Not My Stuff

Where do these go?

Space your kids four years apart, and prepare for a grand collision of milestones.  The older one graduates college on the same day the younger one goes to prom.  The younger one graduates high school on the same day the older one packs up his apartment to come home.  It's too much for my brain, my heart, my closets.  Could someone (other than hubby) please tell me how an apartment full of furniture and stuff could possibly fit in a house already stuffed to capacity?  Not to worry.  Hubby has it all worked out, like some freaky mathematical equation.  It's all about angles and stacking and taking things apart... things that took hellish hours to put together.

Each time I ask him why, oh, why, can't we just put it all in storage, he takes a deep cleansing breath.  He gathers his strength.  Must he explain this again to the remedial SJG?  Will I ever understand that he's got it all under control? "Everything's going to fit," he informs me. "You'll see.  You forget who you're dealing with here."

Oh.  If only.  I know exactly what I'm up against.  I refer you to the Infamous Sink Incident: http://shortjewishgal.blogspot.com/2009/01/what-started-as-hairline-crack-is-now.html

The man can't wait to prove me wrong.  He's convinced that he's going to find room for the following items:  Another sofa, another coffee table, another end table.  Another dresser, another desk, another cabinet.  Another TV, another kitchen stool, another microwave.  Another coffee maker, another set of dishes, another set of pots.  Dare I mention the big boy amplifier, the guitars (electric and acoustic), the mountain bike? 

This morning, glutton for punishment that I am, I politely broach the topic once more, with feeling. "Honey?  I'm sorry, but I just don't see how you're going to do it." "Shall I let you in on a little secret?"  "Yes, darling.  Please do."  "It's going to be a good weekend for Goodwill." "You're giving Billy's stuff to Goodwill?  We just bought that sofa in January." "Not his stuff.  Our stuff.  I'm going to clean out all the closets and give tons of @#$% away."  "Not my stuff."  "Not your stuff, but other stuff."  "What stuff?" 

Here he draws a blank, grabs his work stuff and heads out the door.  On some deeply-repressed level, he knows what I know. Whatever stuff he plans to give away won't make much of a dent.  In the coming weeks, I'll present photographic evidence that the space hubby hopes to create exists only in his mind. Trust me on this, people:  There is no extra room in this house for any more stuff.  None whatso.