I’m wearing pants now

Posted on June 16, 2010
Filed Under Daily, Life in L.A., The Boss | 24 Comments

Because of The Boss’s and my religious beliefs, we didn’t live together before we got married, which made for a really fun and interesting first few months of our life together. Since we didn’t know each other’s living habits, there were many ARE YOU SERIOUS? moments soon after we started sharing a mailing address, and pillow. But I don’t think we would have been any more prepared for those moments if we had lived together first because those initial moments of joy, shock, horror or enlightenment would still have come at some point. It’s like when the doctor shouts IT’S A GIRL! the day of your sonogram versus right after you poop the baby out in real life. The surprise factor is still going to be there because the emotions you feel during any first are real no matter when that first happens.

Wait…what?

You don’t poop a baby out like it’s a turd?

I thought giving birth was like being constipated for 16 hours, which is a feeling that I know because of that one time bff Tina and I made a bet to see who could eat an entire block of cheese from Costco.

So…what are you saying is…

Excuse me?

IT COMES OUT OF YOUR WHAT?

Oh my God, you guys. I totally shouldn’t have closed my eyes during the birthing movie in Sex-Ed in the sixth grade. Okay, my eyes were open. I just thought that was a butt the whole time.

My point is, you’re going to learn each other’s habits at some point, I guess the only real difference is that if the ARE YOU SERIOUS? moment(s) come after marriage, then it’s a little harder to pack your bags and find another roommate on Craig’s List. Though for the record, I would NEVER look for a roommate on Craig’s List because that’s how people get murdered.

Just saying.

The Boss and I learned, and continue to learn, a lot about each other post-marriage, but the one part of his life that really caught me off guard was that HE HAS SO MUCH STUFF.  He’s a Pack Rat, a Baby Hoarder, and he has twice, if not three times the amount of stuff that I do. And I have girl parts.

When we first moved into our apartment in L.A., not only did he take up a third of our closet space with his clothes, and 40 pairs of his basketball shoes, but he also took all the shelf space in one of the cabinets that we were supposed to share. Can someone please explain to me why any man with relatively normal sweat glands needs 33 white T-shirts?

One day, in an attempt to encourage him to downsize, I made a large pile of my own stuff to give away, and said, “I’m going to give away some of my clothes, and there are a ton of poor people that need white T-shirts, and look! You have so many! I think you should give some of those shirts to all the poor people who need them.”

Secretly, I was implementing the same methodology Super Nanny uses when trying to wean a toddler off a pacifier thinking that The Boss wouldn’t catch on. And I was right. He was all, “Okay!” and then generously dumped 14 of his white shirts into the giveaway bag I put in the living room. But then, three weeks later, he was like, “Let’s go to the mall this weekend so I can get some new white tees.”

I don’t remember Super Nanny covering the part where the kid wakes up a week later and wants his pacifier back, so I was a little stumped.

“What’s the point of giving something away if you’re just going to go out and buy more of the exact same thing?” I asked.

“Well, I gave all my shirts away to the poor people, and now I only have like six left!”

“That’s not true!” I said. “You had like a hundred and gave away 10, which equals YOU STILL HAVE TOO MANY!”

This man likes to keep things. EVERYTHING. He still has the box that his cell phone came in AND his old cell phone, which he refused to drop in the donation box at the retail store where we got his smart phone. His reason? And I quote. “I’m so used to waking up to this alarm, that if I switch it up now, I’m not going to be able to wake up.”

Seriously?

So…like, if you buy a new pair of shoes you’re going to forget how to walk when you put them on? In that case, there are lots of poor people who NEED BASKETBALL SHOES, and it’s probably best to give away all your new pairs now, lest you forget how to stand upright.

The Boss once drew me a picture of a race car on a scrap piece of paper that I found a few months later. As I was about to throw it out, he goes, “I drew that for you,” and I go, “Did you want me to keep it?” and he goes, “Well, you don’t have to,” so I made my way to the trash can, and he goes, “But I did draw it for you,” so, I go, “You want me to keep this? Little car? That you drew on scrap paper for me? Like, eight months ago?” and he goes, “Okay, I guess you can do whatever you want with it,” but then he kept watching me with this look in his eyes like he’d been tracking my whereabouts for months and was keeping duct tape, rope, and a knife in the trunk of his car. I slowly tucked the picture of the race car into my purse, and his face formed a little smile — of the creepy variety.

Can someone check for me to see if he’s ever posted an ad for a roommate on Craig’s List?

You guys, I’m not making fun of the man I married — I practically worship the ground he walks on, but these are the cold, hard, indisputable facts of the case: THERE ARE MEN OUT THERE THAT HAVE MORE STUFF THAN WOMEN.

As a member of the female race, I get annoyed with this stereotype that women get slimed with. I feel the need to stand up for other women who are like me — women who don’t like to wander aimlessly through the mall just to see if they want to buy something, women who don’t use six types of body lotion, or three different conditioners, women who don’t have so much stuff their husbands are tempted to build them a tiny house on a separate part of the lawn. In spite of the fact that like to wear bracelets up to my elbows on both hands, and earrings the size of baby Orca whales, when it comes to my living space, and my design preference, I’m a total minimalist. I don’t like clutter, and I have an obsession with wanting to be able to see everything I own. I don’t want to dig through the fridge to reach the bread, or have to throw my clothes in a pile on the floor to find my favorite black tank top. Too much stuff makes me feel overwhelmed, but I’ll admit that my obsessions can be obnoxious for others. I’m sure I have been the root cause for many of The Boss’s ARE YOU SERIOUS? moments.

My quickness to dispose of things has proven to be detrimental in the past. Once, I went on such a downsizing binge in my closet, when the air cleared, I realized I didn’t have pants on. Another time, I was so quick to throw away the packaging and the receipt of a recent purchase out of fear that MY LIFE WOULD BE CLUTTERED that when I realized later I bought the wrong thing, there was nothing I could do. Apparently, most stores won’t let you return electronics even if they are neatly (re)packaged in a Ziploc bag. Every few weeks, I try to convince The Boss that we should give away all our belongings and live like hippies, which is inevitably followed by a call from my dad with reminders of the importance of having a 401k and health insurance. It’s like he can hear my irrational thoughts no matter where I am.

Weird parent radar.

I get that people have sentimental attachments to things, and that’s fine. But I can’t seem to put my finger on how exactly The Boss defines sentimental. The 800 gas receipts he’s keeping in the console of his car? The paper football he made three years ago? That one sock that we will NEVER FIND A MATCH TO.

We’ve talked about the possibility of having kids at some point down the road, but I’m starting to wonder if my obsession with wanting to dispose of things THAT BELONG NOT TO ME will have a negative effect on my future children.

Future baby: Hey, Mama! Look what I dun made me at school teday!

(Yes, I imagine my child(ren) speaking like little truckers with appropriately corresponding names such as Earl Cletus, Beau Bart,  and Loribelle Angel.)

Me: Oh wow, that’s beautiful! Now every one-a-ya’ll take a nice long look at it because it’s time fer Mama to go toss it in the garbage burn out back!

Don’t worry, I promise I’ll pay for their therapy.

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