There are obscure sporting events (pygmy ping pong), "talk" shows with an aggregate guest I.Q. of 12 (pygmy brains), variety shows like Regis Philbin's
(pygmy hosts) and soap operas galore (pygmy group sex). So, after dispiritedly clicking his way through daytime TV tripe a couple of times, he decided to roll up his sleeves and "organize" the house for me. I can't begin to tell
you how much that thrills me. First he tackled the children's art supplies, which were crammed into a gigantic plastic container and the desk in the den. Like Sherman marching on Georgia, he burned it to the ground. Showing
neither mercy nor a keen understanding of our budget, the man stuffed entire art kits in the trash along with paints, brushes, paper, markers, crayons and pencils. The kids now have to squeeze beets and grab charcoal off the grill
to finish their art projects, but it was worth a little inconvenience to keep him happy for a couple of hours.
Then he made the mistake of moving into my territory.
"This pantry's a real mess," he exclaimed, while rooting around like a pig after truffles.
"Stay out of there."
"But look at this. It's not even alphabetized," he said, pulling out a box of Cheerios that were
(horrors!) right next to the Wheaties.
"They're boxes of cereal. I put all the cereal in one place so it will be easy to find," I said snatching the Cheerios. "Now go away and find something else to do. Study Chinese or
start building that nuclear reactor you've always wanted."
He trudged miserably upstairs and a few minutes later bounded back down like a missionary who'd just found one of the lost tribes of Israel. Grabbing a full box of
kitchen-trash can sized plastic bags, he headed up again.
"Whoa, hold on partner. What are you doing?" I asked.
"Do you have any idea what a mess that linen closet is in?"
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. It's packed with worn out towels and sheets that don't match."
"That's absolutely right!"
"So?"
"So, I'm going upstairs and get rid of all those threadbare, fraying towels for you." He started back up.
"OK. But you realize that by doing this, you're going to have to drip dry from here on out?"
He backed down. "Why?"
"Because you're throwing away our towels, my dear. And when you do, there will be nothing left that absorbs water."
"Surely there are some decent ones in there....."
I laughed.
"We've been married for almost 17 years...nice towels? Surely you jest. The good ones were all left at the beach. But, as an alternative to drip-drying, you can always use a hair dryer. Just let me know if you plan to do it that
way so I can cut all the other power. Hate to throw a circuit breaker."
That was too much for him. He threw in the towel – if you'll pardon the expression. I could have saved him all that aggravation.
For years
every woman's magazine I've purchased has been crammed with organizational tips. After 30 years of reading them, I've learned the secret to controlling junk build-up: buy 20 gallon plastic containers and put all the junk in
them. I'm really surprised my spouse hasn't caught on.
After all, those containers take up too much room to keep in the house, so I've been stacking them in the middle of his workshop for years.
