Greg’s favorite decorative Yankee Candle (banana bread scent) lives on the stove in between the four burners when the stove is not in use. The multiple times I’ve moved it someplace else, it’s always found it’s way back to the same spot. Finally, I asked why the candle was there and the response I got was, “It GOES there.”
End of discussion.
No further questions your honor.
Just one of these things I have to accept.
Since Greg has moved in, coffee, in all of its forms, has become a ubiquitous presence in my life. There is usually a path of coffee from the pot to the cup and from the cup to wherever Greg goes a la little Billy from the Family Circus. Little rings of coffee mark Greg stops along the Greg trail. I threw something in the trash the other day and somehow, my hand was covered in coffee grounds when I took it out of the trash can. Any water that the dishes in the sink are soaking in has a brownish tint to it. Coffee grounds have started finding their way under random appliances in the kitchen. Cans and bags of it live in the freezer.
And it’s not an annoyance to me, but more of a bewilderment and curiosity. I have to laugh everytime coffee appears in a new spot. Perhaps someday in the laundry.
At least I know that Greg will always be able to find his way home.
This is the fridge I would like to get when we redo our currently antiquated kitchen. I have just learned, however, that Selena is against the look of stainless steel because, in her mind, it will never appear to be clean.
Yesterday at Bed, Bath and Beyond (oh god, we are turning into one of THOSE couples…), Greg came up to me at the checkout line and said, “Look at these! They are so cool!” He was holding a set of 2 plastic spikey balls like those massage balls people like. These balls are intended to live in the dryer and proudly touted the “As Seen on TV!” logo on the packaging. Today, we had 5 loads of laundry to do. When it was my turn to use the dryer, there are those two spikey balls. What the hell, I thought, and I loaded up the dryer. And, just as expected, it sounded like someone had thrown two balls into the dryer. After clunking until the dryer was done, I took out my laundry which looked no different from any other time, turned to Greg and said, “Um, what are these supposed to do again?” He said, “Act like dryer sheets and fluff your laundry.”
These spikey, clunky fluffers that look like overstock massage balls that got marketed under “Laundry Wonderballs” are suspect to me. More on this when I see some development in my laundry’s status. In the meantime, I will stick with dryer sheets.
I admit I am a sucker for magazines. It’s not for the pictures; it’s not for the articles; it’s for the price. If I find a magazine that is offering a yearly subscription for under $12, I will typically see the relativity angle: a year of this periodical costs approximately the same as a single glass of Pinot Noir downtown with tip, I’m sold. So, because of this flawless logic, we get more magazines than I have time to read; more magazines than our mailbox can hold… literally.
This past weekend we were away on a long ski weekend, and didnÃ¢â‚¬â„¢t put a hold on the mail. As the days passed and the number of magazines grew the empty space in our small mailbox shrunk. Typically in Delaware when this happened, the mailman would just leave the excess near the mailbox. In Maryland they do things differently Ã¢â‚¬Â¦ they take our mail hostage.
When we returned from the ski weekend, there was one single piece of mail, a card saying that our mail was at the post office two blocks away and would be there for a week and then discarded if not picked up. Selena called the post office to inquire about their hours and learned we both are in our offices for the full duration the post office is open. We told them we wouldnÃ¢â‚¬â„¢t be able to pick up our bundle until Saturday. That brought on a grumble and the rude response “I guess they can hold it for that long.”
So, we are the clock with picking up last weekÃ¢â‚¬â„¢s mail, and we accepted that. What really surprised me about the USPS-MD is that they were determining to maintain the siege on our mail. Despite calling and alerting them that we are indeed now home, they still will not deliver any new mail. They insist on stockpiling even the new mail that came in today until we come sheepishly into the post office to face the music.
They are playing hard-ball. IÃ¢â‚¬â„¢m sending Selena.
There are times of crisis that make me wonder if those yahoos who build bunkers in their backyards may not be on to something. When the Y2K scare was reaching its peak, I confess buying an extra gallon of milk at the grocery store, and when Katrina showed us the devastation of the gulf coast, I did find myself buying an extra canned good or two. I never formulated a full-fledged survival strategy, I just felt compelled to make a token gesture of responsibility.
Selena didn’t feel a twinge of concern for stockpiling during either of those episodes, so imagine my surprise to find she does have a very strong opinion about running out of canned goods — not all canned goods, mind you, a very specific food product. Tuna.
Now, my tuna eating habits are as such: I would typically open a few cans, mix in the mayo and serve a helping over a roll, refrigerating the rest. I would eat this same lunch for two or three days in a row, until I ran out.
These is Selena’s tuna eating habits: Don’t.
This is awfully similar to my cabbage eating habits. The difference is, I am not compelled to stockpile cabbage in the kitchen only not to eat them. Selena gets a bit frantic when the tuna can level goes below two, and I discovered the first week we were living together and I took three of the five cans of tuna to make lunch for the week.
Needless to say, I have learned my lesson and rectified the situation. Now we have a healthy stock of six cans in the pantry, and I just went out and bought two more, because I wanted to actually eat a can or two this week.
I have to say that I am not wholly in disagreement with Greg when he points out my quirks about the porch. I have a strange, irrational fear of things being outside. Something about objects outside completely unprotected from the elements really disturbs me. I’ve only recently begun to accept patio furniture. But it took living with someone to realize that this is “weird.” One of the things I feel bad about, even to this day, was when I was young and an only child, my parents and uncle bent over backwards to spoil me. One day, they spent all day constructing a tire swing and placing it on the tree in the backyard. They thought it would make me happy. Instead, I spent all night disturbed by the fact that there was something in the yard and the next day, I begged them to take it down.
Okay, so, like I said, I never realized this was “crazy.”
BUT… I do somewhat believe Greg to be the opposite end of the spectrum regarding this. Maybe you former roomates of Greg can help me understand this, but here’s a brief (but growing) list of things that have at one point or another made their way outside.
1. A large wooden display shelf meant to be used for decorative pieces.
2. INDOOR dining room chair cushions.
3. That wood table he described, obviously made for the INDOORS.
NOTE: #2 and #3 are both completely waterlogged and damaged from the first time he put them outside. What gets me is, then he asks, “Darn it! What HAPPENED to these?”
4. Cases of beer. As is.
5. Packets of seeds.
6. Wedding favors.
7. A spice rack with test tubes full of spices, but not really trustworthy, because the spices are labeled, “Dreams, Hope, Ambition, Love…etc.” (Where do you even GET something like that?)
8. Baskets. Tons and tons of baskets.
NOTE: #8. One of these baskets, I had put together for him as a gift basket from opening night of the Delaware Shakespeare Festival’s As You Like It one and a half years ago. I filled it with his favorite candy and knickknacks and love notes and other sappy things. I asked him why it was on the porch. The answer: “Baskets BELONG on the porch.” and “Why are you worried? Rain can’t get to it.” Apparently I’m getting in the way of this basket fulfilling it’s duty as a basket.
I just have to say that the one day I secretly brought the basket in, I pulled out a damp handkerchief that at one point served a decorative purpose, about a dozen or so rain-soaked, slimy mini-reeses cups and a few handfuls of wet paper.
We have a porch. I like the idea of being able to sit outside on a summer morning and read the paper or in the evening for a few drinks. I see it as another room of the home, this exterior extension, to be decorated, used and enjoyed. So, upon moving in I brought a wooden table and rod-iron chairs. The chairs can not be sat in without cushions on them, so I set out to buy some.
This was when I discovered that Selena maintains a high barometer for what is fit to live outside. A few non-sequiters started to make sense: that there was never anything except a plastic table on her porch before I moved in; that she grew tense when I said I would just leave the beer on the porch cause it was cold enough outside; when she mentioned that potting soil needed to be kept in the house. But it when when she hijacked my IKEA bag and took the chair cushions hostage, and ran them back to the shelf that I realized we were not on the same page about what is acceptable to live on the porch.
We beat to different drummers, Selena and I; that was the premise that brought about this blog. We had found some pet peeves and oddities early on such as my irritation about the misuse of the word “literally” and Selena’s campaign against double-spacing, but that was merely the tip of the iceburg (figuratively speaking).
We knew once we move in together we would get below the surface and really begin to discover what makes each other tick, and for your enjoyement, we are documenting it here.