embattled

Snippets from the frontlines of an emotional weekend:

We discovered that we're not moving. There is too much to be done at both places to be using the phrase "We're moving." The limbo is tearing us apart. The new place is 75 percent done, with some very key components - like a bathroom ceiling - missing. The old place is a deplorable mess because I thought it best to box a lot of things and wait for the big move. This meant pulling clothes out of boxes to get dressed every day, clean laundry that wouldn't leave the basket until it was worn, a half-empty, half ready-to-move jungle gym of a closet organizer, and stacks, piles, mountains of laundry to navigate around, trip over, and step on.

This bugs Scott. It bugs him to no end. It bothers him so much that glancing at it on a Saturday morning can ruin his whole weekend, creating a bad mood in him that he subsequently uses to ruin mine.

The solution to all our problems has always been, Mrs. Cat, put your stuff away, and then get rid of stuff that doesn't have a "place." I moved into the apartment in May of 2006, he was partially moved in by November and fully moved in by 2007, and we've been fighting this out since. I wasn't even fully unpacked when he moved in. He started doing things like setting deadlines for unpacking, telling me that I shouldn't leave my watch on the kitchen counter, telling me that I have too many books, and lecturing me on how and when the turtle should be fed.

Now he wants to set out a big black garbage bag and do a big sweep of the apartment and whatever he feels is not in its proper place, he wants to put in the bag and throw out at the end of the week.

Solution or insult?

TBC (and C and C and C) I suspect.