Oh No He Didn’t

More Boxes
More Boxes

Yesterday all the shit we’d had in storage for the past six months was re-delivered to the apartment.  I really don’t know if it gets much more depressing than that.  I mean, it was one special kind of hell to re-assemble our furniture and unpack all the boxes that never even left the apartment.  It’s quite another kind of hell to have finally achieved some semblance of order in the apartment only to have forty more boxes of  crap you don’t have room for crammed into your office.  Shit you’ve clearly been able to live without for six months.  Shit you probably don’t really need but can’t bring yourself to toss after paying to have it in storage for six months.  These are the salad bowl days, folks.

My dear husband is making me abso-smurfly insane (and no, that’s not a far journey, I know).  “Honey, let’s take a break.  Don’t you think we got enough done today?”

For the sake of argument, let’s just ignore the “we” part of that statement for now – that’s a whole other ball of repressed anger filled wax.

“No,” pretty much sums up my response.

My brain, even when it’s firing on all cylinder (yes singular) does not work in a cluttered disorganized environment.  I’m a teeny tiny bit Type A on that front.  I need a clean desk and things in their places in order to be able to focus.  If the office looks like a bomb exploded, that’s how my head feels.  At the moment, my head is foaming at the sight of this place.

After dinner, I jumped up to tackle a few more boxes before calling it a night.  I was interrupted by a brief phone call from my hetero life partner, Gwen.  I explained that Rocco was getting upset with me because he didn’t want to keep working on the house but feels guilty when I work while he sits and watches the game.  I THOUGHT I was just busting his chops.  Apparently I hit the hammer pretty square on the head.  It probably didn’t help that I ended the conversation with, “He doesn’t seem to have a problem when I work all day on this mess and he’s not here to see it.”

After I hung up and dove back into the box of books with my newly liberated hands, Rocco sheepishly snuck into the room.  “How can I help?” he offered with chagrin.

“Overheard the phone call, eh?”  Which is a relatively stupid question I suppose.  The apartment is a whopping 500 sq ft.  It’s not like he was in the East Wing and out of earshot.

“Yeah, and now I feel bad.  But for some reason my heart really isn’t in this move.”

I stared at him, completely dumbfounded.

Well mother-fucking-duh.  ‘Cause I’m super pumped to be un-boxing everything we own and trying to whittle down our belongings until we’re no longer busting at the seams.  The same seams we’ve been busting through for six plus years.

“Are you really that mad?” he asked.

“I didn’t say a word,” I panted.

“Honey, you’re hyperventilating.”

“Ok yes, apparently I’m that mad.”

Oh well, at least he’s cleaning the litter box.  It’ll be his turn to hyperventilate tomorrow when some couple comes to see the apartment.  Considering the apartment isn’t currently on the market, we’re getting an awful lot of people wanting to see the damn thing.  Yeah, I say the same thing to myself, too.  “El, why are you showing the place?  I thought you decided to stick it out another few years.  If you got an offer, would you seriously consider doing it all over again?”

I’ll have to get back to you on that…


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