a plastic tub in the corner of the garage, even if it is painted up in Mets orange.


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