Tuesday, Sept. 07, 2004
Dear Diary:

It's been happening gradually over the summer, so you probably realized that something had changed but you couldn't put your finger on just exactly what it was.

Well, here's the deal: it is now impossible for anyone but my spousal unit to be smug. Seriously. The man has spent this past summer gradually absorbing every molecule of smug on the planet. As of yesterday, there is not one iota of smug to be found outside of his body.

You heard it here first: it is now scientifically impossible for anyone else to be smug.

It is sapping my will to live.

As my three loyal readers know, one of the major issues in my marriage to this man has been his inability to throw anything away. Actually, it goes beyond his inability to throw anything away � frankly, the man is a crap stuff magnet. He is always picking up crap stuff on the theory that one day it will be "good to have". The area around his workshop looks like a dump, only shabbier.

I have been pointing out to him that he has had his crap stuff encircling his workshop for years and the crap stuff never seems to be used for anything. Which brings us to the porch project on which we've been labouring all summer. Yes, I would be speaking of the so far imaginary wraparound porches we planned to throw up around our log home.

The cement forms he had to build to widen the walls on our foundation? All the wood for that came from his piles of crap stuff. This made all our cement form work free, except for our labour.

He has pointed this out to me. Several times.

Some of the blue Styrofoam insulation for the outside of the new cement walls he'd picked up from a carpentry client of his who no longer wanted it. The two metal window wells for the basement windows came from a reno he'd done for someone else.

He is taking enormous, unseemly pleasure from pointing out to me how much of his crap stuff has been good to have.

For the last two nights we've been laminating together support beams for the outside edge of the porches from 2" x 10" planks. Each beam is four planks thick and over 20 feet in length. Yes, you've guessed it. A lot of this wood is wood he's been collecting here and there, hoarding for years now around his workshop because one day it would be "good to have".

He has pointed this out to me. Several times.

Last night we began to put the beams on the cement porch support posts. You never let exterior wood come directly in contact with either cement or other wood, even if the wood is treated, because it speeds rot. Among other things, you can use heavy grade tar paper as your barrier, or metal, but the spousal unit had something even better and more durable�sheets of quarter inch thick rubber he'd scavenged God only knows where way, way back in the mists of time because deep, deep in his heart he believed it was " good to have".

He has pointed this out to me. Several times.

Take it from me, there is nothing worse than living with a packrat who has had their packrattery vindicated. Last night as we worked I could feel the gentle tingle of the last of the planet's smug molecules drifting past me towards the spousal unit who is now officially the planet's epicenter of smugness.

There are no words for my pain.

Over the last few years we've had some hellacious fights full and frank discussions about how there is no need for any new hoarding since we have mountains of crap stuff here and there is no need for new crap stuff.

Only now some of his crap stuff has actually been used, which creates a crap stuff vacuum. Plus, now that he has FINALLY used some of this crap stuff, he can actually argue that future hoarding might actually pay off. Just when I had the hoarding almost stopped.

Oh, the pain. The unspeakable, unbearable pain.

Today I got a telephone call from a neighbour. She was dividing her hostas, a type of plant that originally comes from Japan and is grown for its leaves, which vary widely from plant to plant. Monique asked me if I wanted any of her hostas. As my three loyal readers know, I have many thousands of hostas here on this property. Seriously. Thousands.

All around our house looks like this:

Do I need any more hosta?

Um, er, ah, I guess it comes down to how you define the word "need" exactly. Because, well, at this moment I really don't have a permanent place to put Monique's hosta. I do have a hill in front of the house I plan to landscape next spring, but I probably have enough hosta on the property that I can divide out enough plants to do the job.

So I did the rational thing, eh, and told Monique I'd take a pass, right?

WHAT, ARE YOU NUTS? WE'RE TALKING HOSTA HERE, PEOPLE, HOSTA. I love hosta with a deep, inexplicable love. By definition a hosta, any hosta, is good to have because eventually a place will be found for it.

So I drove down to Monique's a few hours ago and dug out two HUGE honking hunks of hosta which I have divided and planted beside our woodshed. I had to throw out a large bed of wonderfully flowering impatiens to do this. Yes, I destroyed a lovely flowering bed to make room for plants I really have no need for.

This, of course, is completely different from the spousal unit's packrattery. Really. It is. He's a packrat. I, on the other hand, am a discriminating collector.

Oh be quiet.

--Marn

Mileage on the Marnometer: 660.36 miles. Ten percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck. 25 per cent thereTen percent there rubber duck.Ten percent there rubber duck..Ten percent there rubber duck.
Oh man. This is going to be hard
Goal for 2004: 1,000 miles - 1609 kilometers

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She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -


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