It was one of those mornings where everything was going exactly as it should.
Don’t you just love those?
The Cherubs had arisen all by themselves, ate their breakfasts with little fuss and boarded their respective school busses, right on schedule.
I had the kitchen tidied up from the morning tornado in practically no time and changed from my pajamas into my workout wear in a flash.
I locked up Macy the Geriatric Weimaraner in her private suite, where she could do minimal harm, save for the occasional Leaky Bladder Syndrome Episode, at which I am exceptionally adept with dealing.
I even remembered to put the twelve bags full of clothing and two boxes of books on the front porch for the donation truck to pick up. Of this, I was exceptionally proud. I had, on more than one occasion, forgotten to do so, necessitating their return to the garage for another week and raising the ire of my groom.
But not today.
Today, I carefully placed all of the sorted and labeled bags and boxes on the porch. Perfectionist that I am, I fussed with them a bit so that they would be symmetrically arranged between my decorative hurricane candle holders and the white rocking chairs which were permanent fixtures at the entryway.
What? Charitable giving is not a haphazard affair, in my book.
Anyway. Satisfied that the donations were as symmetrical as they’d ever be, I hopped into the Jeep and drove off to my Friday Pilates Reformer class, congratulating myself on what a tight ship I was running.
And an hour and a half later, I returned, my high self-image only slightly tarnished by the physical torture that I had endured. My spirits brightened as I rounded the bend and caught sight of my porch, which had evidently been visited by the donation truck.
I parked the Jeep in the garage, took a moment to marvel at the space within that was now free of the bags and boxes that it had held for more than a month, and meandered back out to the porch for one last look-see.
Twelve bags? Gone.
Two boxes? Gone.
Hurricane candle holders and white rocking chairs? Gone and gone.
I did an immediate double-take and stared at my porch, my eyes narrowed to slits.
I had been completely cleaned out.
I blinked and reflected on the manner in which I had left the donations. In my mind, the bagging and boxing left little to the imagination as to what should be taken and what should be left.
I mean, my potted plants were still on the front steps leading up to the porch. Was I supposed to be thankful that they were not swept up with the rest?
Was I expected to sing the Hallelujah Chorus at the fact that the windows overlooking the front porch were still nestled in their panes?
Thank goodness it was not a Saturday and The Cherubs had not been lolling about in the rockers as they are so fond of doing. I shudder to think of the scene that might have ensued if they had been.
So now, friends, I am engaged in a seemingly endless game of phone tag with the donation pickup service in what appears to be a hopeless quest to reclaim my goods.
Will they be returned? Only time will tell. I await a phone call this afternoon that should definitively tell me what the freakin’ frack has happened to my stuff.
Wish me well, won’t you?
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