For our last move, I packed an entire 1500 sq. ft. house by myself. Over the course of seven months. And in the final stretch, Spouse came home and asked if he could help. Sure. There’s a cabinet full of ceramic mixing bowls and casserole dishes. Have at it.
Okay. He plops down on the floor with newspaper and a box. Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle…I go off to pack another bookcase full of texts I swear I’ll read again. I already got rid of hundreds of books I know I won’t read again. I’m in the living room and see Spouse walk past with a single AA battery.
Me: What are you looking for?
S: The box with the batteries.
Me: Above the washing machine. [interested that he’s recycling a battery when he was last wrapping bowls]
S: I’m going out to the garage for a few minutes.
Me: Are you done with the cabinet?
S: I need a break.
So I go in the kitchen and see he has wrapped two bowls. And, not to be judgmental or anything (yeah, right), but he did a crappy job. Two or three layers of newsprint between the bowls, nothing inside the bowls themselves.
When he comes back inside later, he goes straight to the kitchen. Crinkle, crinkle, crinkle…”This is bullshit.” He heads back to the garage for a while.
So now we’ve taken a few months to unpack. We’re quite slovenly, really, living amongst boxes for nigh on two months, and no end in sight.
I opened a box today, thinking that instead of working on my conference paper or my novel or any of the things that might return me to the realm of the living and thinking, maybe I should clean this joint up.
Inside the box were hand-selected, and carefully wrapped, items from my Goodwill pile. Spouse must have thought they might be useful and should be rescued. That night of “help” was a night of dumpster diving of the worst sort—stuff I already marked as headed to someone who really needs it had been retrieved by the one person who decidedly did not need it.
Do you think Goodwill will take one slightly used husband?