My husband, the messy artist

Dave's been running around town to make new prints, get photo enlargements and pick out new, artsy (expensive!) frames before the Gallery Walk on Saturday.

He's driving me crazy a bit.

Last week, it was "I saved 20-some photos on your laptop desktop. Can you put them in either the 'yes' folder or the 'no' folder?" and "Why did you put THIS one in the 'no' folder? What's wrong with this one?" and "If you're going to second-guess me, why don't you just pick your favorites in the first place?"

Then it was "this print looked better on the computer screen," he said, holding up this photo.

Now it's "I'vegottogetallthisdonetodayorelseI'mgoingtopanic." So Big and I have been forced out of our own air-conditioned home into the mugginess that is global warming -- oh, I meant October -- because of the mess he's created. A line of photos, frames, framed photos, measuring tape, mat board, backboard, pencils, plastic wrapping, tape, a drill, some wire and hooks, and a cup of coffee stretches from our front door to our back door, enveloping the kitchen table.

It's kind of ridiculous how anal I can be about messes. It's more ridiculous how I pretend that mess doesn't exist! It's just not there! Because behind the back door's curtains, I can't see a thing.