"You're going to blog about this, aren't you? You'll exaggerate, and people will think our house is trashy and cluttered like a hoarder's house or something . . ." Dan threw a few receipts onto the dining room table, the same dining room table that I had declared paper-scrap-free just seconds before. "Our house isn't trashy, you know. Most houses are a lot worse than ours."
This was coming from a man who, during his bachelor pad years, "sorted" his clothes by throwing the dirty ones on the closet floor until laundry day.
Dan and I don't fight very often. Dan doesn't talk much which means he doesn't "talk back" much either. (It's nice having a quiet husband.) Besides, we're on the same page about most everything. But our one consistent source of contention comes down to organizing random papers - bills, receipts, junk mail, owners manuals, warranties, etc.
That's not to say that Dan isn't an organized person. What looks like mounds of scrap paper to the naked eye truly is some sort of system that he has worked out somewhere in his head but has failed to share with the rest of us. Even his "dirty-clothes-on-the-floor" approach had a kind of order-from-the-chaos feel to it. (Dan did have a laundry basket, by the way. It sat empty beside his piles of clothes.)
When Dan and I first started dating, his kitchen table was covered with piles of papers.
"I still need to look through them," he would mumble.
But I wasn't worried. I just figured I would just introduce him to my foolproof filing system if we ever ended up together for eternity, and that he would acclimate quite well, as he had done when I suggested he use the empty laundry basket as a dirty clothes holder.
Throughout our eight years of marriage though, our dining room table has rarely been cleared off. And here is the problem with using our dining room table as a filing cabinet. It is the first thing people see when they enter our house. It is like the living room that my brother and I weren't really allowed to "live in" when we were growing up. We could play in the family room or the rec room, but the living room was the room that would serve as the spread for InStyle magazine if my mother ever became a bestselling author. (Okay, now you understand about my background and about why piles of stuff send me into a neurotic frenzy.)
I tried making Dan a to-do file. It sits by my to-do file bursting at the seams with papers and receipts, some of which are two or three years old. I touched it the other day, and a CD entitled "Ubuntu 11.10 Desktop 32-bit" fell out.
"I still need to look through that," Dan muttered when I asked.
Sometimes the piles of papers are joined by the contents of Dan's pockets - a cell phone, a wallet, car keys, a pair of sunglasses, a work badge, spare change, a stick of gum, and whatever else shows up in men's pockets these days. I'd rather not know.
Here is the conversation that ensues when I attempt to help Dan come up with a new system:
Dan: "Did you move my pile again?"
Me: "Yes, it's in the cedar box in the kitchen."
Dan: "I won't remember to look for it there."
Me: "You won't remember to grab your keys before you drive your car?"
Dan: "There's too much stuff in that box. I'll get confused."
Me: "You're that easily confused? By a couple of gift cards and prescription receipts? Anyone walking by our house can see your wallet, cell phone, iPod, and car keys sitting on the table. You want to invite thieves over for dinner or what?"
Dan: "And where are my piles of papers? I still need to look through them."
Me: "You mean the owners' manual for the TV we bought six months ago? They are also in the brown box, along with the remote control from the old TV that you must have been using as a paper weight since we obviously have no use for it anymore."
Dan: "See. I forgot to go through them because you hid them. When they sit on our dining room table, it helps me remember to go through them."
Me: "So write it on the whiteboard on the fridge."
Dan: "I don't look at the whiteboard."
Me: "I do. I'll help you remember. Believe me. I will help you."
It struck me that this conversation was similar to one I had heard many times as a child - about my father's compost pile. My mother thought it was gross. My father, an avid gardener, thought it was necessary. (Personally, as a lover of all things organic, I am quite fond of my compost pile.) Dan and I were turning into my parents.
Needless to say, the table is clear for now. There is a big note on the whiteboard that reads, "Dan's filing" under our to-do list. I wonder how long it will take for those piles of papers to sneak their way back onto that dining room table.
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