So it turns out that when you allow someone to move into your house, and you’re not madly in love with that person, then all the little allowances that you automatically make for someone that you are in love with — yeah, you can’t make those allowances so easily.
Er, no offense, Iz, you’re a great guy and all.
I should emphasize that there have been no major problems, nor even really any minor ones. I’m just talking about the cranky things you think to yourself about Other People’s Stuff.
DEAR GOD IZ YOU HAVE SO MUCH STUFF! YOUR STUFF SMELLS FUNNY! WHY DO YOU HAVE SO MUCH STUFF! And so forth.
…when the reality is that considering that this is all the poor man’s wordly goods in their entirety, it’s not all THAT much stuff. It’s probably an average amount of stuff. And of course it smells funny, it’s Not Our Stuff. It came from 1100 miles away, where Stuff Smells Different.
Plus? It’s MAN stuff. Like, he has all these aluminum cases that look like they contain weaponry or something. He saw me looking at them. “They don’t have guns in them,” he tells me. Well then what are they, I ask. “Poker chips.” He says this so casually, as if it makes perfect sense that he should have what looks like enough poker chips to open a casino. I reflect to myself regarding the poker chip census of our domicile prior to Sunday morning: zero. It’s apparent to me that this must be some guy thing that I fail to understand owing to the absence of certain bits and pieces among my person.
So there are boxes of things everywhere, and our own things have been put into disarray, and The Lovely Rhonda, who is nursing a minor back injury and a Filling Gone Bad while under the influence of The PMS, is practicing a great deal of restraint, and have I mentioned how proud I am of this? Love you honey!!!
This too shall pass. Right?