The physical world is his filing cabinet. And he’s especially partial to the filing capacity of our staircase. By mid-week, each step has been assigned an important role. Mid-way up the staircase is the "Bills to be paid" step. Followed by the "Dry erase markers I accidentally pilfered from my place of work" step. And then there are the "Books Gus is drawing in", "Books Larry is reading," and "Books Larry is writing" steps. Followed by the “Have you seen this child flyer and other crappy mail we feel guilty tossing” step. It’s steptastic.
Then there are Larry's pants pockets. Also great for keeping organized! Why burden his wallet with the arduous task of containing pesky receipts, when he can file these items in his pants pockets instead? And then throw his pants on the floor! So I will think they are dirty and wash them! Transforming all those flimsy receipts into perfect paper pills, more portable and pointless than ever.
But he’s paying the bills and balancing the checkbook, without complaint, so I give him extra moist and chewy brownie points for lifting that burden from my twitchy little soul. For years I knew exactly how much money we had and how much I made. Now? Not a clue. I mean, I know what I make in a year… but how that plays out on a month-to-month basis, well, that’s getting a little particular for my taste. And ignorance truly is bliss. Before, when I needed to buy something, I’d get all ulcerish about it. My stomach lining would bellow, “Resist, woman! It’s not worth it! Take three Zantacs instead!” But now, when I “need” to buy something, I just tell Larry. And he says, “Well, you NEED it! So you must get what you need! Get what you need, you must!” And then I’m all, “Okay then! You are right, sir! I must meet this need head on! Best not to let it wither!”
And then you know what happens to the stacks? Suddenly they look cute and reasonable to me! Less like stacks and more like friends.
Well, maybe not friends. Perhaps more like the rowdy college student neighbors I’d wave to, but never invite over for dinner, knowing they’d only get drunk and pass out on my staircase.