pitching a fit
by Bella Rum
Yes, I pitched a royal fit this morning. Honestly, it takes some doing to get me up to high pitch before 7 am, but I’m a horror once I get going. This happens seldom now. I was better at it when I was young. It requires too much energy. It’s still forceful enough to call it a fit but its duration is substandard.
pleading my case
This has been my space for the 8.5 years we’ve lived here. It’s kind of my sanctuary, as ‘they’ say. It’s where I blog, pay bills, file those vital documents, shop online, etc. It’s a small room on the second floor and at the back of our house. It has one window. My desk is a door (painted black) that rests on top of two metal file cabinets (also black). It’s perpendicular to the wall, and my chair is beside the window. When I look out, I see trees and birds and my flower bed along the fence. All the furniture is courtesy of H’s former employer. They provided it for his home office when we lived in Maryland and didn’t want it back when he retired. It isn’t a fancy place, but it works and it’s MINE… or it was until H got his laptop, moved in and took over.
I’m not a neat freak. NOT!! I used to be a little freakish about things, but I’ve improved to the point of just this side of mayhem and filth. I swear… BUT H is driving me crazy. While I’m a convert to slatternly ways, H is a natural-born lover of disorder, mess and muddle. Was that redundant? He gives all swine a bad name and he has turned ‘my’ office into a pigsty.
Look at me telling on him!
He moved his little old self in here when he bought the new laptop and life hasn’t been the same since. You know about his proclivity for making piles. I’m sure I’ve mentioned it. His piles of stuff (and that’s putting it nicely) are all over the place. Stacks and piles are H’s idea of a filing system. I can’t find anything. A friend called yesterday and wanted the address of a mutual friend. I couldn’t find the Rolodex on my desk. I COULDN’T find it. It’s like searching for a particular grain of sand on the beach. Impossible.
I implored him to do something with his towering stacks and teetering piles. Yes, I made a few suggestions. He grumbled, pawed the ground, snorted a little and mumbled. It’s the mumbling that’s dangerous. It’s an art. Men, you must do it loud enough to convince her you’re actually in the conversation, but low enough not to be heard. God forbid she actually hears you.
In the end, he claimed he’d tame the beast, but this is nothing I haven’t heard a million times. I remain unimpressed. Do not be nice to him in the comments!
I know you’ll read this, H. How many piles are left?
There will be a follow-up to this post. You know it.