She hides my stuff, and wants credit for doing it.....

     I am a creature of habit, so much so, I swear that I have started a blog this way before, but I have to start this one, this way, to set the tone.  A little more background is probably in order too, so I'll tell you a story about my Dad.  My dad used to work between 2-3 jobs at a time, and there was no doubt that he was king of his domain when he came home.

Not my Dad's actual foot, but you get the picture

His jacket would come off and stay in a convenient location, he'd empty his pockets and leave all his stuff where he stood, and he'd kick back in his recliner and call for the nearest kid to untie and take off his work boots.  That was a smell that was hard to forget.  I understood how hard he worked, but the understanding didn't make that task any more pleasant, but I digress, the point was, he paid the mortgage and no one told him where to put his stuff.  By definition, the place he left it, was the exactly correct proper place for whatever he had placed there, to be.  My house, however, does not work that way. 

     I do not solely pay the mortgage on our house, my wife does contribute and we share our funds equally.  I still laugh when she calls me to "ask permission" to spend $40 on a dress or something, she puts more constraints on herself that I ever would or could.  I have also never worked more than one job at a time, that I can recall.  Those are the major differences, as I see them, between the position my father was in, and the one I am in.  So shouldn't I be able to do what he did?  That's what I thought.  Here's how it really goes down in my house....

     When I enter my castle, I usually come in the back door and go immediately through the small back "mud room" or foyer into the open kitchen/dining room area.  I take off my own shoes and leave them by a wall

How a counter in my house should look

where I can see them.  I divest myself of my pocket's contents and it all goes onto a small counter that sits in the middle of the room.  My wallet goes there, my phone, my Bluetooth, a pack of gum, some change, any business cards I have acquired, any loose receipts, and anything else I may have picked up on my trip.  The counter is centrally located in the house, so I pass it coming in or out of the house each time, it is really convenient.  My coat generally goes over a chair in the dining room.  I could go back to the foyer and hang it in the closet, but I am only going to wear it again, and truth be told, that foyer is small and tight, and I am slightly claustrophobic.  Later, when  I undress to get into my pajamas, my clothes might get strewn over a piano bench or sewing chair on the bottom floor, but only if the plan is to wear them again, like my jeans or something.  I am then finished with my interior decorating, and all is in it's proper place, and I head off for bed.  Can you guess the next part?

     I awake and start my morning routine, I shower and shave, I eat and brush, and then am ready to arm myself for the day ahead.  The trouble first starts when I go to retrieve my jeans from the piano bench, and

How my wife thinks our counters should look. 

they are not there.  I yell "Honey, have you seen (stolen) my jeans?"  "Try looking on your valet stand up in our bedroom", comes the reply.  Odd, the movement seems to defy the laws of physics as the pants were in a lower (convenient) location, and now are on a higher floor.  I dutifully trudge up the stairs, and sure enough, my pants are folded and hung over the valet stand, weird as that was not where I remember leaving them.  I head back down to claim my other things from the counter, and it is bare!  "Honey" I call again, "have you seen (hidden) my wallet?"  "Try the top of your dresser in the bedroom" She says.  So, another trip upstairs is in order.  At this point I start to imagine that it is just her devious plot to get me to exercise more, but I still have to get going, so I continue on looking for my things.  My gum is now found in the front foyer, my phone in the downstairs bathroom, any change is found in my wife's Pringles can where she collects it, business cards are stuffed in the wallet, my coat is hung in the closet, and my Bluetooth is under the couch (Okay technically the cat hid the Bluetooth there, but I am taking some poetic license with this story).  After a half of an hour of this early morning scavenger hunt, I am almost ready to leave, except for my shoes.  I scan the walls of the room that I left them in, and can see nothing.  "Honey, have you seen (diabolically secreted) my shoes?  "Have you looked under the buffet", comes the exasperated reply. "Under the buffet?" I think.  Really?  I creak and groan as I get down on all fours and peer under the buffet, and yes, sure enough, my shoes are there, way in the back.  I reach back to get them, all the while my 45 year old, slightly arthritic body sounding like a bowl of Rice Krispies.  I am damn sure I did not take them off under there.  I am, however, finally finished with our little game and am able to walk out the door.  My wife comes down to see me off me, and to give me my kiss goodbye,  and try as I might I cannot connect the words coming out of her mouth with the ones that should be connected with this type of activity.  It's not, "I'm sorry", or "I'll leave your stuff alone tomorrow", no, she actually says (with an air of superiority), "Boy, you couldn't find anything this am, what would you do without me?   As I stated earlier, not only does she hide my stuff, she even wants credit for doing it.  Women.

     In closing, I have to admit that over the last few years things have gotten better.  She bought me a little butler caddy box that she allows me to keep in a corner of the front foyer near the computer (not as convenient), and my stuff goes there each night.

My little butler caddy

It's probably the reason we are still married.  I still sometimes, find myself day-dreaming about the absolute power my Dad had.  I can envision  the daily collection that came from his pockets, his knife, his change, matches, an odd assortment of o-rings, wing nuts, bent nails, copper fittings, a tube of pipe grease, and a bunch of other stuff.  I had often thought, as a kid, that if I was ever an astronaut, and there was an emergency in space, all I would need to fix the problem, would be the contents of my Dad's pockets on any given day.  Back to my reality, however, I envision that, and then I look at my stuff, sequestered in a corner (you can't see my shoes, they are under the buffet), and it is one more reminder, that he was a better man than me.