Clean

I like things to be clean and neat. Not like Adrian Monk, but in a sensible, non-dusty manner. My husband, while not a dirty person, is also not quite aware of when things are in disarray or a bit stale. So every Monday at 5:30am, as I leave for the 2.5 hour drive to work, I take one last longing look at the pillow placement on the couch, the empty sink, and the swept-with-love floors. I know that nothing will look the same upon my return on Wednesday afternoon. My absence basically means that the husband has a little over two days to, as he calls it, "party in the house," until my return.

During our Tuesday evening phone conversations, the disclaimer usually is, "Um, when you get home, the house won't look exactly how you like it," or "I didn't quite have enough time to straighten things up." Yesterday though, there was no disclaimer. I arrived home and laughed at the "clean" house. For your enjoyment, here's the play-by-play with some pics:

Bedroom: The bed was made with all of the pillows stacked neatly on it. Note that the comforter was put on the wrong side. The outside has a design and is shiny. He didn't notice.

Guest bedroom: It was still very clean, which means he only went in there to iron. The iron was left on (note the red light).

Bathroom: The white rug was folded so he wouldn't get it dirty. He forgot to unfold it. Also, a new roll of toilet paper was placed on top of the toilet. The empty roll continues to make its guest appearance.

Kitchen: The dishes in the dishwasher were clean. The dishes in the sink...well if they were clean, they'd be somewhere else.

He tried. And I appreciate it because I made no attempt to try to clean up anything. Instead, I threw all the pillows on the floor and went to sleep. I'm not cleanin' nothing!

Valentine's Day

My husband has never done very well on Valentine’s Day. For example, last year, while we were still engaged, guess what I got? You are correct! Nothing. And by nothing, I mean not one thing. Like the I-kept-opening-my-door-sadly-looking-for-flowers kind of nothing. So this year, I began the conversation early:

Me: Do I need to make a list of what you should get me for Valentine's Day?
Husband: When is it?
Me: February 14.
Husband: ...But what year though?

I knew I wasn’t getting anywhere at this point. But the next day, I told him what I wanted. I want flowers and those chocolate fruit things from Edible Arrangements and a card and dinner. Yes, all of those things.

Valentine’s Day this year was on a Tuesday, so when I got home from a very very long day on Monday evening, there were breathtakingly beautiful roses sitting on the counter. I gave him a big hug. I was so happy. And the fact that the roses were in a glass pitcher that's usually filled with cran-apple juice didn’t even matter—I kind of liked it (if you look closely at the picture, you can see the handle). Later, after rolling off the couch, I went upstairs and…wait for it…there were more roses on the dresser in our bedroom! Truth be told, at the time, I didn’t care if I got anything else. On his least favorite holiday, he showered his wife with roses.

For Valentine’s Day, I decided to make dinner instead of forcing him to take me out. When he arrived home from work on Tuesday with my Edible Arrangements in tow, I opened the door to greet him, wearing a hot red dress and some heels. The table was set for dinner and I told him to go upstairs and put on a tie. He obliged (see picture) and I laughed my way through dinner at his failed attempt to appease me. Apparently my dress wasn't enough to get him to put on a suit or even a dress shirt. It is my hope that the tie/horizontal stripe polo combo will never make an appearance again.

Finally, after dinner and my chocolate covered fruit, I said, “So where’s my card?” He responded, “Huh? What’s that?”

He gets an ‘A.’ Good job, Babe.

My Wise Partner

My husband and I have been married for almost 3 very fun, loving months. Over this time period, I’m learning (or remembering, in most instances) that some of our views are a bit different. Below are some of his words of wisdom.

On lotion…

You’re only supposed to put it on the areas you can see. You can’t see your feet if you have socks on.

On facials…

Am I supposed to go outside like this? My face is too clean. I need protection.

On drinking straight from the blender…

That’s why it has a handle on it. It's actually really a cup.

On sleeping on the floor…

Now that’s where you go to get some really good sleep.

On fingernail filing…

If I do it with my teeth, it looks just as nice. See? Look how straight that is.

On napkins...

I don't need those. I have fingers.

On cleaning...

It's my favorite thing to do. It's all I think about every day--"I can't wait to come home and clean."

On washing the dishes...

My to-do list is too short; that's why I haven't gotten around to it yet.

I need a minimum of 72 hours to do it.

On his disdain for sleep...

Besides Jesus and you, staying awake is my favorite thing to do.

There are many, many more, but I keep forgetting to write them down. I’ll be adding to this list later.

Moving

Note: I am the most organized person you know.

Two days ago, I drove from Fresno to Sacramento, left my car at a friend's house, and then took a two-hour flight on a very loud propeller jet to Portland, OR. My husband was moving from Portland to Sacramento and I was going to help him with the 10-hour drive.

We got married a little less than 2 months ago and I have been excited about this move since before then. This was to be our first time living in the same city since 2007. So I bought my ticket at least 2 weeks in advance to arrive in Portland. Here are some of the things I told him:

"Please be packed by the time I get there. I want to go eat and then hit the road."

"Home Depot is a good place to get boxes. And tape. You should start packing now."

"I called your apartment and arranged to have the walk-through at 3:30pm. I get in at 11:30am. Please be packed."

"Don't forget to sell your couch on Craigslist, Babe. Please be packed."

"We pick up the keys to our new place at 10:30am on Saturday, so we have to leave Portland by midnight at the latest. Let's start packing!"

Note: I am stupid.

I arrived in Portland around noon. We arrived at his one bedroom apartment and what was packed? Close to nothing. And I knew that it wouldn't be. I should have cancelled class and arrived the day before! Later he told me that he thought it would only take four hours to pack. It took more than 16. The shower curtain was still hanging up. There were many clothes in the closet. The dishes were still in the cabinets and dishwasher.

As we were packing, I noted that there were nine USPS boxes filled with clothes that he wanted to take to the Post Office.

"Babe, it's Veteran's Day." Guess what's closed?

So off to UPS we went with USPS labeled boxes. Then later to Fed Ex. Then later later to UPS (again).

Back at the apartment and somewhere between UPS-Trip One and Fed Ex, I asked, "What are we going to do about this couch?" to which he responded, "Leave it by the dumpster." It was a really nice couch too. So I left the apartment.

I walked around in 40 degree weather looking for someone, anyone. There was a man on his balcony smoking. "Excuse me, sir, do you want a couch?" He looked at me like I was nuts. "No, thanks." I said, "Okay, thanks anyway" and walked away.

Two point five seconds passed before I heard, "What color is it?"

An hour later the couch was gone, sold to that stranger for $100. His name was Mark. And he had cash. Praise God for mercy and gas money.

We finally made it to Sacramento. We left Portland about 6:00am and the sun was just waking up. The walk-through never happened, but someone will do it on Monday. We may or may not get back his deposit, and at this point, neither of us cares. We also missed our appointment to get the keys for our new place, but it was rescheduled. We moved his things into our home in Sacramento about 6:00pm on Saturday.

"See, I told you it would work out. Just like I planned it," said my husband on the drive down.

I just looked it him and tried to act like I was mad.

Note: The pillows in the picture were thrown in the dumpster.