Yesterday Frank called a recruiter in Austin. “Please please please send us your resume. When will you be here?” I was in the garage working like mad, because I know he’s determined to leave me in Florida all by myself, and I will be a monkey’s flying cow uncle first. I asked him when he got off the phone when he told them he’d be available for work. Because you know, I’ve told him several times that we’re putting the house on the market April 15th, he can send his resume to Austin on the 7th, and we’ll plan to leave here end of April, mid-May, end of May, perhaps mid-June (because we know our house is going to sell right away, it’s all the buzz in the neighborhood). He can go end of April if there’s a job he absolutely can’t pass up, but really, I’d love us to have some time off to go to the Grand Canyon before he starts work in Texas. “So when did you say you’ll be available for work?” “I said we’d be in Austin in a couple of weeks or maybe a month.” “Do you hate me?” He had no idea why I would react any way other than pleased as punch that he’d given the correct answer. “You are just bound and determined to leave me in this hell called Florida all by myself, aren’t you?” (Please pardon my language, it’s what I said, I don’t want to lie to you.) “What? What’d I do? That’s not the right answer?”
You know, if he does leave me here by myself, I’m hiring a contractor to finish the rest of the work on the house and then spending a lavish couple of weeks at Disney (staying there in their uber-expensive rooms and everything) with a certain Prince Charming (Cinderella’s boyfriend) while I wait for the work to be done. Then while I’m selling the house, it’s pedicures and massages every day. Every day. So that job in Austin had better pay the big bucks, because I’ll be living it up down here and requiring quite the stipend. Oh, maybe when I have no showings, wRitErsbLock, sherlock, and I can hang out at the space center and use the annual pass I just got. Too bad my darling husband will be far away in Texas, chowing down on that awesome Austin food without me, not able to use his new KSC pass. Too bad, my love. Oh, and you have to leave me all but Old Faithful. You get to take only one gun with you until I come for good. You leave me to rot in Florida, you leave the weapons. The beautiful, shiny, sexy weapons. Not to mention, the beautiful, shiny, sexy wife! Slowly rotting in the Florida humidity. Yes, well, I’m gonna send you shiny, beautiful (not you readers, you–Frank) pictures of me cleaning the guns every night whilst I am abandoned here in the netherregions of America.
And since he’s helping me around the house right now, it’s project after project for him. Only he knows that I won’t let him pack stuff, because I want our things to get to Texas not broken. So he doesn’t even start grabbing stuff and throwing it into boxes, because, well, he just knows. He’s already done most of the outside work and gotten most of the stuff off the plant ledges for me (I have to redecorate them more sparingly and dust anything that goes back up there, plus we have to paint everything before anything goes back up…). So anything I come across for him, I just tell him, oh, you can do this next. He’s very efficient. My list is very long and celiactically slow-moving, though the boxes are getting packed fairly fast because I’m a much more organized person than one would think by looking at the state of things right now.
Anyway, he asked for something to do because he’d successfully removed the towel bar in the master bathroom (yes, they really did just glue it onto the wall), so I sucked in my breath and gave him very specific instructions on how to remove my clothes from the dryer. Mind you, I have nine categories of laundry, including dry-clean-only, and this is my smallest category, so there were about eight pieces of clothing in the dryer. And I gave very specific instructions. And asked nicely. “Ok, and make sure that you use only the big plastic hangers.” “Ok.” He acts like he hears what I’m saying, but he’s just pretend-listening. “And don’t smush the clothes when you hang them in the closet. They need their space.” They’re my cutest shirts. “Ok.” So I go into my closet after I’ve made an exhaustive list of everything we need at Lowe’s, Target, Walmart, BJ’s, the post office, and Big Lots. I can’t wait to put on my cutest new KSC t-shirt! It’s brown and gold, my sweetie who wants me to rot in Florida alone bought it for me with his allowance. I love it.
First thing I notice is that it is smushed. Along with another of my t-shirts fresh from the dryer. Eye roll. “I thought you said you wouldn’t smush my clothes?” See, he got distracted because there was lingerie in the dryer. I know, because he held it up and asked, “How am I supposed to know how to hang this stuff?” “Most of it is t-shirts. And if it’s lingerie, I have three hangers of lingerie, just hang it on one of those hangers. It’s not hard.” But he was still stuck on it’s black and pink and lacy. Anyway, “I’m sorry… I tried not to.” Then I noticed that everything was on wire hangers. WIRE HANGERS! They’re from the devil, you know. “Sweetie!” “What? What’d I do?” “Do you think I just say things to hear myself talk?” “What??” “I said only big plastic hangers.” “I used those until I ran out.” “That’s when you go to other closets and find more.” He usually asks in these situations. His head was still with the black and pink and lacy. “Oh. I thought you just preferred the plastic ones, but these were ok too.” “No. If these were ok, I wouldn’t have made a special point to say only use big plastic hangers.” “Then why do we have them?” Ah, quick, but I’m quick, too. “Because the drycleaners send clothes home on these. I immediately transfer clothes to the big plastic hangers so they’re not ruined. Wire hangers ruin clothes.” “Then why do drycleaners use them?” Why why why. “Because they’re cheap.” So there.
And then I see a classic example of why I just don’t let him touch the laundry ever. I didn’t take a picture, but I’ve taken a picture before. It wasn’t as bad this time, but it was on its way. I just started laughing. “Did you even try?” “I tried!” “No, you half-tried.” “I tried to try.” “You tried to half-try.”
How do they survive without us? How does he expect to survive without me when he’s in Texas alone and I’m in Florida alone?
I do love him.