Endearing habits

When Dave's done with something, it gets plopped down by the window seat. Or on the kitchen table. Or on the bed. Or on the cedar chest. Or on the chair in the bathroom. The couch. Coffee table. Top of the dryer. Etc. It's endearing, I promise.

If it's before 8 a.m. and I have something in my hands I don't want, I also throw things on the chair. But every time I walk in that room, I'll feel overwhelmed 'til it's put away. It's how I am. Nuts. I know this.

If something's out, I want it put away. If it can't be put away, let's put it in these neat, color coordinated baskets and filing sleeves and put those away. And then I'll be able to sleep neat, compartmentalized dreams.

Dave has his own "room," this little office where I let him put things like CDs, scrap paper from last August and dirty, balled up napkins without a word. The door stays shut and it's like it doesn't exist! Oh, that room? No, it's not a real room. This door doesn't open. It's all in your imagination. I would not have a room like that in my house.

But I guess his room is just too full now and those napkins are piling up and the CDs are spilling out into the hallway (not literally, no), because suddenly he's got socks in the dining room, empty CD cases in the living room and the top half of his credit card statement from July 2006 laying around. Around, as in from where I sit, I see it. I see it.

I see it because tonight I went around with a bag and collected all his stuff, and put it all into a nice, neat little pile in the middle of the living room. And that's what it's like living with an obsessive, crazy wife. One day you're living like it's college -- woo! college! -- and the next you're tripping over a pile of junk.

I cannot wait 'til I have teenagers. I will be so good at it. Ha.

(It should be noted Dave reads all these blogs and laughs at them; it's what we do. I am not an evil wife complaining. I am an evil wife blogging. There is a difference. Gosh.)