Files

Since we moved into our home at Tim's project, Thin Flats, he's been in charge of the utilities. I was in charge of them when we lived in my building, so it's only fair. Since then the gas has almost been turned off, we spend more than I would ever imagine on cable, and more recently we just got a $517 water bill. All of these bills pile up at various places around the house, so I try and bring them to work, so they can pile up on his desk where I imagine he's more likely to be in the mood for paperwork. He just brings them home again because he doesn't like a cluttered workspace, and they aren't work-related.

We always get our serious discussions out in the car. We were discussing the Memorial Day weekend on our way to the Shore. Of course he'd forgotten that Monday is a national holiday, so he referred to "when I'm in the office" on Monday. I accepted that I might need to take the kids on my own that day. After all, he gave me from 1-7 on Friday....normally "Mommy Day." I got to go to the studio alone to pack and ship without having to quiet my tape gun for a sleeping baby. I was like a bubble wrap hurricane.

I was muttering out loud about whether or not Ikea would be open on the holiday. He asked why, and I said that I wanted to get him a bunch of those cute little files. I'd set them up on the table next to his side of the bed. It's the table that is his clothes limbo. I guess it's the clothes that aren't dirty enough to be banished to the hamper or the dry cleaning bin, but I know he's put some there that have been thoroughly puked on by Toby, so I don't know. It's also where paperwork goes to die if it doesn't make the trip through the wash in one of his pockets. He said, "Wow, files? that might be great....Actually it might freak me out; I've never kept track of that stuff. Why should I start?" I said, "We'll take off your pants and file the contents of your pockets; it'll be like foreplay!"

Turned on by "paper and media organizers," that's me.