Monday, Oct. 21, 2002 + 2:21 p.m.
Now, being the Hoo-Ha, you would think that he might have some special knack for organization. He does NOT. In fact, the opposite seems to be true. His inability to organize is only surpassed by his extreme temperature issues, which are almost stranger. Since he works in a freezer, one would also assume (after all, it�s only logical) that he would have gotten used to colder temperatures than most people. People who live in Wisconsin aren�t complaining about the cold all the time, are they? No. The problem is his personal temperature control (the one in his brain) tells him that he�s freezing all the time � it�s like it�s stuck on the COLD, COLD, EXTREMELY COLD position. It�s 900 friggin� degrees in the house and he�s cold. The temperature in our house has been reading 74 at night � I�m ROASTING and he�s sleeping under 2 blankets AND A COMFORTER. This is even more perplexing because when I get into bed about two hours after him, he�s sweating like a five hundred pound marathon runner. And that wouldn�t be so bad if he weren�t lying halfway on my side of the bed. So, when I lay down there�s this clingy wetness where it should be smooth and cool. My legs don�t gently glide across the bed effortlessly to find a comfortable position. Instead, after I shove Dampy over to his side, I STICK to the sheets. Kind of like sleeping in the wet spot, only EVERY STINKIN� NIGHT. It�s no wonder I have nightmares. But��I was talking about his organizational skills. Or lack thereof. Here�s an example: My sweaty sweetie has a computer room in the basement. This is his own personal sanctuary. This is his CAVE. He goes there to escape from the rest of us crazies and delve into his deeply satisfying nerd-geekiness. He tears apart hard-drives, rebuilds them, fixes friends� computers, loads software, reads manuals and eats his hidden stash of candy. You might think, �Oh, that sounds nice. Everyone should have such a place.� Oh, yeah? Well, it�s a STY. It�s a miracle that he can find his own ASS in that room, much less his computers and hidden stash of candy!!!!! He�s always asking me where his stuff is and I don�t even go in that room. First of all, you can�t get in the door. And God help you if you�re not wearing shoes. You might as well just drive yourself over to the ER right now because you WILL be bleeding. About every three or four months, he gets a wild hair and decides to �clean� his computer room. Ha, ha, hahaha, ha, ha, ha, ha. Who does he think he�s kidding? After around 8 to 36 hours of being holed up in this room, he emerges � smile plastered across his face, begging me to come look at his room. I comply knowing that I shouldn�t expect much, but knowing ANYTHING would be an improvement to this perpetually funky space. I can always see the desk after his �cleaning� and he always has loads of boxes to be thrown out with the trash along with some old papers. It usually looks like he�s used Windex on the monitor and vacuumed the floor. But, THAT�S IT!!! Apart from that, nothing is ever ANY different. There are boxes upon boxes with stuff sticking out of them stacked upon one another. My desk (which is also in this room, but which I�ve never actually seen since it was assembled) is strewn with cords and wires and various CD�s. Sometimes I can see my chair, though. Things are spilling out of clear plastic drawer sets on wheels and there are all manner of wire and wood bookshelves crammed haphazardly side to side with boxes and papers stacked on top. Under a chair I spy an old cookie sheet. I�m not even going to ask. �Looks WONDERFUL, Honey�, I offer with feigned enthusiasm. Mental note: Offer the kids extra money to clean down here next time. This is the secret life of the Inventory Hoo-Ha.
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I am the Grim Reaper! Master of all that is |
