“Meh. How are you?” I ask, having another sip of coffee.
“I slept funny, now my elbow hurts,” she says, opening the fridge door and taking out a bag of bacon. She opens it, takes out one slice, and nibbles on it. “Getting old isn’t as fun as they pretend it is on Viagra commercials.”
“I bet,” I answer, sitting down in front of my laptop and googling “quick easy ways to make money on the side.”
I open the first page that pops up, hoping to find the answer to my problems.
“What’s a side hustle?” Dolores asks, peering over my shoulder at the screen. “Is that some sort of new dance move?”
“No, it means getting a second job on the side. Like tutoring or babysitting,” I say distractedly.
She stands right behind me chewing bacon in my ear while Puddy hops up on the table and lifts one paw up toward her, which is Persian for, “Give me some bacon before I claw your eyes out.” Dolores does what she’s told, breaking off a tiny piece for each of her furry companions. “Well, you don’t have time for a side hustle. In case you haven’t noticed, you’re too busy to sleep, so I don’t know how you’d manage dog walking. And there’s no way I want you to turn this place into a daycare. As much as I love Izzy, she makes as much noise as I can handle.”
“Yeah, agreed,” I say, scrolling down, passing by the rent-a-room bit since I’m already on the couch and would prefer not to sleep on the floor, thank you very much. “Huh, find things to sell that you don’t use.” I smile up at Dolores, who totally misreads my intention.
“I don’t think you’d get much for me. I’ve got more wrinkles than one of those wrinkly Chinese dogs.”
“A Shar-Pei?”
“Yeah, that’s the one.”
I roll my eyes. “Glad we cleared that up, but I didn’t mean you. I meant things like Izzy’s baby stuff. I wonder if there are other things out in the shed that we could make some money on.” I snap my fingers, “I could sell my bike. When’s the last time I rode my bike?”
“You have a bike?” she asks, licking bacon grease off her top lip.
“Exactly.”
***
An hour later, I’ve fed Isabelle some breakfast, and I found the key to the shed that Dolores insisted was not on her keychain but in a box somewhere in her closet for safekeeping. Guess where we found it after emptying every box in her closet? Yup, her keychain in her purse. By the time I get out into the yard, the morning sun has grown hot. I unlock the shed while Isabelle, who is excited to see what treasures await us, hops up and down next to me.
The hinges groan loudly as I open the door, allowing a cloud of dust to float out toward us. I stare into the dark, muggy space, filled with apprehension at the possibility of what could be living in there.
“Come on, Mum! Let’s go,” Izzy says, tugging my hand impatiently.
“You go first.” Oh, yes, Mum of the Year is sending her four-year-old into the scary shed ahead of her.
Izzy tips her head back and stares at me, “Not by my own self. It’s dark in there.”
“Yes. Yes, it is.” I prop the door open with a brick, take a deep breath, and step inside the dingy little building. It’s so packed there’s barely enough room for me to stand inside, let alone Izzy, who sneaks around from behind me so she can examine the piles of boxes, old furniture, and other odds and ends that have been crammed in over the years. Isabelle’s crib, which has been taken apart and wrapped in a blanket, sits to my left, along with the jolly jumper and high chair my parents bought her.
“Was that mine?” she asks.
“Umm-hmm,” I say, picking up the jolly jumper and carrying it out into the bright sunlight. Setting it down, I say, “That’s one thing out. About a thousand more to go…”
By the time the shed is almost empty, Isabelle is riding around the patio on her tricycle pretending she’s in a parade. She waves to the stuffed animals and dolls she’s brought outside to watch the festivities. Mr. Bananas sits in the dusty plastic high chair looking pleased even though things didn’t work out between us. My arms are tired and my back aches, but I have three big-ticket items to sell—my mountain bike, the crib, and an armchair that I’m pretty sure I can advertise as vintage once it’s been thoroughly vacuumed and the wood accents polished. It belongs to Dolores though, so that money will go to her.
She comes out with a tray of waters and a plate of cookies with little bits of bacon sprinkled on top. “Snack time!”
I wipe my forehead with my arm, take a glass of water from her, and drink it down in long gulps. “Ahh, thanks. I needed that.”
Gesturing to the pile, I say, “Good progress so far.”
Dolores shakes her head. “What progress? All I see is a huge mess in the yard.”
“I’m going to turn this mess into money,” I answer, watching Isabelle as she cycles into the nearly empty shed.
“Be careful, Izzy. There are a few things I need to clear out of there.”
