by Anne Vargas
My spouse is spending two weeks in Asia as guest lecturer on a cruise ship and I am cleaning the house. One of us is having a wonderful time; I hope he is, too.
I went through the motions of regret that I couldn't go along and I tried to look suitably sorrowful when I dropped him off at the airport but I was singing as I raced back home. Thirteen blissful days to myself, but only thirteen. How would I ever finish everything on the list I had started compiling the minute the cruise line called? No lunching with the ladies or languishing with a book and bon-bons, I had things to do!
It's been a relatively blissful marriage but we tend to view some things differently, perhaps even more differently than we did years ago; if it’s true that we all become more of whatever we are as we grow older, at this point we're both a bit extreme. I would prefer to be surrounded only by the things I really need and use, all neatly organized, whereas my spouse feels more comfortable with lots to choose from in every aspect of life. His shirts take up twice as much closet space as my entire wardrobe and he enjoys selecting from among his basket full of hairbrushes whereas I think one is sufficient. A therapist could probably unravel the “whys” of our idiosyncrasies but we're accustomed to our differences and, for the most part, tolerate them. Until I have the chance to get rid of stuff when he's not around which explains my glee at his departure.
The normal rhythm of our days allows me only a few hours (different gym schedules) to wage the battle against clutter that my husband cheerfully chooses to ignore things I deem we don't need (and that he'll never miss if he doesn't see them go) are stashed in the trunk of my car to be disposed of later. If there is any uncertainty, it's stored in places he would never look (and which I can't disclose since he'll probably read this) until I'm certain he'll not notice its absence.
By noon there were piles of items everywhere and I was ecstatic. I could sort through everything at leisure, deciding what to keep, to donate or toss with no one hovering to retrieve it.
I could then move on to the cupboards, the closets and the mountain of accumulated magazines. If all went well, I'd make my way through everything before his return.
Everything except the freezer.
I'm married to a cook; food preparation is his passion. He spends so much time in the kitchen I wistfully envy my friends who complain about being golf widows. He watches the Food Network Channel and has favorites among the chefs. His reads (and saves) Gourmet and Bon Appetit. His favorite way to spend an evening is cooking for friends and every dinner party begins with some sort of a pasta course. He also does all the shopping, a source of aggravation since I occasionally like to do some shopping myself. As a result, our refrigerator is always jam-packed. Cleaning out the refrigerator is on the list.
But not the freezer; I wouldn't dare. Make that freezers, we have more than one and they are all full. Full of mysterious jars, containers and packages I couldn't possibly identify but my husband actually keeps lists of the contents and knows exactly where to find the fish stock, chicken broth or some special sauce he's made and from those depths he creates magnificent meals. But I want a shelf, just one shelf, to call my own. (I'd really like my own freezer but I'll settle for a shelf.) I'm periodically assured he is working on emptying one for me; “soon, very soon”, he promises, but he's always putting more in instead of taking anything out.
It's our only source of real dissension and about twice a year I lose it and alternate between shrieking, crying, begging and threatening. I've even gone so far (twice) as to have a gym buddy pretend to be a Home Depot employee and call the house at a specified time and ask to speak to me. I, of course, wasn't at home so she gave my husband the following message: “The freezer your wife was inquiring about is due in the store next week”. Those messages were never passed along to me but the subsequent few days brought some heightened attempts to give me some shelf space. If there were room in the garage I would buy one, with a lock, if possible. I've considered the closet but there are too many shirts in there.
By day 13 order has been restored everywhere (except the freezers) but tedium has set in; this is no longer fun. It's also lonely. There is something to be said for the chaos and clutter of our life and I'm ready for the return of its creator. And after we mutually tell our tales he'll open the refrigerator and no doubt think, “What did she do? I've got to get some food in there.”