By Brian Bloom
“There,” my wife said to me, pointing to a vacant spot on the wall she deemed perfect for one of our pictures.
“A little to the left… I mean the right. Up a little, over… over…”
“Which way,” I said my voice rising in frustration. “You’re standing behind me. It’s either left or right, up or down. Over isn’t a direction.”
“Okay, left then,” she said with an obvious smirk. “I mean right. A little more… a little more, a little…”
“Jodi!” I said, my arms exhausted from holding the 30-pound frame above my head.
“Maybe we should put it over there,” she said, unaffected by my obvious frustration.
Ah, the joys of moving into a new home. The unpacking of boxes, the finding locations for 4,100 square feet of stuff in a 2,200 square foot abode; The realization that the people who lived in the home prior to you don’t share your definition of clean.
“Why did we move the piano?” I asked, exhausted by trying to figure out how to put massive furniture in miniscule spaces.
“My kids played that piano,” she replied, aghast I would even think of not having it.
“Your children took lessons for a few weeks and gave them up,” I replied. “Do either of them still play the piano?” I asked already knowing the answer.
“Do you play the piano?” I asked again getting a little sarcastic as I went along.
“Is it not true that the only person in this house that plays the piano is me and I don’t care if I ever play a piano again?” I said doing my best courtroom cross examination impersonation.
“But my dad bought the kids the piano so they could play,” my wife, obviously oblivious to my point replied.
For the record, the piano looked good against a wall. Wife wins.
“And the kitchen cabinet,” I continue, unabated by the lost piano argument. “For one thing, who owns a kitchen cabinet and, even more, who moves it with them?” I asked. “For that matter, where’s the kitchen sink,” I added sarcastically.
“In the box by the door,” she replied without hesitation.
“We moved a kitchen sink?” I screamed.
“You never know when you will want one with the outdoor kitchen on the patio,” she said without hesitation.
“Our patio’s a couple feet wide,” I laughed. “The grill barely fits on it.”
“By the way, I don’t have enough room for my clothes,” my wife announced as if in saying so the closet would magically expand.
“You could get rid of some of them,” I replied.
“But I’ve never worn them here,” she said, once again seemingly amazed at my ignorance.
“But you said...”
“By the way, I need new clothes for my job,” she added without hesitation.
“But you said you didn’t have enough room...”
“I can’t wear these old things,” she continued ignoring my interruption.
“Honey,” I asked, becoming increasingly concerned about any answer. “Where are my things... you know the stuff I had before you got here.”
“In a box,” she replied with utter nonchalance.
“I think we put them in storage,” she said.
“You mean the storage unit with the 27 boxes of Christmas crap?” I asked. “Do you mean in boxes underneath the 27 boxes of Christmas crap I already loaded in the storage unit?” I continued, my face reddening with the very thought of having to dig anything back out.
“Do you mean the storage unit that required me to take seven trips in the pickup? The one where I think I hurt my hernia, the unit I carefully placed each item to ensure we could get at what we needed most first?” I said, my voice now in full throttle.
“Yes,” she said. “Now, where can I fit more clothes?”