“It's at the trailer”

It has been a while since I've blathered on about Perpetual, (the other half of, well, something), and his particular brand of insanity. Since the restraining order has been lifted, I am going to launch into it now.

I believe I have mentioned, gently, mind you, in columns gone by, how this man is somewhat of a psycho pack rat who would have saved his own baby teeth had the tooth fairy not intervened. (I'm not sure if tooth fairy is capitalized and, rather than checking, I shall just call this a digression so that you know it's really Lisa Houserman typing this gibberish.)

Well, the following is just one example of his affection for all things, well, er, ancient and clutter filled. OK, stop right now. I know what you are thinking. He likes me due to the fact that I am elderly and am brimming with debris. That may be true but, my plethora of junk resides mostly in the brain, if brain is now defined as the garage.

Moving along, Perpetual has a work space that is located in an actual mobile home. The facility, for lack of a better term, is used for his office space but, we all know that the main reason for having such a hideout is to avoid me at all costs. For reasons of preventing him from being robbed, due to this piece, I will not disclose the location of said trailer. I'm already in a heap o' trouble for simply broaching this subject in print, I'm certain.

I have never in my days seen anything quite like the trailer. Clearly he has painting jazz from stem to stern, which is normal, considering his job. Oh, perhaps I should have mentioned that he owns a painting company.

So, paint being stuffed, stored, displayed and located in every square inch of the “office” is pretty normal. However, some of the other things are simply over the top in my not so humble view.

It is not uncommon to hear something like this unfold in terms of daily banter between Perpetual and myself—or any other living soul, now that I ponder.

“Darn, I really need a Life Magazine from the year 1942,” said Lisa, with much sadness in her voice. “Oh, I have several at the trailer,” replied P.

Also, things seem to be located “at the trailer” that would be best suited for, oh, I don't know, maybe this actual dwelling space. For instance, I might need laundry soap only to be told that he has a case at the, you guessed it, TRAILER. We might need sand for the driveway during the hideous cold months and yet, it's at the trailer and not here. I'm getting mad as I type this.

Over the years of punishment—I mean of our absolute love and joy toward one another, I have been told that the following articles are “at the trailer.” Here we go: sleds, winter coats, boots, nails of all varieties and sizes, toilet paper, paper plates, dish soap, van snow tires, Zippo lighter fluid, sidewalk salt, bird seed, cat brushes, shovels, steak, decorative door knob, chicken, eggs, hummingbird feeder, seafood, lawn chairs, butter, bicycle helmets, long underwear, short underwear, shaving cream, empty flower pots, large garbage bags, a VCR, rotary telephones and a hubcap from a 1970 Chevy pickup truck.

Wow, I'm not even sure if the above paragraph/sentence is legal in terms of grammar but, I simply couldn't stop. That was just a taste of what I've been told was, “at the trailer,” when I asked politely, of course.

If ever I absolutely NEED to have something here in the home, it is ALWAYS on another site, totally. If I had a brilliant idea, (saying nickle is so boring), every time I have taken in the words, “I have that. It's over at the trailer,” I would not be bothering you on a weekly basis. I'd be too busy enjoying the huge amounts of money flowing in due to my inventions and major contributions to society at large and small.

Obviously, Perpetual's propensity to store a good, or a bad, garment, nail file or frying pan from the 1960 era, has actually come in handy from time to time. I can always be assured that even though my nose hair clipper is on the fritz, there is one just waiting for me at the trailer. Need a lava lamp light bulb? No worries, there is one at the trailer. Do you desire a bag of baby food jars? Well, they can be found at the trailer. Are the neighbor kids hassling you for sidewalk chalk? Have no fear because.... you get the picture, I think.

Is this whole scenario, mental disorder, problem, issue or quaint personality trait, you pick the one, something inherent in all members of the male population? Are some women like this? Am I the only one dealing with such shenanigans? Will I be bludgeoned to death in my sleep by my darling Perpetual for even penning such a piece? These and all other questions will never be answered. Well, actually time will tell when it comes to that last one.

I must dash as it has come to my attention that I'm in need of a pair of bolt cutters from 1922. I must utilize them for cutting through the male bovine excrement that has taken over this column space. I think I know where I might find said equipment. It's AT THE *&$#@! TRAILER, of course.