One of my first tasks when I started working from home was to take the time to clean out some closets. Mine because I'm short and I tend to just fling workout clothes and spare blankets and luggage up on the shelves willy-nilly. Now everything is folded and neat and the next time we're at Ikea I'm going to grab a cheap little plastic step stool to keep in there so I have no excuse for not being able to reach. The other closet was the one in the office, with Jim's spillover clothes, which are not the issue - it was the camping gear and boxes of clothes he never wears that were driving me nuts. Camping gear. In an upstairs closet. When we have a basement with a storage space under the stairs. Why did it have to be up here? So I pulled that stuff out, compressed things into less containers, and filled the new found space up with my sewing stuff which had been scattered about the house in different corners and closets and such. Sewing things I intend to use, as I have fabric to make some jumpers and pants for Natalie and other accoutrements for her room and the house (pillows and curtains and quitls, oh my!)
Tonight? He discovers (a week after it happened...) his camping stuff is downstairs. He decides the back packs and tent need to be stored up here and goes about spending 20 minutes moving things about in there in order to shove them in. Let me also add that the last time we went camping was also the only time we ever went camping, and it was 3 years ago. My backpack - he got it for me after that camping trip - has been used once: To New York City. He was the dork trying to get the rolling suitcase off the bus and over bumpycity sidewalks while I strolled effortlessly along with my back pack on my shoulders. I looked way cooler, too.
I should also add that in less than 24 hours, his MOTHER will be here, and there are sooooooo many things he could be doing to clean his crap up than moving his camping gear back upstairs. Or going to Home Depot, where he is now, to buy a valve for the tub, which will take him over an hour to do, since he has to stop and look at everything.
Times like these feel more like I have a boy roommate than a husband.