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Mess… and rubbish....

Why is it that I am, apparently, so useless at identifying them?  That's according Mrs Ed of course.
 
You see, she believes that I am the most untidy, hoardingest (yes, she swears that word exists) person she has ever had the misfortune to meet, never mind marry.  Actually 'person' is my word.  She prefers to use 'fool'.  Or sometimes idiot.

I don't know why she lets herself get so upset over something(s) so small, but she does.  It starts quite slowly, but once she gets into that “I refuse to live in this pig sty any longer” frame of mind, well, neighbours start putting up 'for sale' signs, our dogs start howling and chewing off their address tags, and my family overseas message to ask what all the noise is about.

I would like to pause here to state, quite categorically, that we do not live in a pig sty.  Yes, there may be one or two little nooks in the house, and of course my daughter's bedroom, that may fit this description, and indeed we may even have a small population of farmyard animals dwelling somewhere under piles of clothes and empty pizza boxes, but as soon as the fumigator has visited we should be all clear for 'totally non-pigsty' status. 

It is probably equally important to point out that Mrs Ed is somewhat inclined to exaggerate.  Inclined like Kilimanjaro's uppermost slopes.  This is evident in most of our every day discussions.  (Once again, I use the word 'discussions' loosely, they are more like barked statements from her side, and muffled, non-committal, some-pretense-of-listening grumblings from mine.) 
Really.  After all this time in wedlock (funny how they use the word 'lock' - 21 years is a life sentence in some countries) I still find it quite surprising how she frivolously throws around phrases like
“WHY is it always ME that HAS to do EVERYTHING?”
 - which anyone would instantly see is an overstatement.  Just last week I switched the kettle on for coffee, AND on Sunday I cleaned the bath!  (she will insist, of course, that 'lying in a foam-filled tub for two hours, occasionally twitching a knee whilst reading a good Terry Pratchet novel' does not constitute cleaning it, but that is just a matter of her opinion of course.) 

So you can understand that when the question of 'how much rubbish she is forced to live with' comes up, I might not be the first to employ the services of a waste removal skip, or indeed burn the house down and start again (yes, she actually suggested that last week, soon after she discovered the half eaten egg roll in my son's sock drawer…. Admittedly he hasn't been home for a month or two).
  
The problem is the definition of 'Mess' and 'Rubbish'.  For example, our dining room table presents a grey area, one which catches Mrs Ed's eye as soon as she steps into our poor, unsuspecting home.
“I am sooooo sick and tired of people dumping their rubbish on the dining room table as they walk in!” she bellows at the top of her lungs.
“Oh?  Do we have a dining room table?” I ask, from a reasonably safe distance.
“YES WE DO!” she barks, not in the least appreciating my hilariously comical come-back, “AND IF IT WASN'T FOR RUBBISH LIKE THIS (she lifts up a pair of running shoes) AND THIS (a motorbike carburettor ) AND THIS (a jacket I took off in July) AND WHATEVER THIS IS (a neat stack of carefully cut bits of wood -  the start of a very clever potato-growing stand  which I fully intend to finish any year now) WE MIGHT BE ABLE TO SEE THE DARN THING!”

Now, if you have managed to reach this point without dozing off, or rushing to the nearest pub to drown our collective sorrows (mine's a Bosun's Bitter, please) you may be forgiven for thinking that my good wife has a point. 

Pray, do read on.

“Ahhhh,” I say, the inflection depending on whether
a) I am merely considering a carefully crafted answer, or
b) she has actually crossed the kitchen floor and struck me across the scalp with the carburettor.
“Ahhhhh…. And what about the… er … other stuff….?”

Honestly, you have to admire my courage.

The 'other stuff', in case you were wondering, is all Mrs Ed's.  Which is why it escapes the “Mess/Rubbish” labels, of course.   It includes pots of paint, bits of canvas, tubes of oils, brushes, bottles of thinners, paint-spattered palettes, old newspaper… and that's just on the 'north quadrant' of this glorious 'Oh how wonderful it will be to eat meals together' piece of furniture. The other sections of wonderful oak veneer (aside from the three square centimeters occupied by my 'rubbish') are covered with a deep crust of magazines, several handbags (overflowing), half a dozen scarves, pens, pencils, crayons, books, gardening gloves, knitting needles, some sort of crochet kit and a basket full of apparently important hair accessories. 
“What of it?” challenges my dearly beloved. 
“It's a load of absolute trash, which has no other place but the bin, along with 90% of the other stuff you leave all over the place. The fact that you haven't checked yourself into the Home for Demented Housekeepers is beyond belief and quite frankly I'm thinking of having you committed!” I respond telepathically. Fortunately she doesn't pick up this mental message, only my verbal reply which is slightly less detailed:
 “Uhhhh,…. Oh.”

And so it is in every room in our house.  Take our bedroom for example.  On any day one will only find the smallest, neatest pile of goods next to my side of the bed.  Three novels. One untouched self help book entitled 'Men are from Mars, Women are just Nutcases'.  A  Yamaha DT Workshop manual opened up to the 'Carburettor' Section.  Five odd takkies ( used to 'discourage' Mrs Ed's putrid pooch from climbing onto our bed).  A  clock radio with extra large snooze button.  And a heavy wooden knobkerrie in case of break ins (I use it to prod Mrs Ed awake so she can go downstairs and investigate.)

 But cross over to 'The Dark Side” (I call it that because the mountain of mess actually blocks the light from the bedroom window) and you will see something entirely different next to HER side of the bed. 

Apart from the mangled heap of open magazines, there is a flotsam and jetsam of books -   anything from 'Mills and Boon- The Steamy Selection' to 'The ABC of Life Insurance Claims' to 'The Art of Course Brick-laying' to 'A Compendium of Untraceable Poisons”. 

Amongst these are a dozen crumb-filled sideplates, a clinking cacophony of coffee cups, layers of 'just in case hell freezes over' pajamas, carrybags of make-up and face creams, a hairdryer, another hairdryer,  curlers,  a veritable pharmacy of pill boxes and capsule jars, and, of course, 27 half rolls of toilet paper.

Yet this morning, once again, I woke up to find a distraught Mrs Ed popping a war dance about the 'unnacceptable pile of rubbish' that is mine.
“How can you let it get like that?” she sobbed “I can't live with such chaos any longer,  I'm going to HAVE to call in the family for an intervention!”

Luckily I was stunned to silence, so we were able to hear the muffled whimper coming from somewhere underneath the rubble on her side of the room. It seemed our daughter has been sucked in through a portal in the cosmo magazines…..
“Mmmm mommy?” she whispered “About that intervention.....  Could it be today?"