Mork Calling Orson, Come In Orson

I think it happened this week. It must have. I have way too much compelling evidence to suggest that it didn't. Oh, there were no headlines on the front page of the Globe & Mail. CTV Newsnet didn't carry the item either. Nor did CNN. Unless you lived on an island in the Strait, in the heart of the OBB you might have missed it too.

But despite the empirical evidence that is so sorely lacking, I am 99.99% sure it most certainly must have happened.

I am convinced the one whom I adore has had a lobotomy. Or that little green men from Mars have scooped down upon the OBB and taken what was formerly the cerebral matter that occupied the space between my husband's ears. That, or he's concussed from the fall he took last week, I'm not sure which.

It started innocently enough. As is his usual practice he emailed me from the office with a mid-day flash - an update on his day and the state of our financial forecast for the next quarter. He included some thoughts on how he was spending the evening, on the John Deere, trimming up the acreage. Buried deep in his email, somewhere between the state of our finances and the fact that he would be cutting the grass he casually, almost imperceptibly mentioned he'd like me to leave out some sunscreen so he could protect himself while cutting the grass. I fell over from the shock. I gasped so hard I needed to take a few hits on my inhaler to restore normal breathing patterns. When I crawled back up to my chair, I gave my head a shake for it could not be so! My eyes must be deceiving me! He wants me to leave out sunscreen? To protect himself? From like, The Sun? The man to whom I am married? This same man who has never willingly worn sunscreen in his life? You can understand my confusion, I'm sure.

We don't argue much in our house. But when we do, you can count on one thing and that is his patented refusal to use sunscreen is likely at the root of the issue. This man is a sun worshipper. No matter that too many ultra violet rays can give you skin cancer. No matter than he has spent untold hours basking in the sun, here, there, in the tropics, in the mountains, wherever there's a sunbeam, you can find my husband baking. No matter that at the tender age of five years younger than me he's beginning to get all leathery from too much sun. No matter that after every sun-baked afternoon he spends the next day picking flecks of peeling skin from his cheek. No, none of this matters. Not to he who bakes.

So, yes. I was taken aback, just a little.

That same day, the day the aliens invaded and sucked the very brain out of the one whom I adore? The very same day this same person volunteered to actually throw something out. Oh, it might not seem like such a big deal to you, but you try living with a man that attaches sentimental value to every little thing he's ever been given, whether he likes it or not and then packs it away in a box, never to see the light of day again, but yet, never to be thrown away either. The personalized golf balls, personalized with his name on them? Yes, they reside in our basement. He loves them and yet, there it is, he'll never use them. What about that pair of boxer shorts? The ones I lovingly refer to as "Holy Underwear"? I am forbidden from disposing of these in their rightful place. We won't even talk about the 20 boxes of "stuff" that sits in our storage room. Those same boxes that sat in a storage locker in Jasper for two years. The same ones that admittedly sat, unpacked, in boxes in his bachelor pad for five years prior to that. THOSE ONES? I'm not allowed to dispose of those or their contents either.

So, the other night, when he volunteered to actually throw something out of his own accord? Without my asking? Something that could maybe, in say, oh 20 years or so prove to be useful? Something that might save us 99 cents - someday? Throw away? You can understand why I ran for the digital thermometer, because obviously the guy was running a raging, hallucinogenic fever.

Here's the thing though, given that I am the housekeeper in our humble abode and given that I hate anything that resembles clutter (because having to "dust" is a big enough bitch without having to move a bunch of chachkis) and the words pack-rat will never be used to describe me...well, you've got to wonder how we two get along? I do too. I mean, it's not like I don't have some faults (very few) and it's not like I haven't been known to schlep stuff from one home to another, to another (countless photos that have to be archived in an album, but yet I can't find the time to do it...even as an under-employed with way too much time on my hands former professional). It's not like I don't have a pair of underwear or two that haven't seen better days and therefore could and probably should be thrown out. It's just that, really? Really? I hate clutter. So unless the next place we live has equally as much storage space as living space, all I know is, that before we leave this island in the Strait (should we ever be so lucky) and before I enlist the aid of a moving team (should we ever sell this house), there will likely be a showdown in the OBB, for we will not transport useless, dust-collecting, never been used nor will be used junk from these crimson shores. No fucking way. No way. No how.

And, if I have to use our two satellite dishes to guide those brain sucking aliens back to the OBB to help me with this task...well, nothing's too much to ask in the name of purging, now is it?