"Ah, but I was so much older then, I'm younger than that now."
My Boog Pages
Tuesday, September 9
Mrs. Clean
So, I get home last night, and I immediately realize that my wife has been cleaning. How can I tell my wife has been cleaning? None of my crap is where I left it. I mean, it's just crap, and not even good crap, but I like to know where it is. That's why each piece of crap has its own unique spot. My wife then goes through and hides all my stuff. When I ask her where she put it, she says, "It's where it always is." Translation: "You'd have better luck finding Jimmy Hoffa." I mean, the guy from Memento has a better memory. Dory from Finding Nemo has a better memory ("I wish I could speak Whale."). My wife actually has the ability to hide things from herself, and no, I'm not making that up. On the plus side, a small investment in DVDs goes a long way ("Let's watch this one - AGAIN!").
There's another downside to my wife's cleaning: the onset of Creeping Cleanism. For example, last night I washed my hands before dinner, and looked around the bathroom for a towel. Funny, it wasn't where I left it that morning, crumpled in a heap next to the sink... After a brief search I located one in a nice wicker basket, artfully arrayed with the many other multicolored towels we own. So I grabbed it, dryed my hands, and left it where it belonged, crumpled in a heap next to the sink.
The Little Woman was not amused. "THOSE are for SHOW!" were her exact words. And that's what scares me. My bookshelves used to be crammed with all sorts of books, some nice, some disreputable. Soon most of those moved to the attic, with only the most presentable remaining. I'm afraid that someday my house will have exactly zero functional value. I'll start to get into bed and Mrs. Boog will say "STOP! You'll mess it up!" Soon we'll be eating out every night and sleeping in a tent out back.
I hope she never figures out that I am NOT ornamental. Just mental, maybe.
* * *
Despite selling a story last week, writing has been wretched. I have a new short story all ready to go. I like the approach I've chosen, the characters are good, plot works, etc. etc., but it's just not happening. I suspect writer's block, aka "too-damn-lazyness". On the other hand I seem to have time to play computer games for like 2 hours every night. They say you can tell your real priorities by how you spend your free time, so I guess when I grow up I want to be 13 years old. I'm helpless before the power of "Medal Of Honor: Allied Assault".
