Back By Popular Demand

Well maybe not popular demand, but at least one person asked for more regular posts, and I aim to please.

Also, I foresee a lot more crap to post about in the not-so-distant future, as we are probably going to be moving the contents of the shop my husband rents (20' x 75') to our two car garage. That's like me trying to cram my giant ass into a pair of size 10 pants. Seriously, I did the math.

So here is the current state of my husband's crap.

He got home from a two day trip out of town the night before last and this is where his backpack landed and has not moved since.



Let's see how long it takes to make it up stairs, shall we? Anyone want to start a pool? (And honey, if you are reading this, it would be nice if the jacket went upstairs to the closet too.)

Here is the usual crap on the kitchen counter. I've managed to get him to keep it on this end of the counter, except it was a much higher pile last week. It was high enough that all the mail and junk had started to slide off the counter. His solution?

(Note: Your monitor hasn't gone wonky. I disorted the mail, etc that had our names and addresses.)



Put it in a box at the other end of the counter!



Next is the dehydrator--did you think it disappeared in our move last summer? No such luck. But now we have the dehydratoer with bonus smoothie maker base!



He made the jerkey a week ago. As usual, he says he will clean it up, but I'm not holding my breath. As for the smoothie maker? He makes virgin strawberry daiquiri's nearly every other night.

And for the motherload of crap, I have to take this upstairs to our bedroom. I haven't infiltrated our private spaces since we moved from the old house last June because my biggest gripe has been crap in the public spaces. But in the interest of full disclosure of the magnitude of the crap, I can't leave out our bedroom and bathroom.

First the bathroom literature. Dude, this is no where near as bad as at the old house.

(Note the pepto--we've both been experiencing a lot of hearburn lately from all the stress.)



Wanna know why? He just moves the stacks a few feet out the door to his end table.

(Note the crumpled pile of jeans by the guitar and the socks in front of the end table. I'm not allowed to touch them or put them in the hamper--he's not done with them yet. Whatever that means.)



His dresser.



And the pile in the corner. There are boxes under all that crap that he's never unpacked and I'm not allowed to touch.



And for the piece de resistance...His desk.



How in the hell can he work in this space? I don't get it.

I just don't get it.


P.S. Any suggestions that I throw away his stuff or put it all in a box and stash it somewhere will be disregarded. I tried that in the beginning of our marriage. It caused even more problems. And as far as cleaning it up for him? I am not his mother or his keeper. I'm his lover, friend, and partner.

I'll stick to the passive aggressive approach. It's more entertaining for everyone that way.

~Sleeping Mommy