She Doesn't Get It

We went out to the airport for breakfast Sunday morning. The cafe is run by a friend of ours and, occasionally, by her Archey Buker ex-Marine of a husband. She's sweet as pie while he is rougher than the whiskers on a wino. Loud, rude, profane-- all of that but with a soft heart underneath that brash exterior.

So Sunday we find out the husband's been out of town for two weeks taking a walk down memory lane…. in Vietnam. (When he says "I love the smell of napalm" he knows of what he speaks.) She goes on to tell us just how much she's been enjoying having two weeks without the ol' man hanging around. So much, it turns out, she took the opportunity to remodel-- the entire house.

I have no problem with that. I have opinions about the appearance of our interior but I can work with Tam, no problem. New fridge, range, new paint, new carpet. No problem. And then our friend mentions the dumpster. The dumpster?

Turns out she also took that marital lull as an opportunity to clean a few things out. Like the ol' man's office. Like his favorite old desk. And stacks of old magazines he'd stashed away. And stacks of old papers. And on and on.

Tam will tell you I'm terrible about hanging on to things that probably should be hauled away in a dumpster. And she keeps after me in an attempt to motivate some action on my part. But she gets it: You don't mess with your man's stuff. I know I have magazines from 40 years ago. And old letters from friends and family all the way back to junior high. And books, and pictures, and, well, just plain stuff. But it's my stuff and I keep it pretty well sequestered in my office here at home, even while it sometimes tumbles out of cabinets, closets and off of shelves.

I'll be seeing our friend's husband in the next few days and I'll be ready with a sympathetic ear. You just don't mess with a guys stuff. Geez, I just hope nobody got hurt!