My husband has issues. Well he must have, he married me! (Badum tchhh!) But honestly, he can be an absolute nightmare. I mean, I love him so completely and he is truly wonderful. But he messes. He calls it “potching” and what that means is, if he begins to potch, and you’re not following him round like you would an inquisitive two year old, you will never see your belongings again.
You may as well say goodbye, print off a eulogy and throw a flower on an imaginary grave while lamenting “but my hair bobbles were so young! They didn’t deserve this!”
I am absolutely sure that he doesn’t mean to do it! But there is a black hole in our home, a vacuum of time of time and space which once opened, has never closed. We’ve moved house twice and each time it’s followed us. It only appeared when I met him. Weird, eh?
A mystery, you say? A mystery indeed! How can things; property, articles, important letters, when placed deliberately and specifically in a particular area then disappear completely? Witchcraft? Sorcery? Magic?
I’ll answer you, openly and honestly; Mr Starky is a knob.
He has an uncontrollable urge to move things which absolutely and unequivocally don’t concern him, and more importantly, do not need to be moved. Because he’s not actually moving them with a purpose. They’re not being put in a “proper place” which I could understand.
“Oh this television remote control which I’ve found on the stairs should be in the front room, where the television lives” That kind of thought process I get. But when it’s “here is a phone charger, it appears to be plugged in and in use, it’s not for my phone, but this goes in a box, at the back of the wardrobe, my wardrobe, where I keep my socks which my wife has lovingly laundered and paired up”
And the clincher here is, he then can’t for the life of him remember WHERE he’s
put it. The other tactic he uses appears to be to deny all knowledge. “Babe, I’ve never touched it, I promise you I haven’t seen it, I don’t know where it is but it definitely wasn’t me”
And apparently my logic of “you are the ONLY other person who lives here! Unless the dog has developed thumbs and can fly, it HAD to be you!” is flawed. Because it wasn’t him.
I’ve come to the conclusion that he does it absentmindedly, it’s not a conscious thing. So when he says he can’t remember, or doesn’t know, he’s telling the truth. He really doesn’t know, because he wasn’t paying attention.
He is, at this moment, faffing about in the kitchen. He’s doing the washing up. Then he’ll rearrange the kitchen cupboards as he puts it away. The pans won’t be put in the pan cupboard, of course not, they’ll be squirreled away behind the coffee machine which gets used twice a year when my Grandma and Auntie Pat come for tea and cake.
It will be placed like some kind of crockery buckaroo. Any move could mean a cast iron grill pan lid becomes dislodged and gently rolls to freedom, and before you know it, has landed on your foot (three bruised metatarsals later!) Causing you to howl and screech expletives while you hop round like a demented flamingo, flapping and doing the kind of ugly crying which you never see in films.
Because my version of organised doesn’t tally with his. Despite the fact that I do ALL of the cooking. He doesn’t even need to be in the kitchen, I’d prefer it if he didn’t go in there. It took me 45 minutes to locate the cheese grater the other day and I’ve still not found the sieve. He’s huffing and puffing “this baking tray doesn’t go here, it goes with the teapots”
There’s no rhyme or reason to it, and to be honest, I’ve given up. There’s no point in arguing about it, ill just wait until he goes to the gym and move it all back. It gets on my nerves and occasionally winds me up to the point of an actual heated discussion (The Great Photo Album Hunt of ’14) but for the most part, I’m learning to let go.
But also partly because I’ve been hiding his stone wash dungarees for three years. He thinks hes misplaced them. But I don’t love him enough to step out of the door with a man who looks like the love child of Brian Harvey circa 1993 and The Wurzels.
starkydirewoolf 