Quality time

Whenever I watch a show like Clean Sweep, I shake my head in pity at the participants, clucking, “How do they get to that point?” They describe how walking into a room makes them want to cry, that they can’t live like this anymore. Well. There is a room in our house affectionately nicknamed “the Astroturf Room” for its evergreen, fake-grass-like carpet. We have lofty ambitions of using it as a gym someday and outfitting it with a treadmill, a TV, and my yoga mat. In the meantime, however, we’ve been using it as a landfill. No exaggeration. Sundry household and outdoor items littered the floor from lack of a system. In one step, I might run into a cooler, a fireproof box, or a DVD player we’d retired, if I managed to open the door, that is. The room made me want to cry. Swallowing my pride — while being grateful that I wasn’t on national television — I spent the bulk of the day today was spent clearing out and re-organizing the Astroturf Room. JG took hold of the cleaning spirit and got to work converting our laundry room back to its former state of glory, before it was taken over by a puppy and a sea of newspaper.

JG and I cleared, mopped, swept, vacuumed, assessed the damage, and made a trip to Wal-Mart for storage accoutrement (if only we had a Container Store nearby!). Ted wandered back and forth between our two rooms to watch JG assemble three shelving units and install hooks for our beach chairs while I sorted through gift bags dating from 2004 and obsolete electronic devices. It was ridiculous what we managed to keep because we simply did not know it was there. In the afternoon, we surveyed our success: in the laundry room, new shelves held paint, painting supplies, and JG’s tools; I had a new shelf and rod for air-drying clothes; and bulky items were off the floor and hung on the wall. In the Astroturf room, two shelving units held all of our camping and tailgate equipment; the gift-wrapping supplies were a slim one-third of their former bulk; JG’s golf clubs had a home, and I had built a sizeable trash pile that included an old kitchen table, an antiquated box fan, and two lamps that were deemed too ugly to use two years before. As I collapsed on the couch, I realized that we actually had floor space in the two rooms, but I had not seen it in months. I felt a deep sense of accomplishment as I sank into my hard-earned nap.

We spent the evening on the town at our favorite local restaurant, courtesy of a gift card from JG’s mom for our anniversary. For the first time, we requested a table on the roof because the weather was so nice and it was such a good decision. The dining room was surrounded by windows operated with garage-door mechanisms, a system that provided a beautiful view of Kennett Square’s residential skyline and an open-air feel. JG and I each tried new entrees for dinner and our food exceeded our already-high expectations. We have so many great local restaurants at our disposal, but this is my favorite one and everything is always so good. It’s so good that I have to say it between every other bite, remind myself later of just how tasty the barbecue pork spring rolls were, and ask myself if it’s possible to replicate a dish at home. But it wouldn’t matter if I could because the atmosphere and charm of the restaurant will bring me back for more.

We walked out satisfied, but not so full so that we didn’t walk down the street to La Michoacana, which we’ve heard is the home of the best ice cream around. It’s a tiny hole-in-the-wall place that’s always packed with kids with their noses pressed up against the glass case and swarming with folks out front licking from their sugar cones or scooping from Styrofoam cups piled high with colorful ice cream. The menu is in English and Spanish and I was pretty intrigued by the corn-flavored ice cream, though JG and I ordered cookies and cream and mango, respectively. We sat down to eat our dessert and I took immense pleasure in that I was sitting on a bench in the downtown area of my town, leaning against my husband, and eating fantastic mango ice cream. I put my feet up on the bench and my red patent leather flats glinted under the light of a nearby streetlamp.

It was a good Saturday.